Pariah cd-1

by David Jackson

  Paulson continues: ‘Kids of all ages, both sexes. Far as we can tell, the youngest is about six months old. You shoulda seen the look in her eyes. I’ll never forget that look.’

  Doyle fills his own mouth with coffee, providing himself with an excuse for not speaking. He gulps audibly and feels the burning run down to his stomach.

  ‘And you know what the worst of it was?’ Paulson says. ‘The thing that made me want to be there for the collar? The thing that gave me so much pleasure to slap on the cuffs and tighten them so they practically cut off his circulation? It was him, Doyle. In the pictures, in the movie files. It was the cop. The worthless piece of shit who defiled the bodies and destroyed the souls of little children — he once wore a uniform and a badge. Now you tell me which one of us was wrong, Doyle. Tell me which one of us wears the black hat and which one wears the white. Maybe all hats are just shades of gray.’

  Almost a full minute passes before Doyle answers. ‘Okay, Paulson, you got me with your little story there. You convinced me that you’re a force for good, that you provide a useful and valuable service. That what you wanted to hear? Feeling good about yourself now? Can we move on? Can I ask my question and get the fuck outta here?’

  And then Paulson does something unexpected. He brings his fist crashing down on the table so hard that the coffee cups and plates do a little jig, and the head of every other customer turns to glance at them.

  ‘Fuck you, Doyle!’ he spits. ‘You want something from me, then you stop acting like a fucking asshole. You stop pretending that everyone can be put into neat little boxes, and you start accepting that some of us do what we do because it’s right, not because it’s easy.’

  In that moment, Doyle sees something in Paulson he has never seen before. A spark of humanity. In that flash of emotion, Doyle sees vulnerability, outrage, morality and devotion to a cause, all combining to make Paulson something more than the obsessed automaton he has always appeared. Despite his antipathy, Doyle finds himself no longer able to be so dismissive of Paulson, no longer able to prevent himself from engaging with his old adversary.

  ‘Because it’s right? You gave me one chapter, Paulson. A few pages where things worked out for once, where you really did end up catching the bad guy. Well done to you. Good catch. But what about the rest of the story? What about all the other times you and your IAB pals made life miserable for cops who never did so much as accept a cookie without paying for it? What about all the cops who ate their guns because of pressure from IAB? What about me? You forget about that? You forget about how you told me I was no better than a cop killer? Saying to me that maybe I didn’t pull the trigger, but I damn well may as well have done? Telling me about how you were going to talk to my wife about all those nasty rumors going around? How you were going to interrogate her about my sex life? Any of this coming back to you, Paulson, or do you have some kind of selective memory in that head of yours, only able to remember the cases that fall right for you?’

  Doyle pauses for breath, and notices that the waitress is at his elbow.

  ‘Guys,’ she says. ‘You mind calming it down a little, please? You’re making the other customers a little uncomfortable.’

  The way he feels, Doyle is on the verge of yelling at the rest of the dump’s clientele to mind their own fucking business, but the waitress’s practiced smile defuses his anger. He nods at her, then distracts himself with his coffee, the cup in his hand trembling with the memories that have resurfaced.

  When he speaks again, Paulson’s voice is quieter, more reasoned. ‘This is where I say something like I was only doing my job, and you say something about Nazis, right? So let me say this instead. Suppose you had been cheating on your wife. Suppose you had been responsible for the death of that girl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll make it easier for you. Take yourself out of the equation. Suppose you’d heard that another cop had been making whoopee with your partner Laura Marino. Suppose that same cop had gone into a building with Laura, and he’d come out alive and she’d come out in a body bag. What would you have me do? Should I say to the cop, “Hey man, you’re wearing a badge, so you must be okay, have a good day, officer?” Or, given that your partner’s now six feet under, would you prefer I push him a little bit more than that? What about our Kindergarten Cop? Should I maybe have given him the heads-up? Give him a chance to wipe the porn from his computer because, hey, after all, he’s one of the good guys, right?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Doyle says, ‘it’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it. There are ways and means, Paulson.’

