Backlash

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Well, from what you say, they didn’t succeed. And if you had been there, nothing would be any different, would it?’

  ‘No,’ Kate admitted, reluctantly. ‘That’s the whole trouble. I don’t make any real difference to anything.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. You would certainly make a difference to me and my life.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t – because your world and mine are the same. That’s what I mean. Either I give in to Jack, or he gives in to me. I love the man, and he loves his work. How can I ask him to give it up? And yet, every time he goes out the door . . .’ She raised her hands and then let them fall. ‘I die a little.’

  ‘Maybe you should end the relationship.’ Cotterell’s voice was quiet. ‘Now that you’re away from it, you can look at it more objectively, can’t you? It sounds destructive to me. Your paper was superb, Kate. You obviously have a great academic career in front of you. What kind of work will you do if you’re constantly fretting over this man of yours? Is it worth it?’

  Kate stopped and stared at him. Richard stopped, too, and faced her, standing very close. He had loosened his collar, and as he raised an eyebrow his face took on a rakish, almost piratical cast. Handsome devil, they called him, and it was an appropriate description.

  ‘Well?’ he asked again. ‘Is it?’

  SEVENTEEN

  In the morning, Stryker thought he was going to die.

  Being alone in the house and free to express the inner man, he let out a howl of pain when he first tried to sit up in bed. After that, only a steady, full-throated and enthusiastic stream of curses sustained him through washing, getting into his underwear, and trying to make and eat breakfast one-armed. At the end of it he was totally exhausted, and Pinsky and Neilson had to finish dressing him when they arrived, around eleven.

  ‘They should have kept you in the hospital overnight, then you could have had a couple of good-looking nurses do this,’ Neilson said from where he knelt on the floor tying up Stryker’s trainers. He screwed up his face. ‘They’d have been used to smells, too.’

  ‘They said Tos had a good night,’ Stryker said.

  ‘I know – we called, too,’ Pinsky said.

  ‘Did you tell Kate about it?’ Pinsky asked. He and Neilson had been on the sidelines of the relationship from its beginning. Pinsky was a sentimental optimist. Neilson wasn’t.

  ‘I told her Tos was hit.’

  ‘Did you tell her how bad?’ Neilson asked, standing up.

  ‘I don’t know how bad,’ Stryker said, evasively.

  ‘And you didn’t tell her about you?’

  ‘She’d have only gone bananas. By the time she comes back the worst will be over.’

  ‘So she isn’t coming back right away?’ Pinsky asked. Stryker could tell he was disappointed in her. ‘You’re going to have to go on like this, by yourself?’

  ‘Why not? It’s no big deal,’ Stryker lied.

  ‘Jesus – then tomorrow you tie his shoes,’ Neilson grimaced. ‘If I have to do it again, I’m putting in for hazardous duty pay.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Pinsky, looking at his watch.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ Stryker asked, over-casually.

  ‘What case?’ Pinsky asked.

  ‘Those two guys yesterday,’ Stryker said. ‘Those two cops who got shot up, Stryker and Toscarelli.’

  ‘Oh, that case,’ Neilson said, pausing in the hall. ‘Investigations are proceeding. Do you want to wear your hat, or not?’

  When they were in the car and on the way to the hospital, Stryker took up the thread again. ‘So tell me about investigations proceeding,’ he said, wincing as Neilson hit another pothole.

  ‘Which ones?’ Pinsky said, lighting his pipe and waving the smoke into Neilson’s face. Neilson was trying to give up, and Pinsky had bet him twenty bucks he couldn’t do it. Neilson growled at him. Pinsky grinned and puffed enthusiastically. ‘We’ve got an insurance scam, we’ve got a domestic killing out in the Hills, we’ve got two dumb cops got ambushed, we’ve got a hooker screaming justifiable homicide—’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘The hooker? Sleazy Sal the—’

  ‘No, the two dumb cops.’

