Marked (Callum Doyle 3)

by Jackson, David

  ‘That is true. I do tend to have that effect. So Proust doesn’t worry you?’

  ‘Why should he? I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘You disobeyed a direct order to stay away from him. That’s a Command Discipline at least.’

  ‘So let them hit me with the CD. I’ve had worse thrown at me.’

  The waitress arrives with the coffees and donuts. Paulson thanks her, then wastes no time in ripping open several packets of sugar to pour into his cup.

  Doyle grimaces. ‘How can you drink it like that?’

  Paulson peers into the swirling gloom of his coffee. ‘You’re right,’ he says. He tears open another sachet and adds its contents. ‘That’s better. Anyways, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. Our friend Proust. That’s some leverage he’s got, don’t you think? One word from him and you’re history.’

  Doyle takes a sip of his own unsweetened beverage. ‘Proust is too clever for that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a balancing act. Proust has got the whole fucking Department tiptoeing around him like he’s an unexploded bomb. He’s got them, and me, where he wants us. If he pushes, it all collapses. An overt attack on me is an attack on the whole PD. They will have to investigate his claims, and that means they will have to investigate him. They’ll push back. Hard. And that’s the last thing he wants.’

  Paulson takes a bite of his donut, then wipes the crumbs from his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What? Nothing. There’s nothing I can do. I’m off the squad. I just have to hope the investigating detectives find something that clears me and implicates him.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  Doyle shrugs. Sips his coffee again. Paulson takes a swallow from his own cup, then leans back in his seat, studying Doyle.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna do about this situation?’

  Doyle searches Paulson’s face for some clue as to where he’s steering this. ‘Paulson, what are you suggesting?’

  Paulson pokes a finger into his mouth and digs a nail between his teeth. He takes his finger out again, examines whatever it is he’s managed to extract, then flicks the suspect particle across the room.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. Just asking questions. Here’s another one for you. Suppose you do nothing. What do you think are the chances of Proust becoming a collar for murder?’

  Doyle considers this. He’d like to believe that the solid detective work of his colleagues will eventually bear fruit. But wanting to believe is not the same as believing.

  ‘I think those chances are slim.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re being arrogant when you say that. Next question: how do you feel about being where a perp wants you?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘You said that Proust has your whole squad in the palm of his hand – you included. By doing nothing you maintain the status quo. You allow him to keep the ball. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Of course it’s not what I want. But I don’t have a choice. Proust has already won.’

  ‘Has he? Or does he just have the advantage? Is he just going to stand there with that ball, or is he going to take it into your end zone? I never met Proust, and the only things I know about this case are what I’ve been told. But if what you say is true, Doyle, then this guy is one smart sonofabitch who’s out to get you. You know him better than anyone, so answer me this: is he finished with you?’

  Doyle thinks about what LeBlanc told him this morning. About Proust having an alibi, and about his lie that he revealed it to Doyle. It doesn’t make any sense. Unless, of course, Paulson is right. This is the start of Proust’s next move. This is where he tries to destroy Doyle once and for all. If that’s the case, then maybe Paulson is also correct that backing away like this is totally the wrong thing to do.

  But then another question is formulated. And this time it’s in Doyle’s mind.

  ‘What is this, Paulson?’

  Paulson swallows down a barely chewed hunk of donut. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This. These questions you’re asking me. Like you’re trying to goad me into visiting Proust again. Why would you do that?’

  ‘You think I got some kind of ulterior motive?’

  ‘Do you? Could it be that you want me to fuck things up? I’m on the edge of losing my job as it is. Is this your way of giving me a little nudge to send me over?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it could be. You couldn’t get me before, and this is your way of fixing things. Finally putting a tick in that one blank box on your record sheet.’

  Paulson stares for a while in silence. Then he throws the remains of his donut back onto the plate.

  ‘Fuck you, Doyle.’

  ‘What, you’re going all sensitive on me now?’

