Pariah

TWENTY-FIVE

He comes awake to the sound of a bang. He doesn’t know whether it’s real or imagined. Perhaps his mind is replaying one of the many gunshots it’s witnessed recently. At first he doesn’t know where he is, his eyes scanning the apartment, wondering what happened to his hotel room. Then, with a groan, he remembers and wishes he’d never woken up.

He looks down at his watch, feeling a painful tug in his neck after being stuck in such a peculiar position all night. It’s seven-thirty in the morning. A cold gray light filters through the dirt on the windows. He rises from his chair, wincing with the effort of moving joints and bones and flesh that have been pounded against metal at great speed. He hobbles over to the bathroom. Treats himself to another hot shower and another session with Spinner’s delightful towels.

As he re-dresses, he hears the drone of the neighbor’s television through the walls. It stops suddenly, to be followed by the click and slam of a door. Doyle steps over to his own front door and puts his eye to the spy-hole. As the figure of the huge woman comes into view, it fills the whole of his field of vision, the distortion of the eyepiece making her appear even more spherical than she is. She pauses for a second and turns her head toward Doyle, staring directly at him it seems, before resuming her waddle along the hallway.

Doyle gives her ten minutes to get out of the building, then leaves. Outside, he turns up the collar of his leather coat, partly against the cold but also to hide his face. Feeling like an over-dramatic spy, he takes a good look around him before setting off down the street. On the next block he finds a small burger joint. He buys a bacon and egg muffin and some coffee, and takes them back to Spinner’s apartment.

Before he settles down to his breakfast, he switches on Spinner’s television. It’s an old portable, not worth enough to sell for drugs. As he eats, he flicks through the channels, on the lookout for any local news. He sees nothing about Rocca or Bartok. Nothing about any killings or shootings in the Meatpacking District. All of which tells him that Bartok’s men must have been the first to discover Sonny Rocca’s dead body. It’s not something about which they would have wanted to make public announcements.

Doyle is ashamed to admit that it comes as something of a relief. He thinks, I’m a cop, involved in a string of fatal shootings, and all I can think about is keeping it under wraps. That stinks, Doyle. That’s really low, man.

But then how much lower can I get? Look at me. I hand confidential police intelligence over to known criminals. I get smashed up on a car. I kill a guy and then run away. I camp out in a shit-hole owned by a dead junkie fence. I got mobsters out looking to waste me. And I got this unknown perp willing to waste everyone I so much as look at. A guy who has this uncanny ability to follow my every move.

Speaking of which, how the fuck does he do that? How does this guy always seem to know what I’m doing? How is it possible for him to have eyes everywhere like that?

Doyle walks across the room, his eyes scanning the floor. He kicks aside a cardboard box, then bends to pick up the ball of paper he threw last night. As he goes to straighten up, something on the box catches his eye. A picture of a bird stamped onto it in red. He’d noticed the same picture on many of the boxes when he came here to ask for Spinner’s help. What is it about that bird?

He shakes his head, then turns his attention to the piece of paper as he unfurls and rereads it.

Wherever you go, I know about it. Whoever you speak to, I know about it.

Okay, so how?

Doyle is certain nobody knew about his meetings with Bartok. Not his wife, not his squad. Nobody. So how could the killer know? How could he be watching Doyle that closely, that carefully, that Doyle never sees him, never knows he’s there? How is that possible?

And then there’s Spinner. Okay, there were a few people who knew about their first meeting at the boxing gym, but Doyle told no one when he came to see Spinner here at his apartment. He was extra careful to make sure nobody followed him here, and Spinner made it clear that he wasn’t too happy about a walking bullet-magnet being in his vicinity, so he wouldn’t have blabbed about it either. So how did that news leak out?

It’s like the perp has superhuman powers, Doyle thinks. Like maybe he’s there in the room with me, but he’s invisible. Or maybe he can see through walls or listen from a great distance.

And he’s not the only one. Take Kurt Bartok. How did he get the killer’s name so quickly? When the various divisions of the NYPD working flat out on this case were getting nowhere, how could Bartok be so confident he could get the name in just a few hours? And who the fuck was he getting the name from?

Sonny Rocca knew the name too. The killer bought him off — paid him to whack Bartok. It was a very clever move. He couldn’t get close enough to Bartok to do it himself, so he paid someone else to do it. Nice.

Except, how did he know to do that?

Suppose I’m the perp, Doyle thinks. Psycho that I am, I follow the detective around, acing each and every one of his friends as I go. News reaches my super-sensitive ears that Doyle is now talking to one Kurt Bartok, so naturally Bartok is next on my list.

I don’t care if they’re good or evil. Make them your friends, and they’re dead.

Problem is, Bartok isn’t like the others. This is a man who expects attempts on his life as a hazard of his profession. This is a man who surrounds himself with an army to prevent any such efforts reaching fruition.

So what do I do? I know, I’ll approach one of Bartok’s closest bodyguards, offer him a shit-load of money, and he’ll do the job for me.

Yeah, like fuck.

How did the perp even know who Sonny Rocca was, let alone that he was disgruntled with his boss? What made him think he could trust Rocca? What made him so sure that Rocca wouldn’t cap him as soon as he even broached the idea, or that he wouldn’t immediately spill the beans to Bartok? How did he know there was the remotest chance his offer would be accepted?

His offer.

What was it Sonny said just before he died?

I made him an offer. He made me a better one.

Sonny Rocca made the killer an offer. What kind of offer?

Whatever it was, it means that the killer didn’t need to work out whom to approach to do his dirty work.

Sonny Rocca had already come to him!

Why? Was he acting on Bartok’s behalf? If so, what would Bartok possibly want from this lunatic?

Doyle crumples the letter up again and tosses it to the floor. He doesn’t see the logic in any of this. None of it makes any sense.

He starts to pace. His foot kicks the empty cardboard box. He looks down at it, and sees that bird looking right back at him. He bends down and picks up the box. It used to contain a CD player, manufactured by a Japanese company. The image of a bird is not part of the original packaging; it was stamped onto it at a later date. Doyle spins the box around, examining each of its sides. On one end is another stamp, giving details of the consignment. Amongst other things it gives the name of the company that has received this item and will be selling it in its stores.

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.’

He doesn’t want to hear this. It’s too painful.

‘Honey, I need you to do something for me.’

‘What?’

‘You know that little address book of mine in the bureau? Could you go fetch it for me?’

‘An address book. Cal, have you been listening to a word of what I’ve just said to you?’

What to tell her? That maybe his life is hanging on this? That if this doesn’t pan out as he hopes, she may never see him again?

‘Rachel, please. It’s important.’

He hears her put the phone down and walk away. Seconds later she’s back.

‘All right, I’ve got it.’

‘Go to the P section.’

He hears her tuck the phone under her chin, then her trying to steady her breathing as she flicks through the pages.

‘Okay. Now what?’

‘I need a cellphone number.’

‘Cut to the chase, Cal. Whose number do you want? And it better not be an old girlfriend.’

He tells her, then waits out the expected shocked silence.

‘Cal, what is this?’

‘I just need to call him, that’s all.’

‘You want to talk to that bastard?’

‘Yes.’

‘The man who nearly destroyed you? The man who nearly broke up our marriage?’

‘Yes.’

There comes an exhalation of redirected anger. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Cal. And when you see Paulson, you can tell him from me he can go fuck himself.’