‘You’re starting to irritate me, Stan. You got five seconds to get to the bit about Ruger in this story of yours.’
‘See, that’s the tragedy of this little tale. Our helpless citizen, he does have an alibi. Only he’s embarrassed about it. Ashamed. He’s never done anything like that before. He couldn’t admit it to himself, let alone the cops. And what’s more, the guy he did it with threatened to kill him if he ever told anybody else. But what choice does our hero have? If he keeps quiet, the cop will probably kill him anyway. So he comes clean. He tells the cop about the guy he slept with. He gives up the name of Anton Ruger.’
Which is where we are now, thinks Doyle. Except it’s not, because there’s a lot more to this. And I ain’t gonna like it.
‘Skip to the last chapter, Stan.’
‘You sure you won’t have some tea? I got some great lapsang souchong.’
‘Just finish the goddamn story.’
‘Okay, so the crazy cop, he’s all bent out of shape about this. How could he have gotten it so wrong? How could that little murdering prick possibly have an alibi? The cop gets real worked up. His world’s falling apart at the seams. Everyone hates him. Nobody believes him. And now this – the final nail in his coffin. He’s got to come up with a way to rescue this situation, no matter what it takes. Desperate measures are called for here. And believe me, this cop is desperate. So he tries to trick another guy into killing our citizen, only the plan backfires, and the cop looks even more suspicious. Things are going from bad to worse. He’s sliding into hell. What else can he do? What choices does he have left?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Only one, right? If he wants this to come out right for him, he’s gotta take the alibi out of the equation. So that’s what he does. He goes to the house of the only man in the world who can save the citizen’s ass. And he kills him.’
Silence. Doyle doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this. Doesn’t know what Proust is trying to achieve. Still doesn’t know where he got hold of Ruger’s name.
Says Doyle, ‘Nice story, Stan. I’ll read it to my kid when she goes to bed. You got any more like that?’
‘Did you hear what I said, Detective? The cop whacks Ruger.’
‘Yeah, I heard you. But me, I prefer non-fiction. So how about you telling me how you—’
‘He goes there at night, the cop. Jimmies open the rear door. Sneaks up the stairs to the guy’s bedroom.’
Doyle’s mouth dries up. This is guesswork. Has to be.
Proust presses on. ‘Ruger’s asleep, but he wakes up. There’s a fight. The cop ties Ruger up on the bed. And then he puts a bullet in his brain.’
Extremely dry throat now. It’s all too accurate to be guesswork. All except that last bit. The bit about—
‘The kid too,’ Proust adds.
‘What?’ Doyle croaks.
‘The boyfriend. Ties him up too. Another slug in the head. I tell ya, this cop is off the rails. He’s certifiable.’
He knows about the youth. The one called Samuel. How does he know that?
Act nonchalant, Doyle. Don’t confirm anything. Don’t damn yourself.
‘I don’t get the point of your story. The bad cop wins, doesn’t he? If he removes the alibi like that, he wins.’
‘You’d think so, huh? But to me that wouldn’t be a very satisfying ending. I like stories where the good guy triumphs. So in my story he comes up with proof of what the cop did, the cop goes to jail, and all’s right with the world. The end.’
Proof? What kind of proof could he have for something that didn’t even happen?
‘That’s a neat ending, all right.’
‘I think so.’
‘Of course, if it went down the way you said it did, the citizen would have to know where these killings took place. If he slept with Ruger at his place, he must know where he lived. I mean, you even said he gave Ruger’s address to the cop, right?’
There, you sneaky sonofabitch. Fit that into your damn story.
‘Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, you did.’
‘It’s a detail. I can make something up.’
Gotcha, thinks Doyle. You don’t know shit. It’s all fantasy.
‘An important detail, though. I mean, this whole story hinges on the believability of the citizen versus the cop. If the guy can’t even say where his little soirée took place, can’t tell the authorities where to find the bodies . . .’
