Marked

NINE

‘I wasn’t trying to give you grief, Cal. Okay? I want you to know that.’

Doyle has only just sat down at his desk. Hasn’t even touched his first coffee of the day yet, and already LeBlanc is jabbering in his ear. Which would be okay if it was something valuable, like letting Doyle know he’s just managed to nail Proust with a murder rap. This touchy-feely stuff he can do without right now.

‘Forget it, Tommy.’

LeBlanc looks around the squadroom, as if checking for eavesdroppers, even though nobody else on their shift has arrived yet.

‘I don’t want to forget it. I want this to work between us. If you think Proust has something to do with this, then that’s good enough for me.’

Doyle puts down his coffee mug. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that. . I’ll talk to him.’

‘You’ll talk to Proust?’

‘Yeah. Sure. If you think he’s involved. But even if he isn’t, maybe he can give me something useful on the tattoos. Like maybe suggest some other artists I could talk to.’

Doyle wants to tell LeBlanc he’s wasting his time. He will get nothing from Proust. In fact, Proust will have LeBlanc eating out of his hand, he’s that clever.

Well, let him find out for himself.

‘Yeah, maybe. You do that, Tommy.’

LeBlanc nods, but still lingers at Doyle’s shoulder.

‘’Course, I can’t take you with me. Much as I’d like to. You heard what the boss said.’

‘I heard him. Don’t worry about me. You go ahead. Knock yourself out.’

Tommy nods some more, and seems to Doyle to be relieved at having cleared the air like this.

‘What about you? What are you going to do this morning?’

‘Me? I thought I’d drive over to Queens and talk to the Hamlyns again.’

Yet more nodding. LeBlanc no doubt even more relieved that Doyle is not planning to get into trouble. Seemingly satisfied, LeBlanc sidles back to his own desk.

A half-hour later, Doyle leaves the station house and gets into his car. As he said to LeBlanc, he’s off to see the Hamlyns.

Via a quick stop-off at Proust’s place.

He starts the car up and pulls his sedan out into the traffic of East Seventh Street.

He doesn’t see the black Dodge SUV as it also pulls out and starts to follow him.

‘Hi, Stan.’

Proust continues with the job of cleaning his counter. He sprays some fluid onto it, then wipes it down with a cloth.

‘What’s the matter, Stan?’ says Doyle. ‘Not speaking to me today?’

Proust says nothing. He just carries on with his task. Spray and wipe, spray and wipe.

Doyle moves away from the door and crosses the room. He wipes a finger along the counter and looks at it.

‘Seems pretty clean to me. Don’t you think?’

Proust maintains his silence. He sprays the area of the counter that Doyle has just touched, then rubs it vigorously with the cloth.

Doyle cups a hand behind his ear. ‘What was that, Stan? I don’t think I heard you.’

Proust doesn’t look up, but he does find his voice. ‘Hygiene is important in my work. Everything has to be ultra-clean.’

‘Ultra-clean, huh? I see. Ultra-clean. No fingermarks. No bodily fluids. No DNA of any kind. You musta got pretty good at that over time.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yeah, you do. I’m talking about contamination, Stan. Making sure you don’t leave anything behind. Like you were never there.’

Proust goes quiet again, so Doyle picks up where he left off.

‘Except that’s not totally true, is it, Stan? You do leave a mark. A permanent mark. A piece of yourself that will never disappear.’

Doyle takes a photograph from his inside pocket and slides it under Proust’s nose. It’s a picture of Megan Hamlyn’s detached pelvic section.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ says Proust. He drops the cloth and puts his hand to his mouth.

‘Yeah, yeah. Get the amateur dramatics outta the way, Stan. It’s not like this is news to you. You’ve seen it before.’

Proust turns his head and closes his eyes. ‘Take it away, man. Please. I think I’m gonna be sick.’

‘Shut up, Stan, and look at the picture.’

Proust shakes his head, his hand still clamped over his mouth.

Doyle reaches out and grabs hold of Proust’s hair. Ignoring the yells, he twists Proust’s head and forces it back down to the photograph.

‘What do you see?’

‘Part of a body. Please, Detective, stop.’

‘What else? On the body?’

‘A. . a tattoo.’

With his free hand, Doyle reaches into his pocket again and takes out another photograph. He drops it on top of the first. It shows the blow-up of the tattoo.

‘Yeah. This tattoo. Recognize it, Stan?’

‘N-no. I didn’t do that. It’s not my work.’

‘It’s a damn good angel, Stan. I bet there aren’t many artists in this city can do angels as good as that. You could, though, couldn’t you?’

‘It’s not my work.’

‘That’s what you said about the butterfly on Alyssa Palmer. Other people disagreed. They said it looked very much like your work.’

‘They were wrong. Look through my books. There’s nothing like either of those in there.’

‘’Course not. You’re not stupid. Why would you do a tattoo that’s exactly like any you did before? I bet you even changed your style a little, just so nobody could say it was definitely yours. But we know, don’t we, Stan? You and me, we know what really happened.’

‘Please, you’re hurting me.’

Doyle realizes just how tight his grip has become. When he removes his hand and opens his fingers, he sees it contains a number of Proust’s hairs.

Proust straightens up. He touches a hand to the top of his head.

‘You didn’t have to do that. I told you. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you before you’ll believe me. I didn’t hurt either of those girls. It wasn’t me.’

‘Say it as many times as you like. Don’t make it true. You want me to start believing you, then start telling me what really happened with those girls. I want answers. The girls’ families want answers. You wanna talk to them? You wanna tell them how you don’t know anything? Maybe I should arrange that. You wouldn’t believe how badly Megan’s father would like to have a private little chat with you about his daughter.’

