David Jackson - Pariah

Trogon Electronics.

And then it all comes back to him.

A conversation. Part of an investigation. Doyle talking to one of the managers at Trogon. Asking him, ‘What the fuck is a trogon, anyhow?’ And the manager replying that it’s a bird found in Central and South America. Hence the company logo.

You learn something every day.

And the reason Doyle was talking to this guy in the first place was. .

Doyle races across to his jacket, whips out his cellphone. He speed-dials a number.

‘Eighth Precinct. Detective LeBlanc.’

‘Tommy, it’s me. Cal Doyle.’

‘Cal! How you doin’, man? Making the most of the hotel hospitality?’

Doyle looks around at the peeling paint, the threadbare curtains. ‘Uh, yeah. It’s nice to be waited on like this, you know? Listen, Tommy, can you do something for me?’

‘Sure, buddy. What is it?’

‘You remember that hit on the Trogon Electronics warehouse a couple months back?’

There’s a moment’s pause, like LeBlanc doesn’t know where Doyle is coming from with this.

‘Yeah?’ he drawls.

‘Somewhere in the fives there’s a list of item numbers of the stolen goods. You think you can look those out for me and call me back?’

‘Uh, well. . Look, Cal, I want to help you and all, but aren’t you kinda off the job right now? I mean, why do you need this shit?’

How much to tell him? Can I trust him? Can I trust anyone?

‘Tell you the truth, Tommy, I’m bored stiff in this place. I’m going out of my mind waiting for you guys to rescue me. So I’m working through some old cases, just to keep me occupied. You don’t mind, do you?’

Another pause. ‘I guess not. Give me five minutes.’

Doyle ends the call, but keeps the phone in his hand. He returns to his chair and waits. It’s more like fifteen minutes before LeBlanc calls him.

‘Yeah.’

‘Cal? Where are you?’

‘What do you mean? I’m in the hotel, like I told you.’

‘Yeah? Well, I been calling you on your room phone for the last five minutes.’

Shit.

‘I, uh, I’m sorry, Tommy. I shoulda said. I’m not in my room. I’m down in the bar. I was calling you on my cell. You get the numbers?’

‘Uh, yeah, yeah. I got ’em. What do you want to know?’

‘CD players. You got a bunch beginning with the letters CDX?’

‘Yeah. About a dozen of ’em.’

‘Okay. Read them out to me.’

While LeBlanc reels them off, Doyle stares at the number on his carton. When nine or ten numbers have been called, he begins to think he’s got it wrong.

‘Wait. That last number. Read it to me again, slowly.’

LeBlanc sounds out the digits, Doyle moving his finger steadily along the box.

Bingo.

‘That’s great, Tommy. Thanks.’

‘That it? That’s all you wanted?’

‘Like I said, I’m just trying to tie up a few loose ends on old cases. No big deal.’

‘Oh. Okay. . Listen, man, I hope you can get back on the job soon. I mean it. We’re doing all we can to find this guy. It’s just, well. .’

‘Yeah, I know. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.’

He ends the call. He doesn’t want to hear any more about how the squad is putting all its efforts into his case. It’s starting to make him want to vomit.

He looks again at the box, as if doing so will help him to fit this new piece of information into the puzzle. The CD player was stolen in a raid on a warehouse owned by Trogon Electronics. Three months ago, Doyle collared a crew he believed responsible for that robbery, but their shyster lawyer got them off the hook faster than you can say habeas corpus .

The crew comprised the Bartok brothers and Sonny Rocca.

And now one of those purloined items turns up in the home of Mickey ‘Spinner’ Spinoza — a man who, like the Bartoks and Rocca, also became tangled in the web of Doyle’s persecutor and died because of it.

Coincidence? My ass!

Spinner was fencing goods for the Bartoks. That means he knew them, and they knew him — well enough to entrust him with selling on their ill-gotten gains.

Something Spinner said on the phone. .

I got a meeting fixed up. Some people I know. They want to talk about who whacked your two partners.

Could those people have been Bartok and Co.?

Until now Doyle has always assumed that the meeting was a sham, that the killer somehow pretended to be someone that Spinner knew and trusted, in order to bring him into his clutches.

But Spinner was no idiot. Good snitches like him don’t stay on this earth for very long unless they possess a substantial amount of street smarts. It would not have been easy to get him to walk blindly into a trap like that.

And there’s something else that bothers Doyle. Why bring Spinner back here? Why would the killer trick Spinner into coming to him, only to drag Spinner back to his apartment to torture and kill him?

So what if he really was on his way to a meeting? He talked about they — plural. Could they be Bartok and Rocca?

Think it through, Doyle.

Okay, so Spinner is asking around on his behalf, trying to find out who’s giving him all this grief. The mistake Spinner makes is talking to Bartok or one of Bartok’s men — those good old buddies of his. They say, Sure, come on in; we’ll give you the name .

Two things. First of all, why? Why would they offer to give Spinner the name? What was in it for them? Were Spinner’s services as a fence of such great value to them?

Thought number two: if Bartok wasn’t bluffing about the name, then that means he knew it well before he called Doyle in and told him he could get hold of it. So why didn’t he just say, I know the name you want, and here’s my price for it ?

Answer: Because he didn’t want Doyle connecting him with things that had gone on before.

He didn’t want me linking him to Spinner’s death!

The perp didn’t need X-ray vision or a cloak of invisibility to know about Doyle’s meeting with Spinner. He was told by Bartok about Spinner’s interest. Spinner wasn’t killed because he got too close to Doyle, but because he knew, or was about to discover, the killer’s name. Same probably goes for Doyle’s meetings with Bartok. The perp didn’t have to be watching him around the clock. Bartok or one of Bartok’s men told the killer that Doyle was talking to them.

But why would Bartok go to all the trouble of bringing Spinner in to give him the name, then hand him over to be tortured and put to death? It doesn’t make sense.

Unless. .

Unless it was a way of putting pressure on the killer. Because the thing that Bartok was offering was his silence in return for the killer’s cooperation.

Bartok was saying, I know your name, and unless you do what I want, I’m giving it out .

Only the approach backfired. Twice. The second time fatally for Bartok.

Which brings us back to the earlier question: What form of cooperation did Bartok want? Why was this guy of such interest?

Doyle reaches for his phone again. Dials another number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, hon. It’s me.’

‘Cal! Where are you? Are you coming home?’

He doesn’t want to tell her where he is. He doesn’t want her to know he’s hiding away in this shit-heap, doing his best to stay alive.

‘Soon, Rach. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Something came up. A snag.’

Ha, he thinks. A snag! If that’s a term you can use to cover three more people dead and me trying to get into a Lexus through its roof.

‘At breakfast, Amy wanted to know why you weren’t there yet. She drew a lot of new pictures for you last night. She’s desperate for you to see them. I didn’t know what to say to her.’