  ‘You’re supposed to lay back and let the big boys play with that one – Captain Klotzman’s orders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re a sick man.’ Neilson found another pothole. ‘See how much it hurts when I do that?’

  ‘So don’t do that.’

  ‘No sense of humour,’ Neilson said to Pinsky.

  ‘Never had,’ Pinsky sympathised. ‘Your gems are wasted on a bad audience, Harve.’

  ‘Have you got any leads?’ Stryker persisted from the back seat.

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ Pinsky said to Neilson.

  ‘Supposed to rain later,’ Neilson said.

  Stryker leaned forward and took hold of Pinsky’s collar. ‘Talk to me, you bastard, or I’ll cut off your wind.’

  Pinsky broke free without much effort. ‘Knock it off, Jack. Klotzman said you were out of this one, and that’s it.’

  ‘Why? Why out?’

  ‘Because you’re a victim, of course,’ Neilson said. ‘Balls,’ Stryker said. ‘There’s got to be more to it than that. Why is he down on me all of a sudden?’

  ‘He’s not down on you,’ Pinsky protested, straightening his tie. ‘But you’re not the only cop in the shop.’

  ‘I’m the only one who got shot and is still on his feet,’ Stryker said. ‘If there is a connection, maybe I’m the best one to see it.’

  ‘You? Why?’ Neilson swung into the hospital car park. ‘You think you’re the only one with brains?’

  ‘No,’ Stryker said, evenly. ‘If this is part of the cop- killings, and if the killings are random, then the odds against me getting hit again are about sixty zillion to one, so I must be one of the safest cops walking around, right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Pinsky said, sourly.

  ‘Alternatively, if the killings aren’t random, if there is some connection between all the ones who have died, then there’s a connection with Tos and me. A connection that’s still there, and still live, and still dangerous.’

  Neilson turned off the engine and both he and Pinsky turned to stare at Stryker. ‘You mean he might go after one or both of you again?’ Neilson asked.

  Stryker looked at Neilson approvingly – the boy was coming along. ‘Yeah, that’s just what I mean. Which gives me a damn good reason for getting him first.’

  Tos was still unconscious.

  He lay, large and still beneath the white sheet and blanket, his long eyelashes crescented on his pale cheek. His sideburns curled out rebelliously from beneath the white bandages that swathed his head, and his moustache drooped as usual over the corners of his mouth. There were tubes going in and out, something dripped continuously into him, and his chest rose and fell.

  But Tos was not at home.

  Beside his bed sat his mother and his sister, patiently watching his face. Mrs Toscarelli, short, stout and robust, greeted Stryker the way she always did – like a long-lost son returning from the wars. Perhaps she clung a little more tightly than usual – he did the same, although with one arm out of action it was a lopsided hug. When he had disentangled himself, he greeted Marina. It was difficult to see her as Tos’s sister – where Tos was large and bear-like, Marina was as thin and soulful as an El Greco saint. In her late twenties and unmarried, she attended her widowed mother like an acolyte, despite the latter’s enthusiastic efforts to find her a husband.

  Mrs Toscarelli nodded at Pinsky – he was married, after all – and smiled at Neilson, who was not.

  ‘How is he?’ Stryker asked, when the greetings were over.

  ‘He sleeps,’ Mrs Toscarelli said.

  ‘Has he said anything?’

 
‘No,’ Mrs Toscarelli said, sitting down again and returning her gaze to her son’s face. ‘He sleeps, we wait.’

  ‘We wait,’ echoed Marina in her moth-voice.

  Puzzled, they sought the doctor they had seen the day before and tried to get answers. There were none. Tos was alive and his vital signs were good, there was brain activity, his heartbeat was strong and regular, there was only slight fever which, considering the trauma to which he had been subjected, was an excellent indication that he was a fit and healthy man.

  He just hadn’t woken up yet.

  But hadn’t the anaesthesia worn off?

  Oh yes.

  Then why hadn’t he opened his eyes, spoken, moved?

  He wasn’t ready to do that yet. They didn’t know why. It was just a matter of waiting. Stryker said it first.