‘Okay, then, so I’ll pick an address. All right? Let’s make it at . . .’
Go on, you douchebag. Fuck it all up. You don’t know the address. Nobody but me knows the address. Even Bartok couldn’t find where Ruger lived.
‘. . . 347 Corbin Place. That’s in Brooklyn.’
Doyle stares. It’s the only power he has left. His whole body has been stunned into numbness.
And then he’s off his chair. Springing at Proust. Grabbing at him and yanking him upward and pinning him against the wall and closing his hand around Proust’s throat and raising his other hand and bunching his fist.
‘Where’d you get that address? Who told you about Ruger?’
Proust tries to speak, but all that comes out is a meaningless squawk. He’d probably turn purple too if he wasn’t already covered in bruises.
A sense of déjà vu floods into Doyle. He remembers the last time he did this. With LeBlanc.
He relaxes his fingers. Lets the man breathe and speak.
‘Go ahead, man. Hit me if you want. I can take it. Prove to everyone how true my story is. You can’t win. Whatever you do now, you can’t win.’
For a while, Doyle doesn’t move. His fist trembles with the tension of holding it there, ready to strike. He so wants to mash Proust’s face to a pulp. But he also wants answers. He’s floundering at the moment, unable to find any logic to which he can cling.
He takes hold of Proust by the shirt. Manhandles him back into his chair.
‘Talk to me, Stan.’
Proust rubs his neck. ‘Like I told you, there’s two sides to this story. I got the other one for you, if you’re interested.’
Doyle sits down. ‘I’m interested. Talk.’
‘Okay, so it goes like this. Chapter one is the same – our hero getting a lot of heat from the cop. The cop’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not letting go. Our guy is afraid something is gonna get pinned on him whether he did it or not. He needs help. And then he gets it. Someone reaches out to him.’
‘Who?’
‘A man called Lucas Bartok.’
The name resounds around Doyle’s brain. He tries to fix it in his mind, examine it for clues as to Bartok’s role in all this.
‘You know Bartok?’
‘I know lots of people. You’d be surprised who I get coming through the doors of my shop.’
‘Why would Bartok come to you?’
‘Not to me. You’re forgetting. This is a story. Bartok goes to see our hero. He’s heard about the man’s plight, and he wants to do a deal with him.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘They both need something. What our citizen needs more than anything is an alibi, and what Bartok needs is something to get the cop into his pocket, to pull out as and when.’
‘So Bartok doesn’t already have something like that?’
A tester. Just how close are these two?
Proust smiles. ‘He has something, but it’s not enough. A bluff, is what he has. And he’s worried that the cop will call it, and then he’ll have nothing.’
Okay, so pretty close then. And that also explains how Proust got to hear about the rumors of an affair between Doyle and his ex-partner, Laura Marino. Bartok told him.
‘Why doesn’t Bartok offer to provide the guy with an alibi? Why doesn’t he just say he was with him on the night of the murder?’
‘For one thing, that wouldn’t give Bartok what he wants. Lucas Bartok is many things, but a charity worker he’s not. And then you gotta ask yourself how credib
le he’d be. No offense to Mr Bartok, but asking him to speak up for you is like asking a fox to guard your chickens. It don’t necessarily help the situation.’
‘So what’s Bartok’s solution?’
‘This doesn’t come from Bartok. Again, no offense to the man, but Lucas Bartok ain’t exactly a criminal mastermind, ya know? Nah, this comes from our hero, who is smarter than the average bear. See, setting up a fake alibi is not the easiest thing to accomplish. You can get someone to lie for you, but then you have to depend on them. They could break under police questioning. Or they might say something which can be proved false. Or they might turn on you and try to blackmail you. All sorts of shit can happen.
‘But now suppose the guy providing the alibi gets whacked before he can say or do anything to upset the apple cart. In normal circumstances, you might say what a crap choice he turned out to be. But not in my story. In my story it looks like the cop has investigated the alibi and believes every word of it. Believes it so strongly, in fact, that he’s the one who takes out Ruger, just to nail this guy he’s been persecuting. And if he believed it, why should anyone else question it? Especially when it turns out that certain possessions and DNA of our citizen are to be found in Ruger’s house.’