  ‘Something wrong with that? You think just because I’m with IAB that I don’t have any emotions?’

  ‘No, but I think you leave them at home when you’re on the job. How else could you do what you do? You live for jamming up other cops. Am I supposed to forget that, just because it’s your turn to buy the coffee?’

  ‘The only reason you’re here with me now is because of my job. It’s because you know I’m investigating you. Suppose I left my shield at home one night and asked you to join me for a beer. What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say no, you want the honest truth.’

  ‘Exactly. You don’t want to see the man behind the shield. You don’t want to see that maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to help you. For which, by the way, precedent does exist in our relationship.’

  Doyle throws his hands up. ‘Here we go again with the life-saving bit.’

  ‘Only because you conveniently keep forgetting about it. Could that be because it doesn’t fit neatly into your world view?’

  Doyle shakes his head. Takes another sip of his murky coffee and tries to fathom the even murkier connection with the man opposite.

  ‘All right, suppose I accept that you’re trying to help me. What I don’t understand is why you would do that.’

  Paulson taps the table as he chooses his words. ‘I’ve learned a lot about you, Doyle. At first it was because I had to. It was my job. I was trying to find out if you were dirty. So I read everything I could about you. I talked to a lot of people about you. I looked into all the cases you’d worked.’

  ‘Don’t forget my wife. You talked to her too. Put a lot of doubts in her mind.’

  Paulson looks down at the table. ‘Yes,’ he says simply, and it surprises Doyle that the man actually appears ashamed.

  Says Paulson, ‘Even when we dropped the investigation, I kept an interest in you. I still follow your cases now.’

  ‘You waiting for me to slip up?’

  ‘Actually, no. Although there are times when I think I need to step in and remind you of my existence. Times like this, for example.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Paulson. I’ll never forget you. Your face and your voice and what you did to me are burned into my brain for eternity.’

  Paulson’s mouth twitches. ‘I don’t think you understand how easy it would be for me to bring your career to an end if I really wanted to. You’re like a wind-up toy that goes off in random directions. Left alone, you’d knock things over, maybe even break something. What you need from time to time is somebody to guide you back where you belong, keep you out of harm’s way.’

  ‘And that’s where you come in?’

  Paulson nods. ‘You’re a fascinating creature, Doyle. A lot of shit gets thrown your way, and you keep on coming back for more. You could put an end to it by towing the line, but you don’t. Or you could go the other way and become what everybody else thinks you are already. That must be tempting sometimes. But you don’t do that either, far as I can tell. All that shit, and yet none of it sticks. That makes you a rarity in my
book, Doyle.’

  ‘So I’m an interesting specimen. There has to be more to it than that. I can’t believe you want to help me just so you can add me to your butterfly collection. What’s the real reason, Paulson?’

  ‘The real reason?’

  ‘Yeah. Where’s the pay-off for you?’

  ‘There’s no pay-off. I’m doing it because you remind me of someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Me.’

  Doyle almost chokes on his coffee.

  ‘Jesus, Paulson! Couldn’t you at least have said something complimentary? What kind of . . . You think I’m like you? Fuhgeddaboudit. I mean, seriously, man, that has to be one of the most out-there comments ever to leave your mouth.’

  Paulson’s lips harden. Like this wasn’t the response he’d hoped for. ‘You can deny it all you want, Doyle, but like it or not, we’re not so different. We both do what we do because we think it’s right, not because it’s what other people expect of us. And sometimes that lands us in trouble.’

  Doyle shakes his head. ‘That’s gotta be the dumbest comparison I ever heard.’

  ‘Don’t be so quick to dismiss it, Doyle. It’s not so long ago that I was where you are right now.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Paulson hesitates, and Doyle can tell there’s a life-changing story in that pause.

  ‘Let’s just say I didn’t stick to my guns. I forgot who I was and what was right. It was a momentary lapse, but it was enough. Enough for the bastards to nail me.’

  ‘And you think that’s what I’m doing? Forgetting who I am?’

