Marked

TWENTY

Doyle actually feels grateful to LeBlanc.

He has spent most of the afternoon away from his desk, trying to track down leads. Talking to Megan Hamlyn’s girlfriends. Trying to find people who may have seen her on the subway, or in the East Village. Questioning the owners of security cameras that may have picked up her image during the final moments of her short life.

More particularly, though, he has stayed away from Proust. And he feels better for it. Proust has an irritating habit of raising Doyle’s blood pressure. Of making him think he’s about to blow an artery. The man’s a health hazard. Which is quite an understatement for a murdering, torturing piece of shit like Proust.

Calm down, Doyle.

And then there are these stupid games Proust is playing. Making himself out to be the victim. Trying to give the illusion, without actually making the blatant accusation, that Doyle is violently attacking him at every opportunity. What the hell is that about? Does he really think that’ll work? What the fuck does that crazy, fucked-up, psychopathic-

Chill, dude. Relax.

He lets out a long, slow breath. He switches on the car radio. Hears Adele. Nice. Soothing. Sing along, man. You’ll be home soon. Away from all that shit.

Because it’s driving him out of his skull. He knows this. He knows he is not acting normally. Not with his family, not with LeBlanc, not with anyone.

Poor Tommy. He doesn’t know what to make of any of this. Doesn’t know what to believe about his own partner.

And yes, it’s my fault, thinks Doyle. I’m not playing fair with Tommy. I’m keeping him in the dark.

And yes, I did feel out of control when I had my hand around his throat. The poor kid was scared shitless. That’s what Proust does to me. He makes me crazy. But it’s not an excuse. What I did back there was unforgivable.

So maybe Tommy is right after all. Maybe this is the way to nail Proust. Play it by the numbers. Proust isn’t perfect. He will have made mistakes. With enough time and effort I can find out what those mistakes were. And, by God, I won’t stop until I do. I owe it to those two young girls, and to their families.

As he turns onto West 87th Street, he is still thinking about LeBlanc. Thinking he is actually starting to like him. He was never sure before. Didn’t know what views LeBlanc had of him, especially with LeBlanc working so closely with Schneider. And because he was uncertain, he tended to shun him. LeBlanc was right about that, too. Doyle is too quick to dismiss people. Sometimes he should give others more of a chance.

Hell, he thinks, maybe I should start going to LeBlanc for psychotherapy.

He also admires the way LeBlanc stood up to him. That took balls. And he didn’t jam him up with the bosses when he could have. That took loyalty.

Christ. I’m starting to sound like I’m falling in love with the guy.

Smiling, Doyle squeezes his car into a space several buildings down from his own. He wishes he could get closer, seeing as how there’s still no let-up in this damned rain. He clambers out. Locks up the car. Makes a dash along the street. Draws level with his front stoop.

‘Hey, Doyle.’

The call is as brief as that, but Doyle recognizes the voice immediately, and it stops him in his tracks. His smile vanishes. His day has grown somewhat darker.

Oh yes, he knows this voice.

It’s a reminder of a part of his past he would rather forget.

‘Get in,’ says the voice through the open window of the gray Chevy Impala.

Doyle doesn’t move.

‘Come on. You’re getting soaked out there. And I’m getting wet with this window open.’

Doyle looks up at the front door of his apartment building. He is just steps away from warmth, dryness, friendly faces. The last thing he needs right now is a conversation of the type he’s being invited to have.

But he knows this guy won’t go away. He knows how this man operates.

Doyle steps around the car, opens the door and climbs in. The man behind the wheel closes his window and then turns to face Doyle.

It’s like being confronted by one of the undead. The man’s pale skin glows white in the dim interior of the car. His cheeks are hollow, his lips thin. Lank black hair furls across his forehead like a raven’s wing. He wears a dark suit, dark overcoat and dark tie.

‘Hello, Doyle,’ he says.

‘Hello, Paulson,’ says Doyle. ‘Little early for trick or treat, ain’t it?’

