Pariah

TWENTY-NINE

She waits alone in front of the fire. Even though the logs are now just glowing embers, she has removed the woolen sweater that was covering her white silk shirt. She has also slipped on some shoes and combed her hair. Because for some reason she doesn’t want to feel cozy and snug and Christmassy. She wants — needs — to be businesslike and objective and distanced from that precipice which seems so perilously close to her feet.

She curses Doyle for coming here tonight. He was supposed to be a pariah. He should have acted like one. He should have stayed away.

But he didn’t. And the demons followed him, bringing not death this time but destruction and misery of a different form.

She hears the car approaching, sees the flash of headlights across the drapes. The slam of a car door. The jangle of keys. The unlatching of the front door. The steps across the hallway.

She manufactures a smile as he enters the living room.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hey,’ she echoes.

‘Long day.’

‘When isn’t it? You eaten?’

He looks at her, puzzlement and suspicion in his gaze.

‘Yeah. I grabbed something earlier. Are you. . is everything okay?’

‘Mo, can I talk to you, please?’

For a long time he doesn’t answer. He puts his hands on his hips and looks her up and down, appraising her. As if thinking, What is this? What is this woman doing, getting above her station like this? Where’s the welcome-home Scotch and the sexy negligee and all the other things in our contract? Where did it say she could ask for a damn conversation, for Christ’s sake?

‘Sure. What’s wrong?’

She sits down on one of the armchairs, then gestures for Mo to do likewise. Mo stares at the chair like it’s haunted, before finally stepping across the room and lowering himself onto it.

She studies his face. She sees the tiredness there. But more than that she thinks she sees turmoil. An immense tension inside, pulling him in on himself, making him appear small and withdrawn and incredibly old.

‘I had a phone call tonight,’ she lies.

‘Who from?’

‘Cal Doyle.’

‘Cal? Is he okay? Has he been trying to get hold of me?’

He reaches into his pocket and produces his cellphone, then starts checking it for messages.

‘No. He wanted to talk to me. He has a lot of worries. About what’s happening to him. About the lack of progress on his case.’

A sigh. ‘I already talked to him about this. It’s a tough case. He’s just gotta hang in there.’

‘Yes. That’s what I told him too. Only he’s got some new theories about it. Some idea about the only true targets being Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez, with everything else being just stage fog.’

He barks a mirthless laugh. ‘What? Is he crazy? What’s he talking about? And why you, Nad? Why’s he telling you all this? If he’s got something to discuss about the case, why doesn’t he come to me?’

She listens to his dismissal. There’s a hollow ring to it that sickens her.

‘Could he be right, Mo? About all this boiling down to the murder of two cops? Is there any reason why someone would have wanted Joe and Tony dead, other than to hurt Cal Doyle?’

‘What? No. We would have picked it up already, the manpower we have on this.’

‘Even with everyone looking the other way because of Cal? Has it ever crossed your mind, Mo? Have you looked into that possibility, or asked any of your squad to do it?’

‘Well. . no. But only because it’s so ridiculous.’

‘Or because you didn’t want anyone to look into it.’

The silence then is ominous. Her thoughts came out faster than she wanted them to, her accusation more direct than she intended. Her words hang in the air like a death knell.

‘What are you saying, Nadine?’ His voice is gruff now. Stern.

‘Mo, I have to ask you this. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Joe and Tony?’

She wants a sudden explosion of denial. An outcry of indignation. A burst of emotion that is real and from the heart and believable. What she gets is a silent stony glare that splinters her heart.

‘How could you ask me that?’ he says. He gets to his feet and averts his face, unable to meet her eyes any longer. To Nadine it’s just another telltale sign.

She stands up too, but doesn’t go to him. ‘Mo, I’m sorry, but I need to know. I need you to tell me you had no involvement in this. I need you to convince me.’

He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, but still faces the wall. ‘I shouldn’t have to say anything, Nadine. You should trust me enough not to be asking these questions. My guess is you’ve already made up your mind. My guess is there’s nothing I can say that will save me in your eyes.’ His head snaps toward her and his gaze locks on her again. ‘Am I wrong? Haven’t you already tried and convicted me? Are you even willing to listen to anything I say in my defense?’

He looks away again. She can see his jaw muscles flexing as his anger builds.

‘I’ll listen, Mo. So tell me. Tell me where you were when Joe was being killed. Tell me why you had to work so late on the night Tony was murdered. Tell me what you were doing when that man Spinner was being tortured to death. Explain to me why you told Cal you met up with me to go shopping on Saturday.’

Mo shakes his head. ‘Boy, Doyle did a real number on you, didn’t he?’

‘Tell me, Mo.’

‘Jesus, Nadine, listen to yourself. Listen to how insane this all sounds.’

She takes a step closer to him. ‘Tell me. Tell me you didn’t kill those two detectives. Tell me you didn’t kill those other people. Tell me you didn’t hurt Cal and his family. Tell me!’

When he turns on her, he is like a ravenous Rottweiler taken off its leash. His hands fly from his pockets and his face contorts into a mask of fury. His wiry frame seems suddenly energized and ready to spring. Nadine cannot help herself from jumping back in fright.

‘And you give me a reason!’ he yells at her. ‘Give me one good fucking reason why I would want to kill two of my own men. Two young, ambitious detectives who I saw as my friends. What reason would I have, Nadine? What possible fucking reason could that be, huh?’

And in that rant he gives her what she dreaded. In what appears to be a series of questions he is really giving her an answer.

She takes another step back, the tears flooding down her cheeks. When she finds her voice again, it is but a whisper.

‘You killed them.’

He sighs again. ‘What do you want from me, Nadine?’

‘I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you killed Joe and Tony. I want you to admit to me what you did to Cal.’

He lowers his head, as if in defeat. He seems drained again. He looks almost relieved at this chance to unburden himself.

And so she is unprepared when he suddenly closes the gap between them and grabs hold of her shirt.

She gives a short yelp and tries to pull away, but he grits his teeth and rips open her shirt, sending buttons pinging and exposing her breasts.

She stares in wide-eyed fear as he looks down at her chest and then slowly brings his gaze up to her face.

‘You bitch!’ he says. ‘You fucking bitch!’

He lets go of her shirt with one hand, uses it to punch her hard in the face. Her head bounces backwards and forwards like she’s a toy, and her brain struggles against the internal fireworks as she tries to come up with a plan to save herself.

But her husband has already decided how things will be.

‘Get in here, Cal!’ he yells into the microphone taped below her left breast. ‘Get in here now, or she dies. And bring the recording equipment with you.’