  Paulson drains his cup and sets it down. ‘To be honest, maybe going after Proust is the worst thing you could do. Maybe it’ll be the last thing you do as a cop. But if Proust is as clever as you say, then it sounds like he’s gonna bring you down anyway. The question is, do you want to go out fighting, or do you want to take a beating while you’re cowering in your apartment?’

  Understanding hits Doyle. Paulson gave up the fight. He took the easy way out and ended up in IAB, hunting other cops, taking out his bitterness on the very people he used to call his brothers. And now he’s trying to rewrite his life, with Doyle playing his role. He wants to see Doyle doing all the things he should have done himself. The outcome isn’t important: Doyle could get destroyed in the process. The important thing is how he acts on the journey.

  Paulson takes out his wallet. Throws a few bills on the table. Starts to slide out of the booth.

  ‘We going?’ Doyle asks.

  ‘We?’

  ‘You brought me here, remember? I don’t have my car.’

  Paulson stands and looks out of the window. ‘Yeah, I could take you home, that’s what you want. Is that what you want?’

  So there it is. The challenge. Take control of your destiny or leave it to others.

  He knew it would come to this. Even without Paulson he would have had to face this question. And he has always known what the answer would be.

  He says, ‘I could do with a walk. Think a few things over.’

  Paulson lowers his gaze to Doyle. He nods, and in that minimal gesture he conveys respect and gratitude and admiration. It’s the answer he hoped for. The answer that somehow helps to make things a bit more balanced in Paulson’s mind.

  And then he walks away and out of the coffee shop, leaving Doyle staring at two empty cups and his untouched donut.

  It’s a walk of only a few minutes, but he has no hat and no umbrella, and once again the rain refuses to show sympathy. He is soaked when he reaches the top of Avenue B.

  He stands at the very edge of the sidewalk, staring at the shop across the street, debating his next move.

  He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He doesn’t notice the vehicles that keep flashing past him, interrupting his view. He doesn’t hear the traffic or the rain or the pedestrians behind him. He doesn’t know why he’s waiting. He knows only that he should.

  His patience is eventually rewarded.

  Movement. Behind the glass of the door. Then the door opening. Proust, standing there, staring straight back at Doyle. The two men stand like that for a full minute.

  Then Proust turns. Disappears into his shop. Leaves the door yawning wide.

  Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

  Doyle steps off the curb.

  There’s an oddness to Proust. He seems more upright. Less afraid. He has the air of a man with a trick up his sleeve. He doesn’t even bother to hide himself behind his counter.

  Doyle glances up at the new security camera.

  Proust says, ‘I switched them off. There’s no record of you being here. You want, we can talk out back.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ says Doyle.

  Proust smiles. Starts to turn. Before he follows, Doyle locks the front door and flips the sign to ‘Closed’.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Proust. ‘Wouldn’t want anyone disturbing us.’

  He walks through into the back room. Doyle finds himself hesitating. Why is Proust so confident? What’s he planning to spring on me?

  He wonders whether it was a good idea, coming here. Never should a listened to Paulson. What was I thinking? Paulson is the enemy. He wants to see me taken down. This is a bad move.

  ‘You coming?’ Proust’s mocking voice from the dimness. Are you scared, Doyle? Are you just a big fraidy-cat?

  Doyle follows. Through the storage room. Through the empty frame of a door. Into the tiny living area. Proust is already seated at his dining table. Facing Doyle. Waiting.

  ‘Please,’ says Proust. ‘Take a seat. Would you like some tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Cut the crap, Stan. I ain’t your buddy. Just say what you gotta say.’

  Big bad cop words. But Doyle doesn’t feel it inside.

  Proust raises his eyebrows. ‘But it was you who came to see me, Detective. I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, like a dog. Look at you. You’re wet through. You want a towel or something? How about I get you—’

  Doyle picks up the chair in front of him and slams it down again. ‘No more games, Stan. It’s over. You’re going to prison. It’s time for you to face facts.’