  ‘Coma.’

  The young doctor sighed and nodded. ‘If you like, yes. He’s in a coma.’

  ‘How long?’ Stryker demanded.

  ‘With head injuries it’s impossible to tell. Ten minutes, ten hours, ten days – you figure it. We know very little about comatose states, really, other than the physical parameters. It may be simply nervous exhaustion. It may be a form of self-protection. A vacation from reality, if you like, while healing goes on.’

  ‘Vacation or escape?’

  The doctor – whose name was Bishop – shrugged. ‘Take your pick. All we can do is look after him physically and wait. To interfere actively at this stage would be foolish – it could be only a matter of hours before he comes around of his own accord. We’re keeping a close eye on him. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I bet you tell that to all the boys,’ Neilson said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Klotzman shrugged. ‘Look, Jack – the way it looks now, you and Tos got unlucky, that’s all. It was your turn – your number was up with this bastard.’ Klotzman leaned back in his chair, which creaked heavily. He was a short, broad man with acne scars on his sallow face, which was partly obscured by his heavy-rimmed glasses. He was fanatically neat, and spent as much time tidying his desk as he did actually working. He had a clear idea of a captain’s duties and responsibilities, and was a stickler for detail and routine. All these faults were overlooked by his men, because he would fight for them all the way to the top and back again, and was scrupulously fair to everyone, whether he liked them or not.

  Beyond the glass walls of the Captain’s office the work of Central Homicide went on quite smoothly without either of them. Men picked up apparently silent phones and mouthed into them, typewriters moved noiselessly, someone kicked the coffee machine and it drooled coffee without a sound – and without a plastic cup falling into place.

  ‘Some nut, that’s what I make it.’

  ‘Some nut with good aim and enough smarts to pick up his cartridge casings.’

  Klotzman waved a negligent hand. ‘Not good enough aim, this time, or you wouldn’t be sitting here mouthing off at me. As for this cartridge case business, hell, everybody watches television these days. A couple of episodes of Quincy and they’re all forensic experts, could do PMs on their kitchen table and ballistics in the garage. Maybe he’s a miser – or a litter fanatic. Who knows?’

  ‘I know my partner is out for the count and I’m a temporary one-armed paperhanger,’ Stryker said. ‘I know we’re cops and there’s somebody out there who’s been killing cops for the last month. I want to nail him.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Klotzman agreed. ‘All the more reason for you not to work the case, Jack. I don’t like tempers in my cops, you know that. I like it cool, quiet, steady – that’s how to get the work done.’

  ‘It’s one way.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s the only way.’ Klotzman sat forward again, picked up a pen, drew some papers toward himself. ‘Everybody in the Department is full of rage over this, you’re no exception. Cops are walking the street just aching for a chance at this guy, we all want him, we all want our hands around his goddamn throat, Jack. Jesus, how we do. But when you’re seeing red, you’re not seeing other stuff. An angry cop is an ineffective cop, he’s wearing blinkers, he’s putting what he wants in front of what’s the intelligent thing to do. Maybe even in front of what’s the legal thing to do. And I don’t want that. I especially don’t want it from you. You’re moving up steadily in the Department, Jack. You’ve got everything it takes and there are people with their eye on you for bigger things, believe me. But if you go off half-cocked, maybe they’ll start looking somewhere else. Do you get my drift?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about promotion.’

  ‘And I don’t give a damn about losing one of the best men I’ve ever had in my line? No way, Jack. Get off it. You take your sick days like a good boy. Maybe you should fly over to England, after all.’

  ‘And have Kate go beserk? No thanks. I’ll just renew my library card and visit the art museum.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Klotzman murmured, head down.

  Like hell, Stryker thought.

  He went across the room to his own small office and sat in his chair, which also creaked, but at a much deeper pitch than Klotzman’s. Neilson and Pinsky were already there.

  ‘So?’ Stryker demanded. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Neilson and Pinsky exchanged a glance. ‘Just what we’ve been doing with all the rest,’ Pinsky said.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You know about it,’ Neilson said.

