Marked (Callum Doyle 3)

by Jackson, David

  As Doyle pulls out a chair, he points his thumb toward the door and says, ‘They taking him to Central Booking already?’

  There’s a touch of impatience in Cesario’s voice, as though he’s the only one who deserves to be posing questions. ‘Who, Proust? No. No, they’re not. They’re taking him to the hospital. And after that they’re taking him home. It’s probably the least we can do.’

  Doyle practically collapses onto the chair in surprise. ‘The least we can do? The hospital? Why the hell are we—’

  Cesario interjects with a force that makes his irritation even more plain. ‘The man has just been attacked with a hammer. He needs to be checked out. But then he must be used to that by now. There’s a chair in that hospital that must be still warm from the last time he was in there. What the hell have you been doing?’

  ‘Me? What do you mean? I had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. What kind of question is that? What exactly are you accusing me of here?’

  Cesario throws his hands up. ‘I don’t know. I have no idea what the hell is going on anymore. I’m only the squad commander. Why should I get to hear? Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I don’t ask enough questions. So while you were out I decided it might be a good idea to start asking a few. Especially after I saw the state of Proust when they brought him in. How did he get to be like that? Can you explain that to me?’

  ‘Would it do any good, now that you’ve heard everybody else’s opinion on the matter? I can bet good old Schneider wasn’t shy about putting his two cents in.’

  ‘Schneider isn’t the only one with your name on his lips right now. In fact, you’ve become a bit of a talking point. So think of this as being a chance to put your side of the story.’

  Doyle hesitates. He knows how ridiculous this is going to sound.

  ‘Proust is crazy, okay? I mean, out of his skull. He’s got this wacko idea that if he can make it look like the police are persecuting him, we’ll back off.’

  ‘The police in general, or you?’

  ‘Me in particular.’

  ‘I see. And why would he think like that? Why is he so afraid of you “in particular”?’

  ‘Because I seem to be the only one around here who thinks he’s guilty of murder. And he knows I’m not going to give up until I prove it.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  Another accusation wrapped up in a question. Doyle resents it, but after what’s happened he’s not surprised it’s being hurled at him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So explain to me how Proust ended up looking like he’s been used as a football.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he falls out of his bed a lot. Maybe he forgets to check there’s water in the swimming pool before he jumps in. Maybe—’

  ‘Maybe he jumps through glass doors.’

  ‘Yes. That too.’

  ‘He really jumped through a glass door?’

  ‘Yes. As insane as it sounds, that’s exactly what he did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he saw Tommy coming into his place. He wanted to make it look like I was kicking the crap out of him.’

  ‘So he jumped through a door?’

  ‘Yes. Jesus. It don’t matter how many times you ask me, Lou, the answer’s the same. Proust does not see the world the way we do. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good artist. His brain doesn’t work like ours. How could it, if he can get his kicks from cutting up young women?’

  ‘Assuming you’re right about that.’

  ‘Which I am.’

  Cesario picks up a pencil and stares at the writing on it for an inordinately long period before tossing it back onto his desk.

  ‘You can see how this looks? On your own admission, you’ve been to see Proust against my express orders. You kept it so quiet that even your own partner didn’t know. After one of these visits, Proust is black and blue. On another occasion, he comes flying through a glass door.’

  ‘Yeah, I know how it looks. But—’

  ‘And now there’s this latest episode. With Hamlyn.’

  This throws Doyle. He doesn’t understand why it’s been tacked on as if it’s part of a sequence involving him.

  ‘Yeah, about that. How come he’s not a collar for that? You really believe whatever cockamamie story he came up with?’

  ‘That Hamlyn came at him with a hammer? Sure. Does that sound so unbelievable to you?’

  ‘Lou, everything Proust says is unbelievable. He’s a lying scumbag. He’d say anything to save his own neck.’

  ‘Yeah? And what if he’s telling the truth? What if he’s really the innocent party in this?’

  ‘Proust doesn’t know what innocent means. He’s been guilty since he was born. It’s in his blood. People like that don’t change. Whatever he told you about what went down with Hamlyn is a lie.’

  Cesario sighs. A weighty sigh that tells Doyle he’s just dug himself into some kind of hole. What worries him is that he doesn’t know how deep it is.

  Says Cesario, ‘We’ve seen the recordings.’

  Doyle is thrown again. Cesario keeps tossing out comments that seem to bear no relation to the discussion in hand.

  ‘Uhm . . .What?’

  ‘The recordings. From the security cameras in Proust’s tattoo parlor.’

  ‘Security cameras? Proust doesn’t have security cameras.’

  ‘Yes, he does. And they picked up every second of what happened in there this morning. It’s just like he says. Hamlyn came at him like a bull. Accusing him, yelling at him. Then he pulls out a hammer. Starts hitting Proust with it. Proust did the only thing he could. He picked up a knife and fought back. And after it was over, the first thing he did was pick up the phone and dial 911. It’s all there, Cal. Every move he made was the move of an innocent victim.’

  Doyle is only half listening. His mind is still wrestling with this new information about the cameras. They definitely weren’t there the last time Doyle went to see Proust. That means he had them installed just for this. Jesus! The whole thing was a set-up!

  Cesario ups his volume: ‘Doyle, did you hear what I just said? Proust didn’t put a foot wrong. You still want to call him a liar?’

  ‘I want to call him a whole bunch of things.’

  ‘Call him what you want, but the recordings don’t lie. And if he was telling the truth about this, then maybe he’s been telling the truth all along. Maybe somebody is out to get him.’

