Even when Lomax was on the floor, blood pumping from the holes already in his body, Doyle kept on firing, his eyes observing dispassionately as Lomax’s dying form jumped with each bullet. He tried to shoot long after the gun was empty, long after the sounds of its explosions had faded. His trigger finger just kept on twitching. And even when his subverted consciousness began to exert some kind of control, he still experienced an almost irresistible impulse to continue the devastation.
He understood then. He had never killed before, never come so near to being killed. And now he understood.
There have been numerous times that cops have been vilified by the media for being apparently trigger-happy. Even Doyle himself, despite being a police officer, had occasionally wondered whether such extensive lethal force had been necessary.
But here he was, holding his Glock 19, now empty of the fifteen rounds it held in the magazine and the additional one in the chamber, and still he felt the urge to ram its butt into the skull of the corpse beneath him.
Shoot the gun out of the man’s hands? In your dreams. A clinical and effective double-tap? Yeah, right. Fire three times and assess? Sure. Try standing here in my shoes and saying that afterwards.
Yes, he understood completely. And he would never be the same again.
It took some time before the world materialized around him once more, before he could tear his eyes away from the lifeless form of Lomax. He was that wired, it came almost as a surprise to him to see the second body in the room. He found it difficult to work out what he should do next. All of his police training seemed to have deserted him.
When he finally fished out his cellphone, he issued a garbled call for an ambulance, and then he went to his partner. She was showing faint signs of life, but she was a mess. The whole of her back was stained with her dark wet blood, and a puddle of it was growing next to her.
He didn’t know why, but he felt a need to gather her up in his arms. He sat in the warm wetness of her blood and held her close, rocking her gently.
And when the time finally came for her to leave, he told her how sorry he was.
It was only the beginning.
In the days, the interminable weeks that followed, truth became lies and lies became truth. Without Laura to retract them, her rumors became fact. To Doyle’s colleagues, to Internal Affairs, and even to Rachel.
He’d been having an affair, they concluded. It was becoming public knowledge and he wanted a way out, they surmised. He was responsible for Laura Marino’s death, they decided.
He knew they were all wrong. But when you believe one thing and everybody else believes another, you start to lose confidence. You start to have doubts. You start to wonder whether your own mind is deluding you.
And when that happens, you start to ask yourself whether, in fact, a tiny hidden part of you really did seize upon an opportunity to rid yourself of what was becoming a major problem.
And occasionally — in the dead of night when nobody else is listening — you ask yourself whether, in fact, that cream door with the cracked panel really was moving.
TWENTY-THREE
Doyle throws down the dregs of his drink and leaves the table. On the way past the bar, he feels he should say something apologetic to the girl with the legs-cleavage-smile combo, but she has already moved on from George and engaged another guy in conversation. The whiskey-drinking loser with the socialization problems is probably already a distant memory.
He goes back upstairs to a room that’s starting to feel the equivalent of a prison cell, except without even the company of a psychotic, tattoo-adorned Nazi to break the monotony. He picks up the phone again and makes another call.
‘Cal!’ Rachel says. ‘Just a minute. Amy wants to talk to you.’
There is a moment of confused fumblings and whispers of ‘Talk to Daddy,’ before Amy’s breathy voice comes on the line.
‘Daddy!’ she squeals. Her tone sounds several octaves higher than normal, its intense childish innocence punishing him more than he would like.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ he says. ‘How you doing? Are you being good for Mommy, like I asked you?’
‘Yes, Daddy, but, but, but. . I am a little bit sad.’
‘Sad? Why’s that, honey?’
‘Because, because I have to go to bed soon, and I asked Mommy if you were coming home tonight, and she said she didn’t think so, and I said I wanted you to be here because of the burglars. And then Mommy said-’
‘Hold on, hon. What burglars?’
