David Jackson - Pariah

‘Sit, please sit,’ she says, urging them toward a battered brown sofa. ‘Just don’t use the recliner, okay? Joe is very possessive about his recliner.’ She laughs again, and Doyle knows the tears aren’t that far behind.

It goes like this sometimes. You can never tell. Some people, they collapse in a heap as soon as they see you — maybe even faint. Others wail hysterically. But there’s a surprisingly large number that go into denial. Even after you’ve told them — practically spelled it out for them — you’re still not sure when the hammer is going to strike the bell. Doyle still remembers that day from his time in uniform, when he drew the short straw over explaining to a distressed woman that her husband had been decapitated in a traffic accident. He took at least an hour over it, thought he did a good job. Sensitive, and not too graphic. When he went to leave, she asked him what time the hospital visiting hours were.

The detectives glance at each other. They don’t want to sit unless Maria joins them, and right now she seems far too wired to do that.

Doyle tries again: ‘Maria, about Joe-’

‘Jesus, I must look a mess,’ she interrupts. Her hands fly to her disheveled dark hair, try to tease it into some order. ‘Sorry fellas, I’m afraid I’m not one of these women jumps out of bed looking like a supermodel.’

‘You look fine,’ Alvarez says.

‘Well, thank you, Tony. From the man who’s seen any number of women first thing in the morning, that has to be a real compliment, huh, Cal?’

‘Maria-’

‘Coffee. I mentioned coffee, didn’t I? How d’you take it?’

‘Not for me. I. . we just want to talk for a while, if that’s okay.’

Maria’s eyes dart as if seeking another distraction, something else to move the conversation off-topic. She tightens the belt on her robe again, tying up her vulnerability.

‘He send you here to do his dirty work? Which is it, too drunk or too ashamed? He get himself into some kind of scrape? Never mind, I don’t want to know. He can’t be trusted to get home to his wife, then I don’t want to know.’

She turns then and starts to head toward the kitchen, but Doyle stops her. It can be put off no longer.

‘Maria, Joe was killed tonight.’

She halts, her back still to them. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: ‘You’re sure? That it was Joe? Did you see him?’

‘Yes. I saw him.’

She turns toward the detectives again, then pads across the carpet and sits on the sofa. Doyle sits down next to her. She can’t look him in the eye, and he’s glad of it.

‘Tell me,’ she says.

‘He was shot. His body was found on a vacant lot in the East Village.’

‘A vacant lot. What was he doing on a vacant lot? He wasn’t working, was he? He went to play pool. He was meeting his pals.’

Alvarez speaks up: ‘We’re not sure of all the details yet, but the way they were found-’

‘They? There was more than one? Who else? ’

‘There were two killings,’ Doyle says. Better to hear this now, from them, than later on the news. ‘The other was a female. A prostitute.’

‘A prostitute,’ Maria says flatly. ‘A fucking whore?’ She jumps to her feet again.

‘No, Maria. Listen. It’s not-’

‘I have a new job, you know?’ Maria says. Her lower lip is quivering. The tide is ready to break. ‘At Barnes and Noble. It’s not much, but it helps to pay my tuition. Because I’m taking night classes too. Trying to better myself. Get some qualifications. I never really took an interest in high school.’

‘Maria-’

‘But I’m so goddamn tired all the time. When I hit the pillow, I’m out for the count. Was a time I never could have slept without knowing Joe was next to me. But last night I didn’t even know. . I wasn’t even aware. . And our love life? What happened to that? Where would I get the energy or the time for that? So if Joe. . I mean, if he felt the need to go elsewhere, I can understand that. But a whore?’

‘Maria, let me finish. We don’t think he was with her the way you’re saying. Our belief is he went to help her because she’d been beaten, and that’s when they both got shot.’

Maria’s eyes are glistening. ‘You’re not just saying that? Not trying to make me feel better? ’Cause I don’t want that. I don’t want lies.’

Doyle stands up and approaches her. ‘We wouldn’t lie to you. Far as we can tell, that’s how it went down.’

She considers this. ‘You really think he died trying to help somebody?’

‘Yes, we do. Come on. Sit down over here.’

They both sit again. Maria puts her hand to her mouth, and tears run over it. After a moment she says, ‘That’s Joe for you. Always willing to lend a hand.’ She cries some more, then says, ‘You get the bastard who did this?’

‘No. Not yet. But we will. We’re hoping you can help us on that.’

‘Me? What do you mean?’

Doyle squirms on the sofa. ‘The thing is, we don’t think Joe was picked at random. We think he was targeted. Somebody had it in for Joe. He talk about anything like that recently? Any threats? Anything he was worried about?’

‘No. Nothing specific. He’s a cop, and cops get threats all the time, right? But nothing serious. Nothing like. . like this.’

Doyle looks up at Alvarez, who nods back. They are done here for now.

‘Okay, Maria. We’re gonna leave you now. You think of anything we might need to know, just call me. We’ll come talk to you again soon, okay?’ He takes Maria’s hand in his. ‘You take care of yourself. Call someone over. Don’t stay alone, okay?’

Doyle stands up, but Maria stays where she is.

‘Joe was a good man,’ she says. ‘That’s how he would have wanted to go. Helping somebody.’

Doyle leads the way out. The detectives close the apartment door behind them. Alvarez heads for the stairs, but Doyle hesitates for a moment.

When he hears the wail of grief that vibrates through his whole body, he knows it is time to go.

The detectives remain immersed in their own thoughts until they are back in their car.

‘You think he was playing away?’ Alvarez asks.

‘What?’

‘Joe. Him not getting any at home, you think he was poking somebody else’s fire?’

Doyle twists in his seat. ‘What the fuck, Tony? Just for once, can you bring your mind above waist height? You know, not everybody is like you. We don’t all feel we’re going to explode unless we empty our load five times a day.’

Alvarez puts his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, man. I’m just saying, okay? Just putting the thought out there, like we would for any other homicide.’

Doyle lets the subject drop and guns the engine. He knows Alvarez is right. If a guy’s wife thinks that the idea of him seeking comfort elsewhere is not so outrageous, then neither should they. Wives don’t always know everything about their husbands.

Just as cops don’t always know everything about their partners.

Back in Manhattan, they fuel up on a breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast and coffee, and then spend the rest of the morning tracking down and interviewing Parlatti’s pool-playing buddies. There are four of them, and each one confirms without the slightest conflicting detail that they downed a few beers and then played in the pool hall until midnight. After that, Joe went his way and they staggered theirs. Joe seemed his usual affable self, either oblivious to or unconcerned about any danger he might have been in. There is zero about the men that suggests to the detectives they should be considered as suspects, and they have zilch to offer on reasons for his murder.

In the afternoon Doyle and Alvarez turn their attention to the prostitute. Although a couple of uniforms claim to have seen her on the streets, they don’t have a name for her. Armed with a crime-scene photograph of the dead girl, the detectives go on the hunt.