Nadine’s eyes well up and glisten with the reflected light of the fire. Through tight, trembling lips she says, ‘Do you know what you’re accusing him of, Cal? I heard about what happened to Spinner. He was tortured. For a long time. And then his throat was cut. Do you really believe that Mo is capable of such a thing? He’s my husband, Cal. Your boss. He’s always said great things about you. You brought a lot of baggage with you to the Eighth, and he’s always defended you. Do you think he could turn on you like this? Do you think he deserves this kick in the teeth from you?’
‘I don’t want to believe it, Nadine. Really I don’t. But it all fits. The person who’s doing this is a cop, and it has to be a cop who knows a lot about me. He had to know a lot about Joe too, and the fact that Tony had interviewed Cavell. And there’s something else. .’
Nadine sniffs. ‘What?’ she asks, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t really want to hear the answer.
‘Something else that Mo said on Saturday, when he came to Spinner’s apartment. He was giving me a hard time, letting rip at me for all the mistakes I was making. One of the things he didn’t like was the fact I had an unlogged meeting with an informant.’
‘So?’
‘I hadn’t told him about that meeting. I hadn’t told anyone about it. The only way Mo could have found out about it is if he was the one who killed Spinner.’
Nadine shakes her head, gets to her feet.
‘You’re wrong. There has to be another explanation. Mo couldn’t do all this. You’re wrong.’
She moves closer to the fire. She slides a poker from its beaten-copper holder. Idly, she pokes it into the logs. They hiss at her like disturbed rattlesnakes.
Doyle stands up. ‘The guy I met with last night? Someone paid a lot of money to have him killed. Most cops I know don’t have that kind of money. Mo does, though. This house, the inheritance from his mother. He must be worth a fortune now. I hear he plans to retire next year.’ She stabs at the logs more vigorously. Doyle takes a step closer. ‘I’m sorry, Nadine, but it all fits. It’s the only possible answer.’
She whirls on him, brandishing the poker. The glowing red tip is a foot from his face.
‘Then answer me this,’ she yells at him. The tears are streaming down her face now, and he hates that he’s doing this to her. ‘Why, Cal? Why would Mo do it? Why would he want to kill Joe and Tony?’
Doyle looks at her pain. Sees beyond it to the understanding and the damage it has done.
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
They stand there for a full minute, either side of a broken friendship, until Nadine’s arm begins to shake with the weight of the outstretched poker. Finally she lowers it and pushes it back into the fire, coaxing new life from it.
Doyle waits patiently for her response. He waits for words that will either form the last piece of the puzzle, or else will leave him wondering whether he has somehow got this terribly, horribly wrong.
‘I’d like you to leave now, Cal,’ she says, giving him neither.
TWENTY-NINE
She waits alone in front of the fire. Even though the logs are now just glowing embers, she has removed the woolen sweater that was covering her white silk shirt. She has also slipped on some shoes and combed her hair. Because for some reason she doesn’t want to feel cozy and snug and Christmassy. She wants — needs — to be businesslike and objective and distanced from that precipice which seems so perilously close to her feet.
She curses Doyle for coming here tonight. He was supposed to be a pariah. He should have acted like one. He should have stayed away.
But he didn’t. And the demons followed him, bringing not death this time but destruction and misery of a different form.
She hears the car approaching, sees the flash of headlights across the drapes. The slam of a car door. The jangle of keys. The unlatching of the front door. The steps across the hallway.
She manufactures a smile as he enters the living room.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hey,’ she echoes.
‘Long day.’
‘When isn’t it? You eaten?’
He looks at her, puzzlement and suspicion in his gaze.
‘Yeah. I grabbed something earlier. Are you. . is everything okay?’
‘Mo, can I talk to you, please?’
For a long time he doesn’t answer. He puts his hands on his hips and looks her up and down, appraising her. As if thinking, What is this? What is this woman doing, getting above her station like this? Where’s the welcome-home Scotch and the sexy negligee and all the other things in our contract? Where did it say she could ask for a damn conversation, for Christ’s sake?