  ‘Really? I know it hurts, but think back over those talks we had a year ago. Look at them really closely, replay the words in your mind, and then tell me I was any more brutal than you’ve been with perps in the interrogation room.’

  ‘Difference is, I’m not a skell. I’m a cop. I’m NYPD. And so are you.’

  ‘And so was a child rapist. All the more reason to have people like me on the job, wouldn’t you say? People who aren’t afraid to squeeze balls just because they belong to another cop. Like I said, I don’t do this to make me Mr Popular. I do it because it’s necessary.’

  Doyle drains his cup. ‘Okay, Paulson.’

  ‘Okay what?’

  ‘Just. . okay.’

  Paulson stares into Doyle’s eyes. It takes a while, but finally he gives one more of his nods. What do you know, Doyle thinks; he finds me as acceptable as his donut.

  Paulson says, ‘Your turn.’

  ‘My turn for what?’

  ‘To tell me the point of this meeting. I gave you my reasons. What are yours?’

  ‘I been telling you all along: to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Must be pretty big questions, you agreeing to meet me here, listen to me preaching like this.’

  ‘Actually, yes. Finding the guy who’s whacking everyone around me, that’s a pretty big issue.’

  ‘You’re not even on the case, Doyle. What sort of questions come up when you’re watching adult cable and drinking the contents of your mini-bar?’

  ‘I got a lot of time to think, and I got more at stake than most.’

  Paulson taps his fingernail against the handle of his cup for a few seconds.

  ‘I think we’re done here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said we’re done. Don’t forget to pay before you leave. You’re the host, remember.’

  ‘What are you talking about? We’re not done. Not until you start answering-’

  Paulson brings his fist down again, but with a lot more restraint this time.

  ‘Damn it, Doyle. I was straight with you, now you start being straight with me. Otherwise this ends now. I called your hotel after you phoned me. They said you checked out in the early hours of the morning. I made them give me the home phone number of the night clerk, and guess what? She said that not long before you checked out, you arrived at the hotel looking hurt and with blood on you. Then tonight you limp in here looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. So cut the crap, Doyle. You’re investigating, aren’t you? You’re working the case.’

  Doyle hesitates, but he knows he can’t quit now. ‘Yeah, I’m working the case. I’m about the only fucking one, far as I can tell. And it wasn’t a truck, it was a Lexus.’

  Paulson smiles slightly. ‘Pardon me for denigrating the offending vehicle. You mind telling me how you came to be knocked down by a Lexus?’

  ‘It didn’t hit me; I hit it. Don’t ask — it’s complicated.’

  ‘You up to something you shouldn’t have been?’

  Doyle thinks about his meeting with Bartok, his handing over of confidential intelligence. He looks into Paulson’s eyes and somehow knows that he will detect a lie.

  ‘Probably.’

  Paulson stares back, and for once Doyle sees something there that is more cop than cop hunter.

  ‘Ask me,’ says Paulson.

  Doyle gathers himself. ‘The other day, outside the boxing gym, you said t
he reason you turned up was because you already had a vested interest in the precinct. I think those were your exact words.’

  ‘Vested interest. Yeah, that sounds like something I might say. That your question?’

  ‘An interest in the precinct. Not in me. In the precinct. When you said you thought there was nothing to find on me, I thought you were just yanking my chain, but you were serious, weren’t you? I also thought that Schneider called you in because of me, but he didn’t, did he? You were already looking at the Eighth Precinct for other reasons.’

  Paulson raises his thick eyebrows. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Come on, Paulson. Are you gonna talk to me, or what?’

  ‘You know better than that. You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.’

  Doyle pushes himself back in his seat. ‘What the fuck? This is you being straight with me? I’m wasting my fucking time here.’

  He starts to slide out of the booth.