They are not, and probably never will be, on first-name terms, these two. Although they go back some way, it has not always been the most affable of relationships.

After Laura Marino died in that apartment on that fateful night, and all the rumors of Doyle’s possible role in it began to surface like dead fish, Sergeant Paulson here was assigned the task of investigating his fellow officer. Except that ‘fellow officer’ is a term that most cops would choke on when trying to describe Paulson and his ilk.

Sergeant Paulson is a member of the Internal Affairs Bureau, that section of the NYPD charged with unearthing corruption in the force. It was at one time known as the Internal Affairs Division, but it got promoted, such was the thirst for its activities amongst the bosses and the politicians, who were determined to demonstrate how seriously they took the integrity of the city’s law enforcers. Whatever its name, its job is to police the police. And it is not known for wearing kid gloves when it carries out its mission.

Doyle found that out for himself when seated across a table from Paulson. He found out just what a bastard this man was. He found out what it’s like to be the suspect rather than the one doing the suspecting. And he found out what it was like to hate another man with an intensity that brought him close to committing murder.

Paulson was relentless and he was without mercy. He hounded Doyle. His questions were devoid of both subtlety and sympathy. He seemed determined to destroy Doyle, to the extent of making threats to do precisely that. And despite official assurances that the investigation was confidential, it became apparent that everyone and his dog were aware of what was taking place here. Rumors became fact, whispers became confident voices, blunt opinions became sharpened spears of distrust and dislike. These were carried on the wind, reaching the ears of Doyle’s wife and his loved ones. He almost lost them. He almost lost everything.

And all because of this man seated not two feet away from him.

Says Paulson, ‘Crappy night, huh?’

‘I think it just got worse,’ says Doyle.

Paulson adopts a pained expression. ‘Now why’d you have to go and say that? Didn’t we part on good terms last time we met? You brought me donuts, as I recall. You wished me a merry Christmas.’

‘I think your medication must have been too strong. You were imagining things. I don’t remember any of that.’

‘My medication? Oh, you mean for that bullet I took. The one that had your name on it.’

And there’s the thing. That’s what makes this relationship so complicated. Doyle wants to hate Paulson with a passion. He feels he’s entitled to that. But the best Christmas present he got last year was the one from Paulson. It was the gift of his life. How do you hate someone who does that for you? Why did Paulson have to go and mash up something that was so patently black and white into a muddy gray mess?

‘Look, Paulson, I owe you one. I admit it. You saved my life. There. Happy now?’

‘It helps. Your recognition of my gallant self-sacrifice certainly goes some way to assuaging my indignation here.’ He pauses. ‘But, of course, it fails to recognize what else I did for you.’

‘Which was?’

‘Where shall we start? Well, there was that confidential information I gave you at the time. Information which I think was crucial in getting you out of that jam you were in. Without that you’d probably still be afraid to enjoy the freedom of coming home to your lovely family here. And then there was the fact that I overlooked some distinctly dubious practices of yours while you were endeavoring to extract yourself from said jam. So, taking all of the above into consideration, I’d say I deserve a little leeway here. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You’ve got your leeway. It’s why I’m sitting in the car with you. Think yourself lucky I’m not jumping up and down on the hood right now. Look, Paulson, what you did for me, it’s much appreciated. Really. I’ll try to return the favor someday. But I can’t forget what came before that, and I’m sure it’s still fresh in your memory too. You came after me with all guns blazing, and you nearly succeeded in ruining my life. My wife sees me sitting out here with you, she’ll be down here choking you with your own tie. That’s the kind of love she has for you, Paulson. Think about that.’

‘You don’t think what happened last Christmas wipes any of that away?’

‘I think it complicates things, is what I think. What I would like to do is forget about the past and move on with my life. But certain people won’t let me do that. You included. What are you doing here at my home anyhow?’

‘Maybe I just thought I’d see how you are. Catch up on things.’

Doyle wags a finger at him. ‘Uh-uh. You’re here on business. You’re here as an IAB man. Don’t try pretending you’re not. At least have the decency to be honest about it.’