‘Sure. What’s wrong?’
She sits down on one of the armchairs, then gestures for Mo to do likewise. Mo stares at the chair like it’s haunted, before finally stepping across the room and lowering himself onto it.
She studies his face. She sees the tiredness there. But more than that she thinks she sees turmoil. An immense tension inside, pulling him in on himself, making him appear small and withdrawn and incredibly old.
‘I had a phone call tonight,’ she lies.
‘Who from?’
‘Cal Doyle.’
‘Cal? Is he okay? Has he been trying to get hold of me?’
He reaches into his pocket and produces his cellphone, then starts checking it for messages.
‘No. He wanted to talk to me. He has a lot of worries. About what’s happening to him. About the lack of progress on his case.’
A sigh. ‘I already talked to him about this. It’s a tough case. He’s just gotta hang in there.’
‘Yes. That’s what I told him too. Only he’s got some new theories about it. Some idea about the only true targets being Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez, with everything else being just stage fog.’
He barks a mirthless laugh. ‘What? Is he crazy? What’s he talking about? And why you, Nad? Why’s he telling you all this? If he’s got something to discuss about the case, why doesn’t he come to me?’
She listens to his dismissal. There’s a hollow ring to it that sickens her.
‘Could he be right, Mo? About all this boiling down to the murder of two cops? Is there any reason why someone would have wanted Joe and Tony dead, other than to hurt Cal Doyle?’
‘What? No. We would have picked it up already, the manpower we have on this.’
‘Even with everyone looking the other way because of Cal? Has it ever crossed your mind, Mo? Have you looked into that possibility, or asked any of your squad to do it?’
‘Well. . no. But only because it’s so ridiculous.’
‘Or because you didn’t want anyone to look into it.’
The silence then is ominous. Her thoughts came out faster than she wanted them to, her accusation more direct than she intended. Her words hang in the air like a death knell.
‘What are you saying, Nadine?’ His voice is gruff now. Stern.
‘Mo, I have to ask you this. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Joe and Tony?’
She wants a sudden explosion of denial. An outcry of indignation. A burst of emotion that is real and from the heart and believable. What she gets is a silent stony glare that splinters her heart.
‘How could you ask me that?’ he says. He gets to his feet and averts his face, unable to meet her eyes any longer. To Nadine it’s just another telltale sign.
She stands up too, but doesn’t go to him. ‘Mo, I’m sorry, but I need to know. I need you to tell me you had no involvement in this. I need you to convince me.’
He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, but still faces the wall. ‘I shouldn’t have to say anything, Nadine. You should trust me enough not to be asking these questions. My guess is you’ve already made up your mind. My guess is there’s nothing I can say that will save me in your eyes.’ His head snaps toward her and his gaze locks on her again. ‘Am I wrong? Haven’t you already tried and convicted me? Are you even willing to listen to anyth
ing I say in my defense?’
He looks away again. She can see his jaw muscles flexing as his anger builds.
‘I’ll listen, Mo. So tell me. Tell me where you were when Joe was being killed. Tell me why you had to work so late on the night Tony was murdered. Tell me what you were doing when that man Spinner was being tortured to death. Explain to me why you told Cal you met up with me to go shopping on Saturday.’
Mo shakes his head. ‘Boy, Doyle did a real number on you, didn’t he?’
‘Tell me, Mo.’
‘Jesus, Nadine, listen to yourself. Listen to how insane this all sounds.’
She takes a step closer to him. ‘Tell me. Tell me you didn’t kill those two detectives. Tell me you didn’t kill those other people. Tell me you didn’t hurt Cal and his family. Tell me!’
When he turns on her, he is like a ravenous Rottweiler taken off its leash. His hands fly from his pockets and his face contorts into a mask of fury. His wiry frame seems suddenly energized and ready to spring. Nadine cannot help herself from jumping back in fright.