‘The burglars who come into people’s houses and take all your toys and stuff. My friend Ellie, who isn’t my friend anymore because she’s always nasty to me, she said that burglars break your windows and come into your house at night when everybody’s asleep, and they take all your things, even your best toys and Christmas presents, and I said they won’t come in our apartment because my Daddy’s a policeman and he’ll put them in jail, and she said yes they will because your Daddy’s not there anymore, and I said-’
‘Amy, listen to me. The burglars won’t come. You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve told all the other policemen to watch our apartment from outside. At night, when you’re asleep, they sit outside and watch, and they make sure no burglars will come. And they’ll be there every night until I come home.’
‘Well, I want you here. You’re the best policeman and the best Daddy, and that’s why I couldn’t sleep last night and I had to get into bed with Mommy.’
‘You couldn’t sleep?’
‘No. I got scared, and I. . I. . I. . wet the bed a bit.’
There is a silence between them then. A few seconds that are devoid of sound but which, for Doyle, are bursting with barely contained anguish. As his vision blurs, he thinks about what he is doing to his family.
‘It was only a little bit,’ Amy adds hastily. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sweetie, that’s okay. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’m coming home real soon. I promise.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Maybe even tomorrow.’
Amy’s voice drops in volume then, but only because she has turned away from the receiver and is talking to her mother. ‘Yay!’ Doyle can hear her saying. ‘Daddy’s coming home! Daddy’s coming home!’
And then there is more fumbling with the phone, and when Rachel’s voice comes on the line there is an unexpected sternness to it.
‘Is that true, Cal? That you’re coming home? Because if it’s not, then you’re being so unfair to Amy.’
‘Rach. It’s true. There’s been a break in the case. All goes well, it’ll be over by the morning.’
There is another period of silence, and then comes an audible sigh of relief from Rachel.
‘Thank God!’ she says.
Well, thanks to someone, Doyle thinks. But God is probably the last one on the list on this occasion.
For the next few hours, he resumes his pastime of sitting and waiting and thinking. His mind hunts in desperation for alternatives to the decision he has made, but the only one it can find involves waiting some more, and he doesn’t think he can do that any longer. Not with the lack of progress the NYPD is making. Not with the pleading voice of Amy still ringing in his ears.
At two minutes before midnight, he picks up the phone and dials the number on the card that Sonny Rocca gave him.
‘You’re cutting it fine, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says.
‘I’m a last-minute kinda guy. I like to keep people guessing. It adds to my mystique.’
‘You sure you want to do this?’
‘What, you trying to talk me out of it now?’
Rocca chuckles. ‘I’ll be right over.’
‘Some days are special,’ Rocca says as he drives. ‘Red-letter days. Days that change your life forever. You know what I mean, Mr Doyle?’
In the rear of the Lexus, Doyle stares at the back of Rocca’s head.
‘You think this is one of those days?’
> ‘I know it is. Soon as I heard your voice on the phone, I thought, this is it. This is where it all starts to change.’
‘Remind me to make a note in my diary,’ Doyle says. ‘I’ll send a thank-you card to the Bartoks every year.’
Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. A real comedian.’
Doyle wonders, What’s Rocca got to be so happy about? He hoping we’ll be some kind of blood brothers now? Another addition to the family of oddballs?
And I could do without all the fuss he’s making. Like it’s some kind of historic victory or major coup for the Bartok clan.
But then who am I kidding thinking this is just a five-minute pact? What am I expecting — that I’ll just pass some info to Bartok and he’ll give me a name, and then I’ll never see him again? Do I really believe that it’ll stop there?
Doyle knows it won’t. He knows that once he’s in Bartok’s pocket he’s there to stay, like a handkerchief, waiting for Bartok to pull him out and blow his nose on him whenever he feels like it.
Rocca pulls the Lexus into the narrow alley next to Bartok’s club, parks it tight against the wall like he did the previous night. He gets out first, and like a chauffeur, opens the rear door to let Doyle out. Doyle steps out onto the cobblestones, already feeling slippery beneath his feet. He guesses that, by the morning, the city will be covered in a film of frost.