‘You’ve been there?’
Proust doesn’t answer. Just arches a knowing eyebrow.
Says Doyle, ‘How? How did you get Ruger’s address?’
Proust emits an exaggerated sigh. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? All right, listen up. Our hero needs to make it look like the cop nixed the alibi. That means he needs to get him to Ruger’s house. How does he do that? He gives him a mission.’
Doyle feels his stomach drop like a stone. ‘The ring.’
‘Exactly. The ring. You ever hear of a MacGuffin, Detective?’
‘A what?’
‘A MacGuffin. Alfred Hitchcock used the word in reference to something that drives the plot of a movie. The thing itself isn’t important to the story. It could be money or a diamond or even something like the key to a secret code. It don’t matter. What is important, though, is that it exists, because that’s what motivates the characters. In my story, Ruger’s ring is the MacGuffin. Sure, Bartok wanted it back, but what he really wanted was to get you into Ruger’s house.’
Tell me I’m not hearing this, thinks Doyle. Tell me this is all a dream. Tell me this isn’t going where I think it’s going.
‘Why him? Why Ruger?’
Proust shrugs. He’s enjoying this. ‘Didn’t have to be Ruger. Coulda been anyone. But it had to be someone who deserved to die. In Mr Bartok’s eyes, that made Ruger a prime candidate.’
Realization seeps in. Oozes through the cracks forming in Doyle’s previous picture of reality.
‘Bartok knew where Ruger was all along.’
Another smile from Proust. ‘Now you’re getting it.’ Course, Lucas couldn’t tell you that, because then you’d wanna know why he didn’t just go after the ring himself. Hence that little odyssey he sent you on. He had to let you find Ruger for yourself.’
Anger bubbles up in Doyle. ‘That sonofabitch. I could have been killed going after Ruger.’
Proust shakes his head. ‘Mr Bartok couldn’t let that happen. You had protection.’
Doyle narrows his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ But then it hits him. Another wake-up slap.
‘The warehouse. The guy with the five o’clock shadow.’
Proust nods now. Huge, emphatic nods. ‘Lucas sent him to look after you.’
Doyle could cry with embarrassment at how completely he has been taken in. Mr Stubble wasn’t there to cut off Doyle’s only lead to Ruger. He was doing the exact opposite: making sure that Doyle did get to Ruger. In fact . . .
‘The address. Ruger’s address. I found it in Ramone’s wallet . . .’
‘That’s right. Precisely where Lucas’s man left it. Didn’t you think it was a little convenient, the way Ramone was just carrying it around with him like that?’
Fuck! Of course it was too fucking convenient. Why didn’t I see that? Why didn’t I question it?
Doyle sits there in silence for a while. Absorbing it all. Adjusting to this new slant on things. His whole world view has been turned upside down, and all he wants to do is smack himself around the head for not seeing it like that in the first place. He feels like he’s the only person not to realize that the planet is round rather than flat.
He fixes his eyes on Proust. ‘So what happens now, Stan? What do you do with this clever little story of yours?’
‘I publish it, of course. Tomorrow morning, I go to the cops and I tell them what you did to poor Mr Ruger and his young friend just to make sure I got no lifeline.’
‘Forget it, Stan. You really think they’ll go for that? In your dreams, man.’
‘Actually, yeah, I do think they’ll believe me. Especially after everything that’s happened between us. But like I said before, I can always make sure they see the proof.’
‘A story is all you got, Stan. No proof. No fucking proof whatsoever.’
‘Hmm,’ says Stan. And Doyle prepares himself for the lead weight hidden in his opponent’s glove. It’s heading his way and it’s too late to duck.
Says Proust, ‘There’s always the video.’
Blammo! Knockout punch to the jaw.