  ‘Tell me anyway – I’m a sick man, I need humouring.’

  Neilson shrugged. ‘Okay. As far as you and Tos are concerned, same initial routine as with the others. First we go through all your old convictions and correlate them with recent prison releases. Plus any recent arrests released on bail. If we’re going to relate it to the other killings, we enter as many relevant details as we can into the computer and run it against the profiles we have on the first four. And Hawthorne, too, I guess. Maybe this time it will spit something out – so far all it does is hum and smile foolishly at us. If it gives us zip, then we check again with Chase on the psycho files, plus the cop-haters file. If we come up empty after going through all that good stuff, we’ve got real problems, because our possibilities are all invisible – the ordinary citizens who’ve snapped under recent pressure and nobody has noticed. Or the right-at-the-edge obsessives who suddenly decide killing cops would make a social point. Oh, I nearly forgot – there’s also all the recent arrivals from all points north, south, east and west who aren’t on our files and who bring their hates with them and maybe noticed your name in the paper yesterday—’

  ‘Was my name in the paper yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah, twice – in a report about the Bronkowsky trial, and in an article about the sniper. And this morning you’re all over it, of course. “Latest Victim” and all that.’

  ‘Fame at last.’

  ‘And look what it got you,’ Neilson pointed out.

  ‘You forgot what it will get us,’ Pinsky said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All the new false confessors who will jump at this, knowing the super-plus extra attention they’ll get, both from us and the media,’ Pinsky said. ‘We’ll have to check all those out, as well. We haven’t finished going through the ones who showed up for Yentall yet.’

  ‘Inconsiderate bastard to hit again so soon,’ Stryker said, sourly.

  Neilson looked bleak. ‘Do you suppose they have any openings in Traffic? I feel one of my headaches coming on.’

  ‘How can you have one when you are one?’ Pinsky asked, unfolding upward and heading for the door.

  Neilson put on a hurt expression as he followed him out. ‘That was unkind, Ned. That went deep. You’ve upset me now – really upset me.’ He winked and waved goodbye to Stryker as he closed the door. Through the glass Pinsky’s reply was inaudible, but his grin said it all.

  Stry
ker smiled, wryly. It was almost like watching Tos and himself on a case. But Tos was lying white and still in the hospital, and he was sitting here on his ass, nowhere to go, nothing to do. He picked up his coffee mug and threw it into the corner, where it smashed loudly and completely.

  Didn’t help. Didn’t help at all.

  He was still sitting there three hours later. The spattered coffee had dried on the walls and floor, and the shards of the mug were lying where they had fallen. He’d had a call from Dana who was back searching the files at City Hall, and he’d made several calls of his own. Other than that, he hadn’t moved.

  Outside, it was nearly dark, and the lights of the city had begun to reflect off the low clouds that had swept in, bringing a soft spring rain. Stryker leaned forward to turn on his desk light, and grunted with the pain that lanced through his shoulder. Sitting still for so long was rare for him, and his body reacted to it with some perplexity. A still, dark shape behind the pool of light, he was isolated in his glass-walled office, a silent fish lurking in the shadows of a busy aquarium. He watched the outer office slowly empty of one shift, and then fill up again with the next. Men going out greeted men coming in, some lingered to exchange news over coffee, others simply waved and headed for an hour’s unwinding over a beer before heading home to the other world they lived in – a world of wives and kids and, in some cases, understanding.

  Any one of them could be the next victim.

  Any one of them could catch the killer.

  Either way, he could still be sitting here when they did.

  The office door swung open and Neilson stood there.

  ‘How about a lift home?’ he asked.

  Stryker sighed and levered himself out of his chair. He struggled into one arm of his coat, and Neilson helped him drape the other half over his shoulder. Neither of them said anything, either there in the office or on the way home. When Neilson pulled in to the curb in front of the house, he killed the engine.

  ‘I’ll get you settled,’ he said.