Pariah

FIVE

Doyle cups his head in his hands, supporting its weight before it rolls off his neck and thuds onto his paper-strewn desk.

The desk is in a squadroom in a building of white stone and red brick close to Tompkins Square Park, which is in an area of the East Village sometimes referred to as Alphabet City. There are only four avenues in Manhattan with single-letter names; running from west to east these are Avenues A, B, C and D. There was a time when it was said that A was for the Adventurous, B for the Brave, C for the Crazy, and D for the Dead. Was a time when this was one of the most violent, drug-ridden areas of the city. Was a time when the main reasons to visit the park were to shoot victims, shoot dope, or shoot your load into a hooker.

Those fun-filled days are gone. Most of the scum have been driven out. Drug dens have been replaced by shops, bars and nightclubs. Property prices have soared. Alphabet City is about as dangerous as Alphabet Soup.

Well, okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration.

Maybe there is still the occasional burglary, the odd mugging, the infrequent assault, the surprising rape.

And yes, perhaps murder does sometimes feature in the crime figures.

But, hey, nobody would want to see the dedicated cops of the Eighth Precinct being put out of a job, now would they? Got to throw them a few tidbits to prevent the vultures from circling overhead.

Doyle is finding this particular morsel difficult to digest. At his left elbow is a teetering column of brown accordion-style case files, each associated with an investigation in which Joe Parlatti was involved. Inside each file is a ‘61’, the form completed when a crime is originally reported, plus a stack of DD5s, the Detective Division follow-up reports familiarly known as ‘fives’. Doyle has been plowing through these for hours, a task not aided by the fact that some reports are out of place and others are missing. He is searching for an event which, however seemingly innocuous at the time, could have lit the fuse with Parlatti’s name on it.

Around Doyle, other detectives are performing similar duties. One is systematically and noisily pulling open and rifling through the contents of file cabinets. Another is sifting through the rap sheets on some of the perps that Parlatti arrested, rousted or otherwise encountered during his police career. Another is working the phone, trying to ascertain the current whereabouts of the likeliest suspects.

And so it goes on. It is tedious work. Unglamorous work. The sort of daily grind that is never reflected in TV cop shows. Doyle is aching to get back on the streets, but at the same time he is beginning to feel a lack of sleep settling on his shoulders.

Lieutenant Franklin leaves his office and enters the squad-room, overcoat on and briefcase in hand. He approaches Doyle’s desk, weariness in his walk.

‘I’m going home. You should too.’ He gestures toward the detectives who are only a few hours into the evening tour. ‘Leave this for fresher eyes.’

Doyle glances at his watch and is surprised to see that it’s past seven-thirty.

‘Over nineteen hours since Joe got it.’

Franklin absent-mindedly taps the head of the bobbing leprechaun on Doyle’s desk. A ‘welcome gift’ from the squad when he first arrived.

‘You’re thinking not much to show for it.’

Doyle shrugs in reply. Most of the squad on one case for nearly a full day, and not one whiff of a lead. It isn’t looking good. He is not alone in having at least a couple of dozen other cases waiting in the wings, and the numbers are building. Criminals are inconsiderate that way: never willing to give a busy cop time to catch up. At the moment, Joe’s case is at the top of everybody’s priority list, but it won’t stay there forever. Every detective working a homicide knows that unless something breaks in the first forty-eight hours, more often than not you can forget about it. Despite any other reassurances of the city’s COMPSTAT figures, homicide clearance rates continue to blot the record.

‘I have a bad feeling about this, Mo.’

Franklin closes his eyes. It seems an effort for him to open them again. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘We’ll get a break tomorrow.’

He leaves the squadroom, looking every inch a man already in his twilight years.

Doyle runs the same gamut of emotions every time. He parks, gets out of his car and looks lovingly up at his apartment building, thinking how fortunate he is to be living here.

By the time he has planted his foot on the first step, the unease has already set in. He imagines the curtains twitching, the neighbors peering out at him and nudging their partners and pointing to his rust-bucket of a car and muttering about the area not being what it was.

The building is a brownstone on West Eighty-seventh Street, close to Central Park. It has wrought ironwork and stone lions above the doorway and the original stoop and hardwood floors. And he could never afford to live here. Not on the salary of a New York Detective, Second Grade. Not even if he were ever to make First Grade — an increasingly unlikely prospect, in his view.

He has his wife, Rachel, to thank for this place. Which is okay: he’s not so Neanderthal that he can’t live with that. But she in turn has her parents to thank for the apartment. Which is not so okay. Doyle hates the thought of being indebted. He especially hates the idea of being indebted to two people who refuse to recognize or approve of anyone unless they’re rich, white, right wing, and not a member of the Police Department.

Doyle turns the key in the lock of his apartment door and pushes it open. He hears raised voices, laughter, and feels drained by the prospect of having to dredge up polite conversation. When he identifies the owners of the voices, things don’t seem so gloomy.

He walks up the short hallway, glancing at the framed black-and-white photographs taken by Rachel, especially that one of Amy wearing a summer dress and a goofy smile.

