And so he steps across the sodden carpet. Checks that the rest of the apartment is empty before returning to the body.
He looks again at the tape recorder. Taking a pen from his pocket, he uses it to press the eject button. The player’s door springs open, but there’s no cassette inside.
He frowns, then turns his attention back to Spinner. He leans in for a closer look, and that’s when he sees it. Shiny and wet, it’s tucked deep into Spinner’s throat wound. Doyle takes his pen and pokes it gently into the fleshy chasm, pressing it against the foreign object. Whatever’s in there, it’s wrapped in some kind of plastic material.
Trying to apply the minimum of force, he teases the object out, farther and farther until it’s protruding from Spinner’s throat like some distorted second tongue. He goes off to the bathroom, and comes back with a wad of tissue. He wraps the tissue around his fingers, then uses it to grasp the edge of the object and pull it all the way out. As it comes free, a bubble of blood distends from Spinner’s trachea and pops softly.
With great care, Doyle unrolls the plastic bag. He puts it down on the table and props it open with his pen, then reaches inside with some fresh tissue between his fingers.
What he brings out is a cassette tape. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ are written in pen on its label. The handwriting is Spinner’s.
Doyle slides the tape into the recorder, snaps the lid closed, then presses the play button.
At first he’s not sure what he’s listening to. Some heavy rock music is playing really loudly, but beneath that is also the sound of faint sobbing. Doyle gradually realizes that the killer had turned on the stereo and ramped up the volume to mask what was happening here in the apartment. The crying is Spinner’s.
And then: ‘No. No. I won’t do it.’
Doyle wonders what it is he’s refusing to do, but he doesn’t have long to ponder it. The next sound he hears is a bang like a gunshot, followed by a howl of excruciating pain that causes Doyle to leap away from the table and put his hands to his ears.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Doyle yells to drown out the screams. ‘Sweet fucking Jesus.’
When he can bring himself to listen again, the music has been turned right down and Spinner is talking to him.
‘Cal? It’s me, buddy. I have to read something to you, okay? I have to read this, so here goes.’ There’s a pause, then a slight rustle of paper, and then Spinner talking through his tears again. ‘ “Detective Doyle. You did this to me. You were warned, but you didn’t listen. You were supposed to stay away from everyone you know, but you didn’t. You came to see me. You are the reason I’m going through this right now. It’s all your fault. When will you ever learn?” ’
There is another faint crackle of paper, then the sound of footsteps retreating. Doyle waits for the tape to go dead, but suddenly Spinner pipes up again. His words come out in a rush, like he knows he has little time left.
‘Cal, I’m sorry, man. I let you down. I didn’t want to-’
It’s as far as he gets, and Doyle thinks the recorder’s stop button must have been pressed while he was in mid-sentence. But he’s wrong. There is still sound. A gurgling, choking sound. The sound of a man who’s just had his throat opened up.
Doyle stands in the chaotic, blood-soaked apartment, looking down at his old friend from the Bronx. Listening to his death throes.
He stands there until the tape reaches its end.
And he weeps.
He’s hardly flavor of the month when the crowd arrives. Holden and LeBlanc are okay: the worst they give him are pitying looks and shoulder shrugs that say, You’re under pressure, so we understand why you’re acting like such a rookie dork right now.
The Crime Scene detectives, and especially the photographer, are a different matter. They’re kind of upset that a precinct detective decided it would be okay to go tramping through the apartment, moving stuff around before they’ve had a chance to record the scene and look for clues and shit. They’re funny that way.
Norman Chin takes it to another level again. Anything to do with a dead body, and especially within a dead body, he regards as his domain. He doesn’t like the idea of detectives who don’t know their ass from their olecranon process poking their grubby little retractable biros into the innards of his corpses. And in his own inimitable style, he’s happy to tell anyone who would cross such a boundary what he thinks of them.
And so when Lieutenant Franklin arrives on the scene, the furrows on his face already spelling out the word ‘grim’, and finds that everyone and his brother are united in a ‘we-hate-Doyle’ campaign, it comes as no surprise to Doyle that his boss feels the need to join in.