  ‘’Course,’ Paulson says, ‘what I would do is deny anything I know to be totally inaccurate.’

  Doyle halts, sits down again. So that’s how he wants to play it. Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Plausible deniability. The old Deep Throat routine.

  ‘All right,’ Doyle says. ‘So you’re looking at a cop. There’s a dirty cop in the Eighth.’

  Paulson shrugs. ‘You wanna pay the bill now? I’m dying for a smoke.’

  No denial. So it’s true.

  Doyle digs out his wallet, finds some bills to throw on the table.

  ‘And I’m not in your sights this time?’

  ‘Not this time. Not unless you wanna confess something.’

  ‘So who? Who’s the cop?’

  ‘Come on, Doyle.’

  ‘Someone on patrol? Anti-Crime? The detective squad?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He sees the look on Doyle’s face. ‘Seriously. I don’t know. And I couldn’t tell you even if I did. Come on, let’s get out of here. You want that donut?’

  Shit, thinks Doyle. It’s something, but he could do with more. A lot more.

  They stand and head out of the coffee shop. Outside, the cold air hits Doyle hard, and he rubs his hands together. His mind is racing ahead.

  ‘You get what you wanted?’ Paulson asks, starting on Doyle’s donut.

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t asked all the right questions.’

  Doyle looks at Paulson. There’s a twinkle in the man’s dark eyes. A hint of something hidden there that he is daring Doyle to pursue.

  ‘They’re all the questions I got.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ Paulson says. He puts out his hand.

  Doyle stares at the hand and wonders whether he has forgiven the man for what he did to him.

  ‘Maybe next time,’ he says.

  He turns, starts to walk back to his car.

  When he hears his name being thrown after him, it’s not just a casual call.

  It’s a yell.

  A scream, in fact.

  When Doyle whirls, he sees Paulson running straight at him, his arms coming up, the donut dropping from his hand, his teeth bared as though he’s about to bite Doyle’s face off.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It happens too fast for Doyle to reach for his gun. Too unexpected for him even to step out of the way. As Paulson slams into him at gut level, bringing him up and off the sidewalk like he’s stopping a winning touchdown, Doyle hears a long burst of noise and thinks his eardrums are exploding with the air being punched out of him. He turns his head as he crashes to the ground with Paulson on top of him. Sees the black sedan cruising by, flame leaping from the stubby muzzle of a sub-machine gun poking through the vehicle’s rear window. He hears glass shattering above him, then feels needles of it raining on his face and puncturing it.

  He rolls Paulson off him and scrambles to his feet. He snatches out his Glock, but the car is already screeching around a corner. He can’t see who’s inside, but he knows who’s pulling their strings.

  He turns back to Paulson, who is still on the ground, a twisted smile on his face.

  ‘You okay, Paulson?’

  In reply, Paulson displays his open palm. It’s red and slick.

  Doyle crouches down next to him and pulls the man’s coat aside. The shirt over Paulson’s abdomen is soaked in his blood.

  ‘Shit, Paulson. What the fuck do you think you were doing?’ He looks both ways along the block, sees that someone has dared to show his face through one of the doorways. ‘Call 911 now! Ask for an ambulance and police. Tell them there’s been shots fired and there’s a cop down. A cop down, understand? Do it!’

  He examines the wound again. ‘Bullet’s gone right through. There’s an ambulance bus on its way. You’re gonna be okay, Paulson. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.’

  Paulson’s face is so white it reflects the neon signs from the storefronts. He says, ‘Life’s never dull when you’re around, is it, Doyle? Maybe I should have answered your questions on the phone like you wanted.’

  ‘Would have been a whole lot safer.’

  ‘Yeah, but then I would have missed out on our cozy little chat. Worth it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sure, Paulson. Hang in there, okay? Hang in there.’

  ‘You get a look at your man in the car?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Put your hand here. Try to stop the bleeding.’

  Doyle hears sirens in the distance. They’re growing closer, their urgency fueled by the 10–13 call. Doyle knows he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. It’s time he doesn’t feel he can spare right now.

