David Jackson - Pariah

‘He was out, now he’s back in again. Has been for a while now.’

‘Maybe he reached out from his cell.’

‘Nah, we don’t think so. Apparently he’s found God this time. He’s looking to wash away all his sins.’

‘Okay. So then there’s Wilson Jones. He’s definitely on the outside.’

‘Yes, he is. But all his alibis check out, including a meeting with his parole officer at the time your CI was being butchered. When we spoke to him, he couldn’t even remember your name.’

‘Fuck, Mo!’

‘I know, Cal, I know. When you start to go through names like that, it sounds as if-’

‘So who’s left, Mo? You got any suspects at all? Anyone who had the slightest motive? I mean, Jesus, even the neighbor whose window I broke when I was eleven will do. How big is the fucking list, Mo?’

Again, seconds pass. Translation: It’s a list that’s shorter than Lucas Bartok’s temper.

‘We’re doing all we can, Cal. Talking to everyone even mentioned in your fives. We’re even looking at relatives of those people. The perp could be someone you never met — maybe you collared his son or his father or his second cousin’s girlfriend. People snap for the weirdest reasons, Cal. Maybe this is one of those, in which case it makes it all the harder to pin him down.’

‘I don’t think so, Mo. You read the notes he sent. He’s not talking about me like I’m someone who accidentally brushed against him on the sidewalk. This guy is painting me like someone who wiped out his whole family. He hates my guts. Something major must have gone down for him to be talking that way.’

‘In which case it must be something you know about. And every possibility you put our way, we’re chasing up as hard as we can. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, sure. I know it.’

‘Look, there isn’t. .? I mean, you don’t. .?’

‘What, Mo? Spit it out.’

‘There isn’t something you don’t want to talk about? Something that happened, maybe a long time ago, and you don’t want the job to know about it?’

Doyle gets a sick feeling in his stomach. He gets the impression this isn’t something that Franklin has just invented. He can imagine some of the talk at the station house. About him and Laura Marino. About him possibly keeping the truth hidden. About the odds that there may be other skeletons hidden in his closet. Without Doyle being there to deny those rumors, maybe Franklin’s mind has become as poisoned as the rest of them.

‘Like what?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know. Anything. I’m clutching at straws here. But if there is anything. .’

‘There’s nothing, Mo. Nothing. I told you before, I got nothing to hide.’

‘Then. . it’s all good. The perp’s name must be in our files somewhere. We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.’

Doyle sighs. Just a matter of time. Like the duration is of no consequence as long as the outcome is good. Never mind there’s an innocent cop who’s in solitary confinement all the while this remains unsolved.

‘Okay, Mo. Do me a favor, will you? Keep me posted.’

‘Of course, Cal.’

‘I mean, you have my number at the hotel, don’t you? And my cellphone?’

‘Yeah, we got them.’

‘So call me.’

‘No problem. Speak to you soon.’

‘Yeah.’

The line goes dead. Doyle looks at the receiver in his hand. You’re not gonna call, he thinks. Either you’ve given up, or else you’re too embarrassed by the fact that you’re not getting anywhere. You’re not gonna call. I’ll have to call you, and my bet is you’ll still have nothing.

Bartok was right. The NYPD isn’t going to solve this case. Leastways, not anytime soon.

Slowly, Doyle lowers the telephone handset onto its cradle.

He’s on a stool in the hotel bar, nursing a Bushmills and wondering whether the meaning of Christmas can be expressed any more profoundly than in the string of paper Santas hanging above his head. As it’s only late afternoon the place is deserted, and George the Greek is his usual uncommunicative self. But then Doyle isn’t here for the atmosphere.

He hears footsteps behind him. The tapping of high heels. A woman, his honed sleuthing powers tell him.

He glances across as she slides onto the stool next to his. He catches a glimpse of toned calf muscles, a plunging neckline and a smile that could make any man forget his woes.

‘Mind if I join you?’ she asks.

Doyle shrugs. ‘If you mean do I mind if you sit there, go ahead, it’s a free country.’

Yeah, look how free I am. The way I can go anywhere, talk to anyone.

All of a sudden, George is the most animated that Doyle has ever seen him. He bustles over, all smiles and arched eyebrows and hot-blooded charm. He looks ready to start serenading.

Go ahead, Doyle thinks, whip out your bouzouki and impress the girl.

She orders a Bacardi and Coke, and while George demonstrates his lemon-chopping skills, she tries once again with Doyle.

‘Nothing sadder than the sight of someone drinking alone, don’t you think?’

Doyle picks up his glass, gets down from his stool.

‘Something I said?’ the girl asks.

‘Let’s just say you’re too young to die,’ he answers. He catches the incomprehension and then the unease on her face before he walks away.

He weaves his way over to a table in an alcove at the far wall. Settles down and makes himself comfortable again.

Well, that was some line, he thinks. Bet she’s never heard that one before.

He looks over at the girl. She has her back to him, sucking on a straw as she listens to George trying to work his magic.

Good luck to ’em, he thinks. She doesn’t seem like a hooker. Just a lonely young woman looking for a good time. Since when did that become a crime?

He regrets the way he spoke to her. And then he’s angry at the fact that he felt the need to react so strongly — that he couldn’t even be civil to the girl. He has a wife, yes, and so he’d never have let things go too far, but that’s not the point. There are ways of saying no that don’t require a slap in the face. Is this the way it’s going to be from now on? Acting like a rabid dog, snapping at people as soon as they come near?

Jesus, what a mess.

He thinks about what got him into this situation, about what caused things to get so bad. What hurts the most is that if it were anyone else on the squad in a jam like this — Schneider, even — the nature of the investigation would be wholly different. The guys would all be pulling together, all trying to steer the boat in the same direction. There wouldn’t be this nagging feeling that nobody really cares if the whole thing capsizes.

But then Doyle has always been the outsider.

Ever since the events of the previous year.

He was driving. Heading uptown on Madison Avenue. She was riding shotgun. Hanging between them was an atmosphere you could almost bang your head against.

Doyle gripped the steering wheel so hard he felt it was about to disintegrate in his fingers. His teeth ached from all the jaw-clenching he’d been doing.

This is not good, he thought. This is precisely why the NYPD has rules about working with spouses, partners and anyone else with whom you’re having any kind of intimate personal relationship. Takes your mind off the job. You lose your edge, the ability to think objectively. And ultimately, that can mean losing your life.

Not that Laura Marino was his wife or his girlfriend or even the object of his affections. Sure, she was good-looking. A real beauty, some would say. Certainly a few steps up from most of the female cops he’d ever met, despite what the TV cop shows would have people believe. But the point was he was married, she was married, and they were working partners — and she was acting like none of that was true.