  Proust puts a hand to his chest. ‘Prison? No. That’s not right. I got an alibi. I told you about it. You said you’d look into it.’

  Doyle hears the conviction. Starts to wonder if one of them is going crazy. Did he tell me something, and I’ve forgotten? No. That’s ridiculous. He’s playing you, Doyle. Don’t fall for it.

  ‘Stan, what the fuck are you talking about? You didn’t tell me anything about an alibi.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did. I told you. The last time you were here. I told you what I was doing that night. The night when somebody killed that poor girl and put her in the trash.’

  ‘No, Stan. Nice try, but no cigar. We asked you about an alibi, remember? When I came here the day after we found the body parts? When I was with Detective LeBlanc? You said you stayed here alone, watching a movie.’

  Proust looks down at his hands. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I lied. I couldn’t tell you the truth then. I was too . . . I was ashamed. I only told you later because you were scaring me. I didn’t want it to come out.’

  Doyle isn’t sure what to say. This whole situation is absurd. Proust is talking nonsense, but acting like he believes every word. Has he lost it? Is this some kind of a breakdown he’s having?

  ‘Stan, Stan, look at me. That’s right. Now watch my lips. There is no alibi. And the stuff about me scaring you? You made it up. You’re screwed, Stan, and it’s fucking with your mind.’

  ‘No. I told you. About the guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘The one I was with that night. I stayed with him all night. Jesus, I’m so ashamed. I didn’t want this to get out. You gave me no choice. But you’ve looked into it now, haven’t you? You checked out my story, right? You know I’m innocent?’

  There’s something building. Here, in this room. Doyle can feel it. A tension. An electrici
ty. It’s going to zap him. A hundred thousand volts are going to course through him and blast him apart.

  ‘What guy, Stan? Who are we talking about here?’

  ‘I told you. I gave you his name, his address. Everything.’

  ‘Tell me again, Stan. What’s his name?’

  A smile plays across Proust’s lips.

  ‘His name is Anton Ruger.’

  THIRTY

  No, no, no, no, no.

  This can’t be right.

  Who broke the universe? Who tore up the cosmic rulebook?

  Proust and Ruger are in separate existences. Parallel, yes. But separate. Distinct. No overlap. Never the twain shall meet.

  So what is Proust doing, uttering that name? Which deity gave him permission to disrupt all that is rational, all that is meaningful?

  Doyle finds himself falling onto a chair. He had no intention of sitting. He was quite content to tower over his quarry, to overshadow him. But now Doyle’s legs have been hacked away from him. His very breath seems to have been sucked from his lungs.

  ‘Where . . . where did you hear that name?’

  ‘Anton? I told you. It’s the guy I stayed with that night. I told you all about him. You forced me to.’

  Doyle lands a hammer-like fist on the table. ‘DON’T . . . fuck with me. I am this close to ripping off your limbs. Now, once again, tell me where you heard about Anton Ruger.’

  Proust purses his lips and sucks air noisily, as if deciding whether to grant the request. His way of letting Doyle know who holds the high card.

  ‘Let me tell you a story, Detective. It’s a story with two sides. Two explanations for the same facts.’

  Doyle says nothing. His mind is too busy racing ahead. Trying to catch up with Proust. Struggling to figure out how this can possibly make any sense.

  Says Proust, ‘Here’s the first interpretation. An innocent citizen, such as myself, is continually harassed by an obsessed cop, such as yourself. The cop is determined to pin a murder on this guy, even though he has no proof. In fact, he is so determined, so fucked up about the whole thing, that he becomes violent. He beats the guy up. He tosses him through a glass door. It’s hard to believe that a cop could do anything like this, but then it comes out that the citizen knows about the cop’s sordid affair with a former female partner – a partner who was killed in mysterious circumstances, no less – and suddenly it all makes sense. Everyone can see this cop for what he is – what many of them believed all along. They all see a dangerous lunatic with a gun and a badge.’