  Paulson sees the expression on his face. He says, ‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to be here when the cops arrive?’

  ‘I got this aversion to authority figures. Now shut the fuck up and save your energy.’

  ‘You worked out the question yet, Doyle?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The question you should have asked me.’

  ‘No, I. . no.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, do I have to do all your thinking for you? Ask me how I know there’s a dirty cop in your precinct.’

  ‘Okay, how do you know about the dirty cop?’

  Paulson’s body jerks, and he groans with the pain in his abdomen.

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Paulson. This is no fucking time for games.’

  ‘It’s an ongoing investigation, Doyle. Give me something I can deny or not. A yes-no question.’

  The sirens are louder now, just blocks away, probably trying to fight through the traffic.

  ‘Okay, uhm. . let me think. . uhm, an operation. It went south. An intelligence leak.’

  ‘I couldn’t comment.’

  No denial.

  ‘And the outfit involved, the crew that got away because of the leak. You know who they were.’

  ‘You do too, don’t you, Doyle?’

  Doyle almost can’t bring himself to utter the name.

  ‘Kurt Bartok.’

  Paulson coughs. ‘No comment. Now get the fuck out of here.’

  Doyle looks down the street. He can see flashing lights bouncing off the buildings.

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘I can tell you got other things to do, and I don’t need you, so go!’

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘And now I’m saving your ass. Don’t worry, I’m not jamming you up. Last time I checked, I was a sergeant and you were a DT Second Grade, so take this as an order to leave. Go, will ya!’

  Doyle stands and looks around, sees the approaching RMPs and an ambulance. Before he leaves, he performs one last act.

  Reaching down to Paulson, he takes his free hand and shakes it firmly.

  He’s out of time.

  He’s pacing up and down in Spinner’s apartment, trying to think, and all he can hear is a tiny voice telling him he has no more time.

  Bartok has found him once, he’ll find him again. And n
ext time he won’t miss. In a period of less than one day, Doyle has twice washed the blood of others from his hands. It’s only a matter of time before they’re covered in his own.

  The cops will be searching for him too. They’ll want to know why he was talking to IAB, and why he booked the scene when Paulson was shot. If they haven’t done so already, they’ll check the hotel and discover that he’s abandoned it and gone into hiding. At some point, either the cops or Bartok will have the presence of mind to look here, and then it’ll be too late for him to do anything.

  So concentrate, goddamnit!

  Okay, what do we have? Somehow Kurt Bartok found out the identity of the guy who’s been terrorizing me. He gets Sonny Rocca to approach the killer with an offer. Bartok will keep his identity under wraps in return for. .

  For what?

  What use is this guy to Bartok?

  Doyle knows the answer. It’s something he should have realized a long time ago, but even now he finds it hard to accept.

  Bartok was just doing what he always did. It was second nature to him. The value of the killer to Bartok was his information.

  Because the killer is a cop.

  Much as Doyle doesn’t want to believe it, it’s the only glue that can hold all the pieces together. Bartok’s commodity was information, most of which came from cops. He already had at least one Eighth Precinct cop in his pocket — Paulson confirmed that much.

  Suppose the crooked cop finds something out about another member of service. Not necessarily that he’s a killer — this is probably way before Parlatti is murdered. Just a juicy tidbit of information that maybe could be used as leverage. Dutifully, the dirty cop passes it on to his unofficial employer, Kurt Bartok, and Bartok files it away in his vast mental storehouse. Only later, when the killings begin, is Bartok able to slot the data into the right place and see it for what it really is: a pointer to a man who is slaughtering and persecuting his own brothers.

  What Bartok has now is the perfect opportunity for turning another cop. It’s not something he’s going to ignore. So he sends Rocca out to talk to the cop, to make him that offer.

  Only the cop doesn’t fall for it. He bounces Rocca back with instructions to Bartok to go fuck himself.