He waits for Rocca to lead the way toward the club, but Rocca just stands there, a dumb smile on his face as he stares at Doyle.
‘What? Having second thoughts? And after all the drinks I bought you? You men are all the same.’
Rocca’s laugh forms a cloud in front of his face. ‘Two things, Mr Doyle. First, your piece.’ He holds out his left hand, sheathed in a tan leather glove.
Doyle looks around as he hesitates. Giving up his gun is anathema to him. It’s one of the few things that’s become ingrained in him since his days in the Academy: never give up your sidearm. Last night was different: Rocca took the gun while he was asleep. But now he’s being asked to surrender it voluntarily. He would rather hand over very item of clothing he’s wearing if it meant he could keep his Glock.
‘Bartok still doesn’t trust me?’
Rocca shrugs. ‘Maybe after tonight he will.’
Because he’ll have something on me, Doyle thinks. He sighs another cloud of vapor and, with reluctance, plucks his Glock from its leather holster and slaps it onto Rocca’s gloved palm. It seems to Doyle an immensely symbolic act; he almost feels like he should offer his gold shield too.
Rocca drops the gun into a pocket of his overcoat. It’s a stylish gray coat; Italian, no doubt.
‘The other thing: I have to search you.’
‘I ain’t wired, if that’s what’s worrying your boss.’
Rocca just shrugs again, as if to say that he has his orders and so there’s no point debating it.
Doyle puts his arms out, in invitation for Rocca to go ahead. While he’s being patted down, he says, ‘Tell me something. Your boss not worried about the risk he’s taking by talking to me? Could be he’s putting himself right at the top of some sicko’s hit list.’
Rocca laughs like this is the best joke ever. ‘You’ve seen how Mr Bartok operates, how careful he is. You think me frisking you like this is just for kicks? Wherever he goes, he practically has a whole army with him, me included. You don’t get near to Mr Bartok unless he wants you to.’
‘Just asking. So far, this whacko’s been pretty resourceful.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t you worry about it. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘What?’
Rocca completes his search, and pulls Doyle’s lapels neatly back into place. ‘Mr Bartok knows who this guy is. It gives him a certain. . leverage. Anytime he wants, all he has to do is click his fingers and the guy is history.’
As they start walking round to the club entrance, Doyle says, ‘Do you know who the guy is?’
Rocca halts and turns, that disarming grin on his face. ‘You know, I do like that coat of yours, Mr Doyle. I think I might get me one just like it.’
For a Sunday night, it seems to Doyle as though there’s a heck of a lot of people who don’t seem worried about having to get up for work the next morning, the dance floor being as overcrowded and as noisy as it was the previous night. And then he realizes what an old fart he sounds like.
Bartok’s goons don’t appear any more relaxed either. They stand glued to their stations throughout the club, monitoring the patrons and waiting for their opportunity to knock a few heads together. The closer Doyle gets to Bartok’s office up all those stairs, the more menacing the heavies seem to get, as though Bartok has positioned himself at the apex of some kind of hierarchy of malevolence. It crosses Doyle’s mind to tell them to chill, that he’s one of them now, but it’s a thought that seems bitter rather than funny.
Rocca knocks and enters, Doyle trailing behind. Facing them on the other side of his expansive and expensive desk, Kurt Bartok sits observing their entrance as he sips from a cocktail glass. The thick drink looks like partly congealed blood.
‘Detective Doyle! How nice of you to drop in again. Bruno, make yourself useful and fetch the man a seat.’
Looking as though he hasn’t shifted an inch from his spot behind Bartok since the previous night, the big bodyguard hefts his muscles over to a solid oak chair against the wall, picks it up as though it’s a matchstick, and puts it into place at Bartok’s desk. All the while, his eyes are fixed on Doyle as though he’s debating whether there’s enough meat there for his next meal. Bruno’s a good name for him, Doyle thinks. A bear’s name. A name for someone who could crush you with a hug, or cave in your skull with one swipe of his paw.