‘Go outside,’ Franklin orders, his eyes glowering at Doyle.
‘Mo, can we talk about this?’
‘Outside, Detective. Now.’
The use of his job title is a sure signal to Doyle that to protest further would not be the most prudent course of action. With feet-dragging reluctance, he turns his back on the scene and heads out of the apartment.
On the stoop outside, two uniformed cops stare at him as he walks by. He steps down to the sidewalk, huddling into his leather jacket as he stares at the flashing roof lights of the radio cars. Five minutes later, Franklin joins him.
‘Not one of your better days,’ Franklin says.
Doyle glances at his boss. ‘You could say that. You pissed at me?’
‘You want the truth, yes, I am. It’s bad enough I have to spend most of my Saturday afternoon stuck in dreary meetings on the upper floors of 1PP. But when I finally get out in time to meet my wife for some Christmas shopping, my cellphone never stops ringing. First of all from a very irate captain who’s been briefed by a very irate duty sergeant that two of his men have had the crap beaten out of them by one of my detectives.’
‘That’s not the whole-’
‘Then I get a call telling me that despite nobody knowing anything about your location or your actions today, you’ve suddenly phoned in to say that you’re at the scene of a homicide. Of your own CI, no less.’
‘I was trying to be-’
‘And then, when I get down here, I discover that you took it upon yourself to walk all over a crime scene with the finesse of a bulldozer. So, to repeat my answer to your question, yes, I am a tad irritated that a member of my squad has decided to start World War Three without the knowledge or permission of his superior.’
Doyle waits for a moment. ‘Can I talk now?’
Franklin sails an open palm out from his waist. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I admit I didn’t follow procedure up there, but this is no ordinary homicide. This was done to hurt me. It was aimed at me. Spinner’s a buddy of mine. We go. . we went back a long way. His death’s on me. Seeing him like that, what he went through, it hit me kinda hard.’
He gets no show of sympathy from Franklin. ‘And this morning? What was that all about? First you have an unlogged meeting with a CI, and then you go out and beat up two cops.’
‘They started it,’ Doyle says, then realizes how childish it sounds.
‘The way I heard it, not only did you kick the crap out of them, but then you even went so far as to draw your weapon on them. In full view of members of the public, no less.’
‘Mo, it wasn’t as simple as that. Christ, they’re making me out to be some kind of cop-hating vigilante. I went to see Marino to ask him a simple question-’
Franklin stops him with raised hands. ‘I don’t care why you went there, although I can guess. What I care about is how it made you look, and by implication how it makes me look. Jesus, man, I turned a blind eye for you this morning. Against my better judgment I allowed you to stay on the job. At no point did I even hint that you could stop acting like a police officer and become some kind of maverick who thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.’
‘Mo, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else I can say. It’s not like I got up this morning and thought I’d give myself a shitty day or anything. I
’ve kinda had my fill of shitty days recently.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe you should do something about it. Take some time to chill out a little.’
‘I don’t need. .’ Doyle begins, then realizes that Franklin isn’t simply offering some friendly advice. He searches the lieutenant’s face for a sign that he’s wrong.
‘You’re taking me off the case.’
Franklin shakes his head, but his expression tells Doyle that it’s not to convey better news. ‘You’re off all your cases, Cal. You’re off the squad. Temporary R amp;R.’
‘Mo, that’s-’
‘The call came through, Cal. I already spoke to the Chief of Ds. The word’s come down from on high. You’re out.’
‘Well, fuck them. If they think I’m going to-’
‘I’m not giving you choices here. For Chrissake, there are people dying all around you. Can’t you see that? How many more do you want on your conscience before you decide to leave it alone? You’re out, Cal. It’s a done deal. And if you want my honest opinion, you’re lucky you’ve still got your gun and shield after the cock-ups you made today.’
Franklin turns then, heads back up the steps of the apartment building.