‘What, you think it’s always a question of one or the other? Is that how it is for you, Doyle? Do you stop being a cop when you take off your shield and your gun? Is it that easy for you?’

‘I’m saying that you have your shield with you now, Paulson. Even though it’s in your pocket, your IAB shield is the only thing I can see in front of me right now. I’d like to know why.’

Paulson pats his pockets, and for a second Doyle thinks he’s about to pull out his badge.

‘You got any cigarettes?’ says Paulson. ‘I think I ran out.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ says Doyle. ‘And if you light up in here, I’m getting out of the car.’

Paulson nods, goes quiet for a few seconds, then says, ‘I heard some things.’

‘Things? What kind of things?’

‘Things concerning you. You and a guy who runs a tattoo place.’

And now Doyle is interested. Also a little concerned. He was always of the conviction that Proust would not put in a complaint. Could he have gotten that so wrong?

‘Stanley Proust.’

‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘What’s he say about me?’

‘He ain’t said nothing yet. Leastways, not to me. Other voices are whispering your name.’

‘I don’t suppose you wanna say who?’

‘Don’t matter. The point is, you’re making waves again. Disrupting the cosmic karma.’

‘So they summoned you to restore order to the universe?’

Paulson smiles. ‘Actually, no. I asked for this gig. I kinda feel fate has fashioned an unbreakable bond between us. We’re forever joined by elemental forces beyond our feeble understanding.’

‘That’s a disturbing thought, Paulson.’

Paulson shrugs. ‘Who are we to question the actions of the gods?’

Doyle pulls his what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about face. ‘Those cigarettes of yours, they’re just tobacco, right? You mind coming back down to earth now?’

‘I’m trying to put you in the picture, Doyle. The bigger picture which you never seem to appreciate. You’re causing ructions, and there are some who don’t like ructions. They are severely ruction averse.’

‘I’m doing my job. Proust is a murderer. I’m gonna nail him for it. It’s as simple as that.’

Paulson emits a laugh which could cause small children to burst into tears. ‘It’s never simple, Doyle. You of all people should have learned that by now. Life is complex. It’s got hidden corners and trapdoors. The unwary need to be careful. Step on the wrong floorboard, and down you go.’

‘Yeah, right. Thanks for the warning. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go home now.’

Doyle reaches for the door handle, but Paulson puts a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Jesus Christ, Doyle. Do you have to be so obtuse? I’m trying to help you here.’

‘Help me or threaten me?’

‘You’re fucking paranoid, do you know that?’

‘Like the joke goes, just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me. Plus, my experience is that there are definitely people out there who would love to see me taken down.’

‘Maybe. And maybe you’re handing them the ammunition. Proust is a time bomb, Doyle. And you’re the guy who’s started him ticking. When he goes off, he will shake the fabric of the space-time continuum. Time will be reversed. You and me, we’ll be back to square one. It will be as if last Christmas never happened. It will be just you and me in a tiny room somewhere, with only a tape recorder for company. I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t want to relive that.’

‘You been watching too much Star Trek. And that still sounds like a threat to me.’

Paulson sighs. Rolls his eyes. ‘Like I said, the problem with you is that you only ever see what you want to see. You got tunnel vision. You see IAB sitting next to you. The rat squad, right? The bureau whose only purpose in life is to make you miserable. What you don’t see is me. Paulson. The guy who saved your sorry ass. And when you look at Proust, you see a stone killer, right? You fail to see the man who holds your liberty in his fingers. And your ears ain’t so good, neither. Remember me saying how I asked for this assignment? You know why? Because if I hadn’t taken it, somebody else would have. And this other IAB detective would’ve marched straight into your squadroom. He would’ve talked to your lieutenant about what we already know, and then he would’ve marched you into an interview room to squeeze what else he could out of you. And all this happening while your colleagues are watching and thinking and making up their own version of events. That’s what I’ve protected you from by coming here tonight. You can thank me when you’re ready.’

Doyle considers this. It’s all true. But what he can’t work out is why. A part of him wants to believe that Paulson really is a changed man. Another part wants to know what the catch is.