Doyle sits himself down. As if he’s just provided a cue, Rocca and Bruno take up their customary flanking positions behind Bartok.
‘Don’t you people ever sleep?’ Doyle asks.
‘Sleep is for losers. There’s far too much to be done.’
‘Why? You one of Santa’s helpers?’
Bartok smiles and smacks his lips. He tips a manicured hand toward his drink. ‘Can I get you something? A little refreshment? I hear you’re a Bushmills man.’
‘Not for me, thanks. It’s past my bedtime.’
Bartok leans back, touches a hand to his beloved hair. ‘Speaking of Santa, I assume you’ve come here to exchange presents.’
‘Or you could just give me mine. The joy is in the giving, you know.’
‘Is that so? I’ve always found receiving much more pleasurable. Especially when it comes to receiving knowledge. A snippet of information I never knew before. You’d be amazed at how little of that it takes to make me happy.’
‘I’ll send you an encyclopedia for Christmas. Keep you going for years. Me, all I want’s a name. How about it, Santa? You want me to sit on your knee while you whisper it in my ear?’
Doyle detects a slight tensing in Rocca and the other guard-dog standing behind Bartok. They’re not used to hearing people being so impudent with their master. Any minute now they’ll start barking.
Bartok picks out a cocktail stick from his drink. He slides the pierced olive into his mouth and spends a minute rolling it around before chewing and swallowing.
‘My brother hates olives,’ he says. ‘He calls them phlegm-balls. I don’t think he’ll ever make it in marketing. So often the money is in choosing the right name, don’t you agree? Take the name you’re interested in, for example. What would you say that’s worth?’
What’s it worth? How do I measure something like that? What’s it worth to get your life back, to be able to see your family again?
‘Depends. If it’s the name of someone who’s already dead or out of reach, then not very much.’
‘And if it’s someone who’s very much alive? Someone not so far away? Someone who is still determined to keep you in this state of extreme isolation? What’s it worth to hear that name, to know that you can leave here and
go straight to that man and arrest him or kill him or torture him or do whatever else you need to get your revenge?’
It’s the first time Doyle has been presented with any realistic prospect of confronting his persecutor. Would I, he wonders, just collar him? Would that be enough to give me closure?
He doesn’t think so. He thinks too much hatred has built up inside for him simply to follow the rules like this was any run-of-the-mill criminal.
But he’ll worry about that when he gets the name.
‘How do I know you’ve got the right guy? The NYPD have been on this twenty-four-seven. I got snitches out there who could tell me who shot JFK quicker than they can get me a name for this perp. So what’s so special about you?’
Bartok takes another dainty sip of his drink, then puts the glass down and twirls the stem between his fingers.
‘As I told you last night, Detective, my commodity is information. I have a lot of data on a lot of things and a lot of people. Sometimes it comes in useful, sometimes it doesn’t. But just in case, I never throw any of it away. It all gets filed, most of it up here.’ He taps his temple, then smoothes down his hair on the off chance he’s just disturbed it. ‘On this occasion we have. . serendipity. You want something; I heard that you want it; I now have it. It’s nice when things fall into place like that, don’t you think? Makes you want to believe in fate.’
‘If you’re giving me the runaround. .’
Bartok flops back in his chair. He looks irritated now. ‘Detective Doyle, this is starting to become tiresome. I made you an offer in good faith. My assumption was that you came here tonight because you decided to accept that offer. If you’ve changed your mind, then feel free to leave and go back to your scant existence in your miserable flea-pit of a hotel. It’s time, as the saying goes, to piss or get off the pot.’
So there it is, thinks Doyle. What’s it gonna be? Haven’t you already made up your mind? Are you really gonna get up and walk out of here without that name?
‘You want to know about Ramon Vitez.’
Pariah cd-1 Page 19