Doyle calls after him, ‘This case is all about me, Mo. I’m the best chance you have of catching this guy.’
‘Go home, Detective,’ Franklin says. ‘That’s an order.’
He disappears into the dark lobby. The two uniformed cops stationed at the door send semaphore signals to each other with their eyebrows.
Doyle takes a step toward the building, but no farther. He knows he can’t fight this.
‘I can’t fucking go home!’ he yells. ‘Tell me where the fuck I’m supposed to go now!’
But there’s no answer. Just the noises of the city going by like a river around a stone.
SIXTEEN
‘Hello?’
Her voice. He really needs that voice right now.
‘Rachel?’
‘Cal! Honey! How are you?’
‘I. . yeah, I’m good. What about you? And Amy?’
‘Oh, Cal, you should have seen her today. Danced her little heart out. I never knew she could dance so well.’
Yeah, the dance show. Amy getting a medal. One of those milestones in your child’s development you just can’t miss. And he wasn’t there for her. He let her down.
‘It’s the Irish in her. All the Irish can dance a good jig. I wish I coulda been there.’
‘Yeah, I do too. But, well. .’
‘Yeah. Did she miss me?’
‘She’s been asking for you all day. She’s saved a dance just for you. For when you come home.’
‘That’s nice. Tell her I can’t wait to see it. Tell her I’ll bring her a little present home.’
‘I will. That’ll be soon, won’t it? You coming home, I mean.’
‘Are you kidding? With your husband on the case? How long can it take?’
‘It’s already been forever.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just. . keep your chin up, okay? For Amy’s sake.’
‘I. . okay. But it’s not the same without you here. I don’t even know what day you’re coming home. It’s not right, Cal. It’ll be Christmas soon. We need to be together, as a family.’
‘Hey, shush. You think there’s any way I’m not going to be there for Christmas? I’ll be home way before then.’
‘You promise?’
‘Swear to God. Maybe I’ll bring an early Christmas present for you, too.’
‘Just bring you home, Cal. Safe and sound.’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘I mean it, Cal. I don’t want to be called out to a hospital again. I don’t want the next time I see you to be in a morgue. I don’t want. .’
Tears again. And not just in Rachel.
‘Rachel. Rachel. I’m fine, and I’m gonna stay fine. Keep an eye on that apartment door. I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Solve the case, Cal. Just solve the case.’
How? When he’s virtually a prisoner in this fucking hotel?
‘I. . yeah. I’ll solve the case.’
‘Cal?’
‘What?’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, honey.’
And that’s the only thing he’s got right now.
He lies on his bed for half an hour, hands clasped behind his head. He stares at an abstract painting on the wall and wonders what it’s an abstraction of. He realizes that his brain just isn’t wired in a way that will allow him to move beyond the colored circles and squares he can see. Decides that the only circle that will take him to a higher plane is the rim of a beer glass.
The bar on the first floor is almost deserted. Just a middle-aged couple tucked into a corner booth, whispering sweet somethings and exchanging meaningful smiles.
They’re married, Doyle thinks. But not to each other. Call me cynical. .
He takes a stool at the bar, and George the swarthy Greek glides over like he’s on casters.
‘Irish?’ he asks.
Doyle says, ‘Yeah. Is it the way I walk?’ But when that just gets him a puzzled frown he adds, ‘No, better just make it a beer. Gimme a. .’ he scans the bottles in the refrigerated cabinet behind the bartender, ‘. .a Heineken.’
One bottle of Heineken later he’s back on the whiskey, throwing it down like prohibition’s due to start in the next five minutes.
Doyle is a man for whom alcohol can loosen the tongue and free the spirit when he’s in the right company. But an indifferent Greek and a couple who have now resorted to furtive groping do not the right company make.
He tries closing his eyes and transporting himself to an Irish bar — a true Irish pub in Dublin or Cork or somewhere like that — listening to a ceilidh band and joining in the craic and eyeing up the pretty lasses. But it’s difficult when George turns up the volume to hear the latest on strife in the Middle East, and the woman in the booth — who Doyle now thinks to be at least a hundred beneath that slab of make-up — begins making peculiar mewling noises, like a cat with laryngitis.