In the living room there are more photos on the walls, including one of him shirtless, which he keeps asking Rachel to consign to the bedroom. Tan leather furniture surrounds a glass coffee table atop an Aztec-pattern rug. In one corner of the room is a small desk with computer equipment.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he says as he enters.

The two women parked on the sofa turn their heads to face him. Their bodies are still angled toward each other, and Doyle feels slightly awkward at the suspicion that he has just cut into one of those deep discussions that men must never be allowed to hear, on pain of death.

The visitor’s name is Nadine. She is blond, petite, and never wears a bra. She is, Doyle knows, twenty-four years old, but looks as though she has never escaped her teens. At the moment she is wearing a clingy silk dress. Her legs are crossed, and the dress rides high over her bare thighs. She has kicked off her shoes, and her button toes curl and uncurl as she beams at him.

If you could capture and bottle the essence of sexual desire, you’d have to call it Nadine. The girl can’t help it. It’s just there. Whenever she walks into a crowded room it’s to the accompaniment of male jawbones hitting the floor. What makes it worse, in Doyle’s view, is that she seems oblivious to her powers, and therefore makes no attempt to counteract her allure. Not that he’s sure how she could ever achieve that. She could put on a hazmat suit and still have the ability to straighten the Tower of Pisa.

More surprising to Doyle is that Nadine is married. To his boss, Lieutenant Morgan Franklin. A man who is twice her age. It’s a fact that constantly causes Doyle to battle the cynic within himself. Love is unpredictable, he reasons; it shines through in the most unexpected of circumstances. This is a bond which has nothing to do with the substantial inheritance that came to Franklin when his mother died. It has no connection to the colossal house in Westchester County they now own in addition to their Manhattan apartment.

‘Hello, Cal,’ Nadine says.

Two words, Doyle thinks to himself. A perfectly commonplace, matter-of-fact greeting. So why does it sound like she’s just invited me to take her clothes off?

‘Hi, hon,’ says the sofa’s other occupant.

Already feeling the guilt of keeping his eyes glued on Nadine for a split-second longer than is advisable, Doyle shifts his gaze to his wife. Rachel is wearing a baggy red Gap T-shirt and faded denim jeans. Her long dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. Her expression is saying to him, Look, I know you’re a guy and Nadine is, well, Nadine, but can you just remember that this is your wife sitting here watching you drool like an elderly St Bernard?

In return he flashes her a twisted smile that says, You’re jealous, even though there’s nothing to be jealous about, and I love you for it, and that’s why I like to tease you.

And she smiles back and arches an eyebrow that says, Keep on doing it, buster, and see what happens.

And that, Doyle thinks, is what makes the difference. The telepathy. The ability to convey volumes of information without uttering a word. Nadine, in all her eye-catching glory, is still just candy when it comes down to it. What he sees in Rachel’s eyes is what he first saw all those years ago when she was showing him around a crummy studio in Washington Heights. For some reason he found himself opening up to her, and it was only some time after she told him he could do better than this that he realized she wasn’t talking about the apartment. It was later, too, that he discovered she wasn’t some lowly junior, but that in fact her father owned the realty company and a lot more besides.

What he also sees in those eyes is the look of devotion and conviction that he saw when she was forced to defy her parents’ warnings to stay away from Doyle, opening a family gulf that still tears her apart.

Doyle inclines his head toward one of the bedrooms. ‘Amy gone to bed?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Rachel says, and it sounds to Doyle as though there is still a hint of admonition in there somewhere. ‘She left you this.’

She leans forward, slips a sheet of paper from the coffee table and holds it out to Doyle. He takes it from her and stares fondly at the colorful drawing of the house and the deranged-looking animal that towers above it. Some penciled writing begins tight in the top left corner and gradually droops to the bottom right:

this is my rabit. his name is Marshmallow. he cam in my yard and I gave him a carot. the end.

‘That’s pretty good,’ Doyle says. ‘She get any help with this?’

‘Listen to the cop,’ Rachel says to Nadine. ‘Why do they have to be so cynical about everything?’ She looks again at Doyle. ‘Would it do any harm to believe that this is all your daughter’s own work?’

‘Why Marshmallow?’ he asks.

‘Because he’s pink and white and fluffy. Jeez, where did you go to detective school?’

‘Well, we’re still not getting a rabbit,’ Doyle says and drops the paper back onto the coffee table.

From the corner of his eye he catches Rachel mouthing something to Nadine, and she responds with a conspiratorial giggle.

‘I had a rabbit once,’ Nadine says. ‘I used to sneak him up to my room and cuddle him in bed.’

‘Yeah?’ Doyle says. ‘What did Mo think about that?’

This sets her rolling about in girlish laughter, while Rachel sits there emanating further warnings that anything pertaining to whatever Nadine does in bed is strictly off-limits.

Rachel clears her throat loudly. ‘You eaten yet?’

Doyle flops into an easy chair, knocking a newspaper off its arm. ‘No. I’ve kinda got past it. I’ll make a sandwich or something in a minute.’

As he hears himself say these words, he knows there is a tone there that Rachel will tune into.

‘Rough day?’ she asks.

‘Kind of.’