‘What video, Stan?’
‘The one that Lucas’s men took last night when they were hiding in that parked van on Corbin Place. The one that clearly shows your car, with your license plates, turning up there. The one that clearly shows you getting out of your car and sneaking up Ruger’s driveway. The one that clearly shows you coming out of Ruger’s house some minutes later and hurrying back to your car. That’s the video I’m talking about.’
Doyle is paralyzed. Never has he felt so beaten into the ground. In all the fights he had as a boxer in his youth, he was never so completely demolished as this. And all without a single physical blow being landed on him.
Says Proust, ‘Ruger and his boy were killed directly after you left. Not long enough for the experts to say there was anything untoward about the time of death. And oh, yeah. I nearly forgot to mention. There’s one other thing. The ring you took from Ruger. The ring everyone knew he’d been wearing. The ring that has now mysteriously disappeared from the deceased man’s house, but which could easily turn up again. With your fingerprints on it.’
Flashback. Bartok’s little ceremony. Getting Doyle to place the ring directly into its box. Nobody else touching it. Nobody else putting their prints on it.
Shit.
Doyle rolls his tongue around in his mouth. Tries to work up a little lubrication so that he can regain the power of speech.
‘Why are you telling me all this, Stan? Why haven’t you already gone to the cops with your story? What’s holding you back?’
‘I told you. This ain’t just about me. I have a deal with Mr Bartok. I get off the hook, and he gets you. He knew that Rocca was never enough of a bargaining tool. Even if your bullets were still in the body, you probably could have found a way of explaining it somehow. And Lucas was sure that if he ever asked you to do something too much to your distaste, you would a told him you’d take your chances. But a little task like finding a ring for him? Different matter. You’d probably go for a simple job like that if it meant clearing up the Rocca thing once and for all. Now, though, Bartok’s got you by the balls. Unless, of course, I go to your bosses with my story. If I do that, you’re finished. Which is fine by me, but not so good for Mr Bartok. He wants you back on the job, where you can be of some use to him.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘What I’m saying, Detective Doyle, is that I’m giving you a chance. A chance to stay out of prison. A chance to keep your job. A chance to stay with your family and get on with your life.’
‘But working for Lucas Bartok.’
Proust shrugs. ‘A small price to pay.’
‘And to take advantage of this generous offer, I’d hav
e to do what exactly?’
‘Find a way to take me off the radar. Clear my name.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’
‘I don’t care. You’re a resourceful guy. Come up with something. Make up a new alibi for me. Plant some evidence. Whatever it is you cops do when you need to fake a story. But it’s gotta be convincing. If it’s good, then Ruger and his boy will disappear for ever. But if it’s not good – if LeBlanc or any of his buddies start sniffing around me again – then the deal’s off. Oh, and in case you’re thinking of doing anything stupid like trying to move the bodies yourself – don’t. Lucas has put a watch on Ruger’s house.’
‘What about Ruger’s men? Ramone and the others in the warehouse? Sooner or later somebody’s gonna find them and start asking questions.’
‘What men?’
Doyle understands. He’s saying that the bodies have already been disposed of. Proust has been meticulous in his planning of this little operation. Every last detail has been considered. All it required was for Doyle to play along. And boy, did he do that.
‘What you’re asking, it’ll take some time.’
‘Tomorrow morning. That’s your deadline. Put something in place by ten o’clock, or I start making calls.’
Doyle looks across the table. Sees beyond the battered and bruised exterior of the man opposite. Sees into his soul. Sees the darkness there. The perfect combination of deviousness and malevolence that makes him so dangerous. Proust wasn’t being arrogant when he said that Bartok played no part in concocting this scheme. This is all Proust. Doyle was right about him all along – the man is pure evil. But he was also wrong, because he thought he could defeat him.
Proust has won. He will step away from murder yet again. There is no escaping that outcome.
Says Doyle, ‘You killed them.’
Marked (Callum Doyle 3) Page 27