Surrendering to the depressing tawdriness of it all, he pays his tab and leaves.
He meanders aimlessly for an unmeasured period of time, letting his feet take him where they will. And where they take him is to more familiar territory in the East Village. Despite an alcohol-tainted compass they steer him past the trendy bars, guide him away from the ‘happening’ nightspots, thread him through the Saturday-night revelers whose dress sense seems to flip a finger of defiance at the bitter cold, and eventually land him at Gilligan’s on Avenue A.
Gilligan’s has nothing to do with the Island and everything to do with an ex-cop from the Eighth Precinct named Patrick Gilligan. Long dead from cirrhosis of the liver, Patrick handed the establishment down to his son, also named Patrick but known to his regulars as Paddy. Paddy has never been a cop — never wanted to be — but he probably gets more of them through his doors on an average day than many station houses.
Something at the back of Doyle’s mind warns him that it’s a mistake coming here. He should turn around now and move on to a watering hole where he can be just another anonymous lonely drunk. But the alcohol-fogged bulk of his brain dismisses the notion of caution as the outpourings of a spineless wuss, and gives him a mental shove through the door.
It’s like being Black Bart in the Last Chance Saloon. The laughing and joking stop abruptly as people catch sight of the man who has just walked in. These are men and women who would normally be slapping him on the back or shaking his hand or offering to buy him a drink or simply saying hello. Now they merely shuffle out of his way and offer each other mutterings and whispers and ‘look-who-it-is’ glances.
Doyle’s heart sinks. He expected more from his fellow members of service. But it’s too late to back out now. He’s come in for a drink, and he’s going to have a fucking drink. So fuck the lot of you.
He moves to the bar, takes one of the many stools that have s
uddenly become unoccupied. At the other end of the bar, Paddy’s employee Terry is polishing glasses with a concentration and fervor that are disproportionate to the task.
Doyle watches him for a minute, hoping to catch his eye. But Terry’s making sure his eyes are not up for catching anywhere in Doyle’s zone.
‘Hey, Terry! Any danger of some service down this end?’
Terry doesn’t shift position or even acknowledge Doyle’s presence. He glances up at one or two of his customers, checking that he has support, then returns to removing imaginary specks of dirt from the glass in his hand.
‘Terry! You gone deaf on me?’ Still getting no response, Doyle waves a hand in the air. ‘Hey, Terry! Get the fuck over here, man!’
Terry looks at his other customers and shrugs at them as if to say, Look, this ostracism thing ain’t working on this nuisance. He puts the glass down, then gravitates to the other end of the bar as if he’s straining against the pull of an elastic rope. When he reaches Doyle, he slides his hands back and forth along the edge of the polished mahogany counter.
‘Look, Cal. No offence or nothing, but everyone knows where you’re at right now.’
‘You don’t say. And here’s me thinking I forgot to take off my Bin Laden mask tonight.’
Terry lowers his voice, which Doyle thinks comes a bit late if the aim is to keep this away from the other customers. ‘Cal, please. Do me a favor, okay? You coming in here, people are gonna start leaving in droves. It ain’t good for business, you know? Be sensible about this, Cal. Think about what you’re doing to the place.’
Doyle stares at Terry for a good ten seconds, not believing what he’s hearing. He tears his gaze away, and aims it at the people behind him. Most of them are looking his way. Not talking, hardly drinking. Just looking and waiting to hear his response.
Doyle turns back to Terry. He sighs.
‘All I wanted was a quiet drink. A Guinness. You know how long I been coming here, Terry? Ever since I joined the Eighth. A whole year now. I thought I made a few good friends in that time — some of them are in here tonight, in fact. But I understand why people are worried. In their shoes, I think I would be too. They don’t want to be afraid of getting killed just because they smiled at me, or said hello. So, really, I do understand, and I think you’re right. I should spare a thought for them and for the health of your business.’
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