‘Okay, Paulson. Thank you. That what you want to hear?’

‘Yeah,’ says Paulson, nodding. ‘Yeah. That’s nice. I’m touched.’

There’s something in Paulson’s voice that tells Doyle he really means it. But it also feels to Doyle like he’s about to be beheaded and he’s forgiving his executioner. Handing him a bag of silver before the ax descends.

‘Until we meet again,’ says Doyle.

He says it jokingly, but Paulson appears to take it seriously. He looks almost. . sad.

‘Sure,’ says Paulson.

Doyle opens the door and steps out into the rain. As he walks around the car he hears the engine being fired up. But it’s followed by the soft hum of the driver’s window being lowered.

Says Paulson, ‘Everything’s connected, you know. The past, the present, the future. They’re all parts of the same river. Nothing exists in isolation. Sometimes we’re not even aware of it. But when that truth hits you, it can hit you hard. Take it easy, Doyle.’

Doyle stands there for a while. Watches as Paulson’s car pulls away. Tries to figure out what the hell he was getting at.

When he notices that the rain is trickling down the back of his neck, he shivers.

Home sweet home.

He walks in with the expectation that, finally, he can leave all his troubles out there in the rain. He can get out of these wet clothes, have a steaming-hot shower, a nice meal that isn’t fish, and then he can spend some quality time with his loving wife and doting daughter.

But those expectations are dashed when he sees the expression on the face of said loving wife. Because it’s not so loving at the moment. In fact, it’s downright livid.

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘What’s up?’ she echoes. ‘Your daughter is what’s up.’

It doesn’t escape his notice that this has suddenly become a one-parent family.

‘What’s she done this time?’

‘She did it again, Cal. She put some stuff from the stationery closet in her bag. Only this time she was seen doing it by another child, and he told the teacher about it.’

‘Wait a minute. Are you sure about this? Maybe there’s been a mistake.’

‘How can there be a mistake? She was seen. Caught red-handed. It’s the kind of open-and-shut case police officers can only dream of.’

Doyle feels something inside himself sinking. He doesn’t want to believe this. Not of his own daughter.

‘What happened? When the teacher found out?’

‘I got called in, Cal. I spent an hour in the principal’s office this afternoon, desperately trying to defend our family name. Trying to assure them there was no great domestic upheaval taking place in our home. No divorce or terminal illness — that kind of thing. It was humiliating, Cal. And I still don’t know what to do about it. What the hell has gotten into that child?’

And now Doyle’s mind is racing again. Searching for explanations. Looking for reasons. Wondering what mistakes they may have made in the upbringing of their daughter. He can feel his stress levels building again.

He hasn’t even taken his coat off yet, he’s still dripping rainwater onto the floor, and already he’s wishing for this night to be over.

Home sweet home.

Too easy.

That young detective. LeBlanc. Thinking he can play me. Asking those dumb questions about my business just to put me at my ease. Acting like he’s my BFF so he can get me to talk.

Well, he got me to talk, all right. Not what he was expecting to hear, though, was it?

He fell for it, the sucker. All those grunts and expressions of pain — he was totally taken in. Well, let me tell you, Detective The Blank, about how I don’t feel pain. About how the only one around here who’s gonna know pain is your pal Doyle.

Or is he your pal? That was a damn straight question you asked about whether Doyle tossed me through that door. A big gamble of yours. Supposing I’d said yes, Doyle did do that? What would you have done then? Taken me seriously or tried to shut me up? Whose side were you on, Detective?

More importantly, whose side are you on now?

Now that your head can’t shake out the picture of Doyle sitting in his car with that Marino woman, his hands and his lips all over her, what do you think of your partner? You still believe in him? You really think that anything he says can be trusted? You think he wouldn’t resort to beating me up, when it’s possible he’s done things a lot worse than that?

Stick around, oh blank one, while I finish creating my masterpiece. Because I haven’t finished with Doyle.

I’ve got a lot more work to do yet.