‘And you give me a reason!’ he yells at her. ‘Give me one good fucking reason why I would want to kill two of my own men. Two young, ambitious detectives who I saw as my friends. What reason would I have, Nadine? What possible fucking reason could that be, huh?’
And in that rant he gives her what she dreaded. In what appears to be a series of questions he is really giving her an answer.
She takes another step back, the tears flooding down her cheeks. When she finds her voice again, it is but a whisper.
‘You killed them.’
He sighs again. ‘What do you want from me, Nadine?’
‘I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you killed Joe and Tony. I want you to admit to me what you did to Cal.’
He lowers his head, as if in defeat. He seems drained again. He looks almost relieved at this chance to unburden himself.
And so she is unprepared when he suddenly closes the gap between them and grabs hold of her shirt.
She gives a short yelp and tries to pull away, but he grits his teeth and rips open her shirt, sending buttons pinging and exposing her breasts.
She stares in wide-eyed fear as he looks down at her chest and then slowly brings his gaze up to her face.
‘You bitch!’ he says. ‘You fucking bitch!’
He lets go of her shirt with one hand, uses it to punch her hard in the face. Her head bounces backwards and forwards like she’s a toy, and her brain struggles against the internal fireworks as she tries to come up with a plan to save herself.
But her husband has already decided how things will be.
‘Get in here, Cal!’ he yells into the microphone taped below her left breast. ‘Get in here now, or she dies. And bring the recording equipment with you.’
THIRTY
Doyle leaves his car in its hiding place in the woods, and approaches the house on foot. When he reaches the porch he sees that the front door is already open. He stops and peers through the mesh of the porch screen. Franklin is in the hall, one arm around Nadine’s neck, the other holding a gun to her temple. Nadine is clearly struggling for breath. One of her hands paws at the arm which is choking her, while the other tries to keep her shirt closed over her torso.
‘Inside, Cal!’ Franklin commands. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
Since Doyle is carrying the recording equipment, it’s easy to comply with the order. He moves into the hall, follows Franklin as he shuffles backward, dragging Nadine with him. Her face is almost purple, her eyes bulging.
In the living room, Franklin flicks his gun muzzle toward a small table near the window.
‘Put the gear on there. Then your gun. Slow and easy.’
Doyle groans mentally at the thought of surrendering his weapon yet again, but does as he is told.
‘Move away,’ Franklin says.
Doyle takes a few steps to his right, his hands raised slightly, his eyes fixed on the man who has been both his boss and his persecutor.
Franklin lifts a foot from the floor, and kicks one of the armchairs so it now faces away from the fire. He spins Nadine around and shoves her down into the chair. Her shirt flaps open and she clutches it around her again.
‘Sit!’ he tells her. ‘Don’t move!’
Doyle says, ‘What now, Mo?’
Franklin doesn’t answer. He walks over to the table, picks up Doyle’s Glock and slides it under his waistband. He presses a button on the black box that Doyle set down. A small door flips open, and Franklin takes out the cassette. He moves back to the fireplace and tosses the tape onto the glowing logs. Within seconds, flames lick around it and it softens and melts. Black, poisonous-looking smoke rises up the chimney.
‘I asked you a question, Mo. Where do we go from here?’
Franklin licks his lips, seemingly at a loss for an answer. ‘I don’t know. I never planned for this. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. You. . you fucked it all up for me, Cal.’
‘So there was always a grand plan, then?’
‘Actually no. Not at first. The only thing I wanted was to see Joe and Tony dead. That was it. End of story. You didn’t enter into it. The only thought I put into Joe’s death was how to make it look like it was done by someone he didn’t know too well. Someone who couldn’t get close enough to pop him in his house or his car or whatever.’
‘So what changed things?’
