David Jackson - Pariah

‘Okay, so Joe finds the girl. He tries to help her. He’s distracted. The killer sees an opening. .’

‘No, there’s too much chance involved. I think this was a setup. I think the girl was involved, but not out of choice. That’s why Joe’s at the back of the lot with a flashlight in his hand. He’s trying to help her, only he doesn’t know he’s just walked right into a trap. He doesn’t know he’s just been led to a spot where nobody on the street is going to see or hear anything.’

‘And that would require the killer to know that Joe was going to come past this spot at about this time.’

‘Exactly. He would also know that Joe couldn’t ignore something like this. Most people, they hear noises in a dark corner, they cross the street to avoid it. Not Joe. Not when somebody’s in trouble.’

Franklin draws breath through his teeth. ‘Jesus. She was bait? If you’re right, that’s a clinical kill.’ The roof lights of the radio cars bounce colors off his face as he looks around. ‘Okay. Put the word out. We want anything on someone looking to buy a hit. Also anything on the movements of known professional hitters. Find out where the pross worked, see if anyone saw her being picked up tonight. Look at the scumbags Joe put away — anyone who might have had a reason for wanting him dead. And somebody needs to speak with Maria.’

Doyle picks up on the expectation dangling on the end of those words. ‘Yeah, I know. My first port of call when I’m done here.’

Franklin frees a hand from his pockets, slaps Doyle on the arm to send him on his way. Doyle walks toward the uniforms, intending to find out more about the prostitute.

The name carries to him on the thin air, not quite hidden in the snatches of conversation. It cuts him, and he snaps.

‘Fuck!’ he yells. ‘You fuck!’ He runs straight at Schneider. The self-assured smirk drops from Schneider’s face, but it is all he has time to do before Doyle piles into him, slamming him into a tenement wall.

The other cops are quickly on Doyle. Arms snake around him and pull him away. He watches Schneider bounce himself off the wall and prepare to come barreling back at him, but then something stops the man in his tracks. He has seen the figure of Franklin standing there, condemnation written on his gnarled face.

‘What the fuck, Doyle?’ Schneider growls. ‘You feeling guilty about something?’

‘Fuck you, Schneider,’ Doyle answers. ‘That’s my partner lying back there. My partner, get that?’

‘Yeah, I get it. Your partner. Kind of like a running theme with you, huh, Doyle?’

Doyle struggles to free himself for another pop at Schneider, but the hold on him is too strong.

‘You keep your shit-stirring thoughts to yourself, you fat fuck! I got nothing to be ashamed of. And I don’t ever want to hear that name from your mouth again, you got me?’

Schneider is laughing now, taunting him.

‘Enough!’ Franklin commands, and an anxious silence descends once more. ‘We have two homicides to solve here. One of them’s a cop. Somebody you all worked with. Show him the respect he deserves by acting professional and doing your jobs.’

Schneider straightens his tie and brushes something off his sleeve. The grip on Doyle is relaxed, and he yanks himself free. As he heads toward his car he gives himself a mental slap for his stupidity. He knew something like that was probably coming, so he should have been more prepared to handle it.

Today was always going to be a bad day. He’s probably just made it a hundred times worse.

‘Cal! Hold up, man!’

Tony Alvarez catches up with Doyle as he reaches his car. He has the smooth voice and looks of a nightclub crooner — a guy who could steal away the girl on your arm with just a glance or a word. Doyle has lost count of the number of different females he has seen him with.

‘You want company?’ Alvarez asks. Like the others, he has probably had only a couple of hours’ sleep; unlike them, he has the appearance of a man who has just walked off the shoot for a clothing catalog.

Doyle looks at him. ‘I’m tired, I’m pissed off, and my partner’s just been found dead in a stinking lot. Do I look like I need to hear about your latest roll in the sack right now?’

‘You want company,’ Alvarez says, a statement this time. Without invitation, he jumps into the car.

Doyle shakes his head and climbs behind the wheel. He starts the ignition and pulls the car away.

‘You sure you want to take the risk of associating with me like this? Maybe I’m taking you to a dark alleyway to shoot you in the head too.’

‘Don’t make this more than it is,’ Alvarez says. ‘Schneider’s an asshole. Nobody else in the squad believes anything he says.’

‘They were putting on a pretty good act back there.’

‘Schneider’s been on the team a long while. Compared with him, you’re still the new kid on the block. He’s made a lot of good collars in his time, so when he speaks, people feel they have to listen. Doesn’t mean they can’t make up their own minds about things. Give ’em a chance. They’ll come round.’

‘Yeah, well, fuck ’em. I’ve been here a year already. That should be long enough for anybody. Maybe I could speed things up a little by knocking Schneider’s teeth out for him. Stop him spreading that shit.’

‘Schneider’s as bad as anyone for believing rumors. He’s a drinking buddy of Marino’s — you know that, right? That’s where his poison comes from.’

Doyle thinks about this. Danny Marino. One-time husband of Laura Marino. Hers was the name Schneider let loose. A name that still sends tingles down Doyle’s spine.

‘Hard to believe,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Joe. Him being dead. Gonna be a while before I can accept that.’

‘Gonna be even harder for his wife,’ Alvarez answers.

They have to ring the doorbell several times before they get a response from within the Parlattis’ apartment. The building is in Carroll Gardens, in Brooklyn. Not as many Italians in this neighborhood as there were back when Cher found Nicolas Cage here in Moonstruck , but they’re still around. Just don’t go looking for Luigi to bake you a loaf, or Vito to cut your hair. The small family-run businesses have mostly been driven out by all the bars and boutiques and antique shops. And now the Italian headcount in Carroll Gardens has just been reduced by one more.

‘Joe!’ they hear. ‘You know what time it is, Joe? What the hell do you think this is, coming home at this hour? And where’s your goddamn keys?’

The detectives wait, say nothing. What they need to say can’t be delivered through a door.

Doyle hears the slight scratching noise of a cover being slid back from the peephole. Knowing he is being examined, he tries to assemble his features into an expression that is neither too serious nor too happy.

He hears the locks being taken off. The door opens. Maria Parlatti is belting up her pink robe over a body that is not yet ready to be vertical, and her hair looks like it could have starlings nesting in it. She stares at them through bleary eyes. The anger has gone, to be replaced by a whole new range of emotions.

She knows what this is, Doyle thinks. She’s a cop’s wife. This is the visit that every cop’s wife dreads, and she knows.

‘Hi, Maria-’ he begins, but she cuts him off.

‘Shit, guys, what’s he done this time?’ She laughs, but it’s forced. ‘Come in, come in. Let me put some coffee on.’

They follow her into the small living room. This hour of the morning, it’s still pitch black outside. Maria has put on a single lamp that at other times might make the room seem cozy; right now it just seems funereal. The police commendations hanging on the wall make the place feel like a shrine, and the small plastic Christmas tree and few sad hangings of tinsel do nothing to lighten the atmosphere.