David Jackson - Marked

‘You went to see Proust yesterday,’ says LeBlanc.

Doyle thought he would be the first one in this morning, but LeBlanc has beaten him to it. In fact, Doyle gets the impression that LeBlanc has been sitting here for some time, just itching to get something off his chest.

Doyle looks down at LeBlanc behind his desk. The seriousness in the kid’s eyes seems intensified by the stark frames of his spectacles.

‘You put the coffee on?’ Doyle asks. ‘I could really do with a coffee right now.’

‘Was it worth it?’ says LeBlanc, refusing to be distracted from his agenda.

‘It’s gotta be strong, though. Plenty of caffeine. What about you, Tommy? You want some coffee?’

He starts to move away, but LeBlanc leaps from his chair and grabs him by the arm.

‘For fuck’s sake, Cal. I’m trying to talk to you, here.’

Doyle lowers his gaze to his imprisoned arm, then yanks it out of LeBlanc’s grasp. ‘Seems lately you always want to talk to me, Tommy. What the fuck is your problem?’

‘You went to see Proust.’

‘Yes. All right. I went to see Proust. Now will you get over it and move on?’

‘Move on? You act like it’s nothing. Like it’s an everyday occurrence for you. What kind of cop are you, Cal? I thought you were better than this.’

Doyle stares at him. ‘Tommy, why are you getting so bent out of shape about it? Okay, so I didn’t tell you where I was going yesterday. What’s the big deal?’

LeBlanc releases a mirthless laugh. ‘You don’t even know, do you? You don’t know what you did wrong. Have you seen what you did to Proust? Have you actually given him any thought this morning?’

‘Not since I ate my Fruit Loops, no. Tommy, what’s this about?’

LeBlanc pauses. Gathers his thoughts. ‘I went to see Proust too. A few hours after you did.’

Doyle shrugs. ‘So?’

‘Cal, he was really bad. So bad I had to take him to the hospital.’

Doyle stares again. Realizes he’s not on the same page as LeBlanc at all. Not even in the same book.

‘Bad? In what way?’

‘Bad in the way that people get when they’ve had the crap beaten out of them.’

‘What? He. . what?’

‘I’ve seen tune-ups before, Cal, but this goes way beyond that. I don’t know what you were thinking, but-’

‘Wait. Hold up, Tommy. You’re telling me that Proust has been assaulted? And you think I did it?’

‘Are you denying it?’

‘Of course I’m denying it. Does Proust say different?’

‘Not in so many words. He made up some lame story about being mugged by a gang, but it’s bullshit.’

‘So he didn’t say it was me. But you still think it was?’

‘What am I supposed to think, Cal? You go to see him without telling me, even though you’re not supposed to. You come back with a bruise under your eye that you won’t explain. And when I go to see Proust, he looks ready for a body bag. How else am I supposed to read that?’

‘Not in the way you’re doing. I don’t know what happened to Proust, and I can’t say I feel sorry for the guy, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t hit him. Not even once.’

Doyle can tell from the look on LeBlanc’s face that he’s not convinced. And he can’t really blame him. Doyle has already let LeBlanc see his lack of regard for Proust. Yes, maybe he did go too far when he ripped the scumbag’s shirt off him. And yes, maybe the secrets he has kept from his partner have done nothing to promote his integrity in LeBlanc’s eyes. But that doesn’t mean he would beat Proust to within an inch of his life, even though there are times when he pictures himself doing a lot more than that.

He turns away then, and starts heading out of the squadroom. LeBlanc runs past him and blocks his way.

‘Where you going, Cal?’

‘To sort this out with Proust. To get the truth from him.’

‘Uh-uh. Can’t let you do that.’

Doyle almost laughs in surprise. This kid has balls.

‘You can’t let me do it? What, are you gonna arrest me?’

LeBlanc chews on his lip for a moment. Doyle can see how nervous he is, and in a way he both admires him and feels sorry for him.

‘The lieutenant has already given strict instructions for you not to go anywhere near Proust. You disobey that now, and I’ll have to talk to the boss.’

‘You’d do that? Why? You think I’m gonna take another pop at Proust?’

‘No. Because somebody needs to protect you from yourself.’

‘Nice of you to care, Tommy, but I don’t need no protection. Get out of my way.’

Doyle takes a step forward, but LeBlanc doesn’t budge.

‘Okay, then, if you won’t listen to me for your own sake, then do it for the case.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Proust is your number-one suspect, Cal. You got a real hard-on for this guy as the perp. And maybe you’re right. Maybe he did do it. But you going at him like this won’t prove anything. In fact, it could jeopardize the whole case. Let’s take it slow and easy. We’ll follow the leads and we’ll find the evidence. But you need to keep him at arm’s length while we do that. Okay?’

Doyle thinks about it. He wants to shoulder LeBlanc aside and storm out of here. Go straight over to Proust’s place and squeeze the truth out of him. And it’s not LeBlanc’s words of wisdom that are stopping him. If anything, the kid’s patronizing tone is irritating him to the point of making Doyle want to pull off his partner’s spectacles and stomp on them. No, what’s holding him back is LeBlanc’s earlier threat. Doyle believes it. The kid will go straight to Cesario as soon as Doyle leaves the building. And that will be it. He will be off the case.

He can’t risk that.

‘I haven’t had that coffee yet,’ he tells LeBlanc. Then he turns around and heads back into the squadroom.

‘Go ahead, Mom. Get your ass up there.’

Nicole turns. Megan is standing just a few feet away, grinning, showing her dimples. Her blond curls are tucked up under her swimming cap. She is wearing her favorite swimsuit — the black Speedo with the cut-outs. God, she’s so shapely now. Going to be a real heartbreaker.

Nicole tilts her head back and gazes up that staircase that seems high enough to take her to the moon, then looks across at Megan again. Megan urges her on with a wave.

‘Go on. You can do it.’

Nicole gives her the subtlest of nods. A nod which says, I’m doing what you say but I’m not convinced in the least. Biting her lip, she starts up the steps of the tower. When she gets to the first platform, she pauses and looks down.

‘Uh-uh, Mother,’ calls Megan. ‘All the way up.’

Nicole continues her ascent. She feels the fluttering starting in her stomach. Her teeth begin to chatter, more from nerves than the cold. She thinks she may vomit. She goes up and up and up until the roof of the building seems close enough to touch.

On the top platform she grabs the handrails and looks directly ahead. She doesn’t want to look down, because her thoughts are already starting to swirl with the knowledge that there’s a vast space beneath her, just waiting to swallow her up.

But Megan is yelling for her attention: ‘Mom! Mom!’

Nicole grips the handrails tighter and risks a quick glance downward. Tries to focus on the tiny figure of her daughter rather than the fact that she’s a million miles straight down.

Okay, so not a million miles. But ten meters is still pretty damned high. That’s thirty-three feet. It would be like falling off the roof of a house.

Megan is gesticulating wildly, urging her mother to move along the platform.

Nicole gives another tentative nod, more for her own benefit than for Megan’s. She faces forward again, starts to step gingerly along the board. Keeps forcing herself onward until the handrails disappear and there is only a narrow rectangle of solidity preventing her from plunging into the depths below.