He pauses, and the two women, both police wives, know not to interrupt his silence.

Finally he says, ‘Joe was killed last night.’

There is an audible intake of breath from Nadine, like a cry in reverse. In Rachel, Doyle detects a slight slump, as though something within her has just fallen away. They live with this worry every day, Doyle realizes, that their loved ones may not come home. And the fear is driven into them even more when a member of service is killed, and they are reminded that the protection offered by a badge and a gun can be as fragile as life itself.

‘Joe Parlatti?’ Rachel asks, the shock evident in her voice.

Doyle nods. ‘It’ll be all over the news by now.’

Rachel glances at the television, but makes no attempt to switch it on.

‘What happened?’

‘He was found dead on a vacant lot. We think he went in to help out a hooker who’d been beaten and dumped there. The killer got both of them.’

There is another whimper from Nadine, who has her hand clamped to her mouth as if she is about to cry or vomit.

Rachel’s eyes flutter closed, and it looks as though she is thinking a prayer. ‘God, Cal. You know who did it?’

Doyle shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be any more negative than that, doesn’t want to give voice to the feeling that the killer has been so careful and devious that they may never catch him.

‘So that was my day,’ he says. ‘Sorry to bring the mood down.’

Rachel reaches across and consoles Nadine by rubbing her thigh. Doyle has now lost the urge to read any eroticism into the action.

Nadine gets up. ‘I should go home,’ she says. ‘Wait for Mo to get in.’

‘He’s on his way,’ Doyle says. ‘Left before me.’

‘He is? Okay.’

Rachel leaves the sofa too, and goes to fetch Nadine’s coat.

‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ Nadine says. ‘To hear that about Joe. I know you worked well together.’

Doyle nods. He is almost sorry he brought the subject up. This perfunctory conversation contrasts jarringly with the levity, the easy chatter of a few minutes earlier. He feels like he has just told a dirty joke at a party, unaware that all the attendees are nuns.

Rachel brings back the coat, then sees Nadine out.

‘You want a beer?’ she asks when she comes back.

‘Nah. I just want to sit a while.’ He leans his head back against the chair. ‘What’d Nadine want?’

‘Just company. I think she’s still finding it hard to adjust to being a cop’s wife. The long hours, not knowing if your husband is safe.’ She retakes her place on the sofa. ‘You know, we do have a phone here.’

Doyle realizes that it’s no longer Nadine she is talking about, but herself.

‘What do you mean?’

She goes to say something, then changes it to a simple ‘Nothing.’

‘No. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

She looks down at her hands as she scratches at something in her palm, saying nothing. When she finally looks up, a tear escapes and runs down the side of her nose.

‘It could have been you, Cal. Joe was a good cop and a nice guy. He shouldn’t be dead, and it must be cutting you up inside. But if it can happen to him then it can happen to you. I need to know you’re safe, Cal. When you’re out there doing what you do, I need to know you’re okay. Can you imagine what would have gone through my head if I had turned on the TV and heard that a detective from the Eighth Precinct had been found dead with a hooker?’

As she says this, her other eye sends down a tear to join the first. Doyle gets up and crosses over to her. He sits next to her and pulls her into his embrace, absorbing the warmth of her body and enjoying the comfort it brings, but also sensing the slight heaving of her shoulders as she cries more freely.

When they finally part, Rachel reaches her hand up to wipe the wetness away from Doyle’s own cheeks.

‘Just call me, okay? Not every hour. Not even every day — I know how hectic it can get for you. But once in a while. Especially when something like this happens.’ She smiles at him. ‘Deal?’

‘Deal.’ He hugs her again, seals the contract with a kiss.

She ruffles his hair as she stands up. ‘I think you need that beer now.’

She walks away, still talking as she tries to lighten the mood. ‘You know, Amy’s got her Christmas dance show on Saturday. She’ll be getting a medal, and she really, really wants you to be there.’

‘I’ll be there. Promise.’

She pauses at the door and smiles teasingly at him. ‘I got a ticket for Nadine too. She’ll be there, in case it makes any difference.’

‘Who? That dumpy broad? Why should that matter to me?’

‘Right answer,’ she says, laughing.

She disappears into the kitchen, then comes back a minute later clutching a cold bottle of Heineken. He takes it from her, stares for too long at the vapor tumbling down its sides.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Tell me.’

‘Joe wasn’t just any member of the squad. He was my partner.’

As he stresses the word, he notices a shift in Rachel’s posture, like she expects what’s coming.

‘Yes, I know. And?’

‘One or two of the guys, they’re making noises about that, giving me a hard time. Because of what happened, back in my old precinct.’

Rachel’s lips tighten. This subject has not been discussed for many months. There is an unwritten, unspoken rule that it never will be again. Which is understandable, Doyle thinks, given that it nearly destroyed their marriage.

‘That’s bullshit,’ she declares. ‘And you can tell them I said that. Joe had to be somebody’s partner, and he just happened to be yours. What occurred with that woman a year ago has no connection with what happened to Joe last night. I’ll fix you a sandwich.’

She turns on her heel and marches back to the kitchen, a stiffness in her figure that was not there previously.