‘You did. You and your history with Laura Marino. As soon as the news spread about Joe, it was clear that some people were just itching to bring you into it — even to put you at the center of it. But even then I had no idea what I was going to do with all that. I guess it sort of entered into my subconscious, changed the way I did things. When you asked for the Parlatti case, it was already a done deal in my head. Normally, I wouldn’t let a detective anywhere near a case involving his own partner. But somehow, without me even being aware of it, my brain was already evolving a scheme that could put the blame on you. That’s why I partnered you up with Alvarez.’
This comment puzzles Doyle. He had always thought that Alvarez had chased after him under his own steam.
‘What do you mean, you partnered us up?’
Franklin gives a rueful smile. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? Yeah, that night, the night of Joe’s death, I sent Tony running after you. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. My brain telling me to make the link between you and him.’
Doyle thinks about this. If it hadn’t been for that single impulse, that snap decision to forge a bond between him and Tony on that night, perhaps none of this nightmare could have been possible.
‘So that was the seed.’
Franklin nods. ‘And then it grew. You were now the obvious common factor. Everyone could see that. Even you. You said as much yourself in the squadroom.’
‘So you started sending the notes, just to confirm the suspicions. And then, when that wasn’t enough, the killings had to continue.’
Something flashes in Franklin’s eyes. ‘The only others I killed were pond scum. Whores, junkies, pimps, criminals. I didn’t hurt any other cops or their families, or any innocent civilians. I wouldn’t do that. There was a line I wouldn’t cross. Your family was never in danger, Cal.’
Sure, Cal thinks. You wouldn’t hurt another cop. Kind of a loose definition of the word ‘hurt’, wouldn’t you say?
‘Joe Parlatti was a cop. Tony Alvarez was a cop. Good cops. What was their crime, Mo?’
Franklin looks down at Nadine. She’s shivering. There’s a painful-looking swelling beneath her eye. With her torn clothes she looks like a homeless undernourished waif.
‘She knows,’ Franklin declares. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Nadine stares at her husband, and then turns her injured face toward Doyle. He sees the grief, the guilt, the acceptance of her part in all this. She was the spark; Franklin was the flame she ignited.
Doyle says to Franklin, ‘How did you find out?’ Franklin’s expression
is one of disgust at the memories he unearths. ‘There were signs. Around the apartment. Here at the house. Changes in Nadine’s behavior. She thought I didn’t notice, but I did. I couldn’t be sure — I guess I didn’t want to believe — so I checked it out. I bought one of those nanny cams — you know those tiny hidden cameras? — and put it in a shoe box on top of the closet.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Nadine says. ‘You filmed me?’ When he turns on her then, there is loathing and agony in his eyes and his voice. Spittle flies from his mouth as he confronts her with his truth.
‘Yes, I filmed you. I filmed you with Parlatti and I filmed you with Alvarez, and I still sometimes wonder if there were others I didn’t catch you with. I saw what they did to you, Nadine. To my wife, and on our bed. I saw what little respect they had for me. I saw them stripping your clothes off. I saw them running their grubby little hands over your body. I saw. . I saw everything. And I knew I couldn’t let them live after that.’
Doyle says, ‘Did you really think you’d get away with it?’
Franklin’s turn back to Doyle is slow. The hatred seems to
fade from him and his expression becomes one of calm reason
again. Doyle realizes then just how unstable this man has become.
Franklin shrugs. ‘Back then I didn’t really care either way. I
just wanted them dead. But when you became involved, then yes, I started to think it might just work. At least, I did until Sonny Rocca showed up.’ He tilts his chin at Doyle. ‘There’s a dirty cop in the precinct, did you know that?’
But not as wrong as you, thinks Doyle. ‘Yeah, I heard that.’
‘Whoever he is, I don’t think he knew what I was doing. I think he just heard something in the locker room about Joe or Tony with my wife. You know how these things start.’
Doyle nods. Oh, yeah, I know all about the way rumors can start and then wreak havoc.
‘Whatever, he passed it on to Bartok. To be honest, I don’t think even Bartok was sure about me at that stage. When he sent Rocca to me, I got the feeling he was just testing the waters, so I told him to get the fuck out of my face or I’d collar him for extortion.’
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