‘You can’t do that. You can’t endanger me like that.’

‘Answers, Stan. Until I get them, I stay in your life. See you later. I ain’t sure what time yet. Don’t wait up. It could be late the next time I show up here.’

When Doyle leaves, he slams the door shut behind him. The rain has started up again, and it’s getting heavier.

‘Shit!’ he says, and steps onto the street.

Despite what he said to Proust, he’s not sure how long he can keep this up. The anger and the frustration are eating him up inside. It’s a question of who will break first, and he’s not sure it will be Proust.

He thinks about this as he hurries along the block to where his car is parked.

It keeps him distracted from the man who comes up behind him and presses the muzzle of a gun into his spine.

‘Don’t make a scene. I haven’t shot a cop in a while. I could do with the practice.’

The voice is deep and gruff and menacing. Doyle knows that any sudden move could carry the danger that his spine gets blasted in two, leaving him permanently paralyzed from the waist down. It would be a stupid, insane thing to do.

So he does it, knowing that it will be the last thing the man behind him will expect.

He whirls around, simultaneously chopping his arm into the gun hand of the man. The huge semi-automatic flies out of the man’s grasp, while Doyle completes his maneuver with one of the most powerful punches it has ever been his satisfaction to deliver. The man pulls his head back just in time to avoid having it removed from his neck, but the blow still lands on his chin, sending him reeling backward across the sidewalk.

In that instant, Doyle is back in the boxing ring of his youth. Not long after he was dragged all the way from Ireland to the Bronx and started getting into scrapes with those who saw this pasty-faced kid with an impenetrable accent as an obvious target, his mother decided that the best substitute for his absent father to advise him how to deal with such matters was a boxing coach. Turned out Doyle was a natural. He got stronger, he got faster, and he learned technique. But most of all he learned not to fear his adversary, no matter how big or ferocious he might be.

He puts all that training to good use now. He doesn’t know who this prick is. He just knows he wants to pound the crap out of him.

And so he goes after him. Doesn’t pause to give the man a chance to recover. Doesn’t even waste time trying to pull his own gun. That can wait until this piece of shit hits the ground.

He lands another punch. A good solid strike that bursts open the man’s lip. He pulls back his left for an uppercut that should finish this. .

Which is when something hard and heavy smacks into the side of Doyle’s head.

He turns, sees another burly figure in front of him. It comes as something of a surprise. You don’t normally have more than one opponent in the ring. Queensberry Rules and all that.

Doyle raises his defenses. Ignores the pain in his skull. Ignores the fact that he’s now outnumbered by two to one.

Another blow, this time to the back of his head.

Make that three to one.

Doyle topples forward. He puts his arms out before he hits the ground, then remains there on his knees, trying to shake the dark swirling shapes out of his brain as the rain rolls over his back and down his arms.

He feels strong hands grip him and yank him to his feet. The two new attackers drag him back across the sidewalk and slam him against the side of his own car. They stay on either side of him, pinning him in position with his arms wide like a scarecrow. Doyle blinks. He sees the first guy come staggering toward him with murderous intent in his eyes. There’s not much Doyle can do to prevent the beating he’s about to receive.

Other than to kick the man in the nuts, that is.

He drives his foot with unerring accuracy into the man’s groin. The force of the impact is magnified by the man’s own forward momentum. He comes to an abrupt halt as though he has just run into a brick wall — which would probably be less painful — then clutches at his privates as he drops heavily to the ground. Doyle sees tears well in the man’s eyes before he bows to touch his forehead to the wet sidewalk like a praying monk.

One down, two to go, thinks Doyle. Although he starts to acknowledge that’s a little ambitious when the other two gorillas start smashing their fists into his midriff. He hears his own breath being forced out of him as the men pummel his ribcage and pulverize his abdominal wall. And when they’ve run out of steam and they allow their captive to sink to his knees, Doyle notices that the first attacker is back on his feet. He approaches warily and shakily, and Doyle prepares himself for the coup de grâce.

Raising his face, Doyle looks at the man, who is still clutching at his groin and baring his bloodstained teeth in agony.

‘That’s a terrible Michael Jackson impression,’ says Doyle.

Instead of a laugh, he gets a kick to the face. Doyle’s head flies back and bangs into his car door. The dark shapes flood into his consciousness again. They try to merge together to form total blackness, and Doyle has to fight to keep them separated.

He feels himself being dragged again, his feet scraping the ground. He hears a car door being opened. The hands frisk him and take away his gun. Then he feels himself being lifted from the ground and tossed into a vehicle. More doors open. The three goons climb in. Doors slam shut.

Doyle does his best to raise himself into an upright position in his seat. As the car takes off, he looks through the rain-washed window. The streets are mostly empty. Everyone has fled from the rain. The ones who are still out there stare back at him from beneath their umbrellas. One person points. Doyle knows that it’s unlikely they will report the incident.

Fighting the nausea that is starting to creep into his system, he starts to turn toward the man in the seat next to him. Stops turning when his temple touches the gun barrel leveled at him.

‘Gimme an excuse, dickwad,’ says the man.

‘Where are we going?’ Doyle asks. ‘Did Proust hire you?’

‘Who’s Proust?’ the man answers, and Doyle can tell he really doesn’t know. It was a long shot anyhow. Why would Proust risk organizing something like this, right outside his own premises?

No, somebody far more dangerous than Proust is behind this.