  ‘Well, he’s not wrong about that. Because I am out to get him. But I’ll do it legally. Those marks on Proust never came from me.’

  ‘And the Hamlyn thing?’

  There he goes again, thinks Doyle.

  ‘What about the Hamlyn thing? What does that have to do with me?’

  ‘You tell me. What did you tell Hamlyn about Proust?’

  ‘Nothing. I never even mentioned Proust’s name.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Cesario opens his desk drawer and pulls out a transparent plastic folder holding a single sheet of paper.

  ‘The uniforms who responded to the initial call found this on Hamlyn when they were checking for ID.’

  He hands the document across. Doyle notices a spot of dried blood in the top-left corner. The text reads:

  Mr Hamlyn,

  I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I want to help you. The man you need to speak to is called Stanley Proust. You can find him at a tattoo parlor called Skinterest on Avenue B in the East Village.

  Good luck.

  So that’s how he did it, thinks Doyle. That’s how he brought Hamlyn to his door.

  ‘You saying I sent this?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.’ He tosses the note back with disdain. ‘Proust sent this. He was setting Hamlyn up. He knew Hamlyn wouldn’t ignore a message like this, and he knew how to push Hamlyn’s buttons when he came to see him. He wanted i
t to get physical. That’s why he had the cameras put in. He was making a movie, Lou. The whole thing was scripted from start to finish.’

  Another sigh from Cesario. The disbelief emanating from him is really starting to rile Doyle.

  ‘You’re saying he orchestrated this?’

  ‘Not a word I’d use, but yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘How’d he know Hamlyn would take the bait?’

  ‘Because . . . I told him. I was giving him heat, and I let him know that Hamlyn would love to spend five minutes alone with him.’

  ‘So wasn’t he taking a pretty big risk? Suppose Hamlyn had turned up with a gun?’

  Doyle shrugs. ‘Like I already said, Proust doesn’t think like we do.’

  ‘And yet you claim you can read him like a book.’

  ‘I know a killer when I see one. I don’t always know what he’s gonna do next, but I do know what he’s already done. And just because I know that, it doesn’t mean I beat the crap out of him. Why would I jeopardize a case like that?’

  ‘Maybe there’s another reason.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Laura Marino.’

  That name again. For a moment, Doyle is stunned into silence. Why does his ex-partner’s name keep cropping up?

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You saying you don’t know? You were arguing with LeBlanc about her earlier.’

  ‘He dropped her name on me just like you did. I never got an explanation. Now I’m asking you for one.’

  Cesario leans forward and rests his forearms on the desk. He keeps his eyes locked on Doyle, watching for a reaction.

  ‘Proust says he saw you and Marino, necking in the car outside his tattoo joint.’

  Doyle’s jaw drops open, but he can’t find any words. Oh, Christ, he thinks. That is clever. What a smart fucking sonofabitch you are, Stan. Give them a reason why I would hate you, and give them a reason to hate me. A reason that some cops have been looking for all along. People like Schneider have been dying to hear something like this. Something that confirms in their twisted minds that I really did have an affair with Laura, and so really did have a need to waste her when it turned sour. Real clever, Stan.

  His reaction surprises even himself. He starts laughing.

  Says Cesario, ‘You find it funny?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Doyle. ‘Yeah, I do. I find it funny how Proust has got everybody in the Department thinking exactly what he wants them to think. He murders two people, maybe three if it goes bad for Hamlyn, and yet I’m the bad guy. He’s the victim and I’m the criminal. He’s got the whole fucking PD twisted around his little finger. I have to hand it to him, the man’s a fucking genius.’

  ‘So he’s lying about Marino too?’

  ‘It’s a crock of shit, Lou, and you know it is.’

  ‘Then where did he get this? How’d he even hear the rumors about you and Marino?’

  ‘Who knows? It was never exactly confidential. Maybe Schneider told him. The point is, it’s bullshit.’

  Cesario falls silent and lowers his gaze. Doyle would like to believe his boss is mulling over what to do next, but he fears that what he’s really doing is deciding how to break the bad news to him.

  When Cesario finally lifts his eyes again he says, ‘It doesn’t look good, Cal.’

  ‘Yeah, you told me that already.’

  It’s the wrong answer. Cesario slams his palm on the desk. ‘Jesus Christ, man! Listen to yourself. When did you get to be so holier than thou? You fucked up, man. What’s worse, you can’t even see how badly you fucked up. Whether you laid a finger on Proust or not, it doesn’t really matter. If Proust puts in a complaint, we’re screwed. If the press gets hold of it, we’re screwed. If we even go near Proust with anything less than a cast-iron case against him, we are so screwed. And all because of you, Cal. All because you refused to obey my direct order to stay away from him. From now on, we have to treat Proust with kid gloves.’

  Doyle shakes his head. ‘You can’t back off from Proust. That’s exactly what he wants you to do. You have to keep the pressure on him.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What kind of pressure do you have in mind? Thumbscrews, maybe? Waterboarding?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I’ll bet it’s what you’d like to do, though.’

  ‘In my head, sure. I admit it, and I make no apology for it. Proust is scum. But I’m a cop, Lou. A good cop. I would never beat on a perp, and I would never jeopardize a case.’

  ‘You already have jeopardized the case, Doyle. And that’s why I’m reining you in.’

  Doyle tenses. ‘You’re taking me off the case?’

  Cesario pauses for a brief moment, adding weight to his next pronouncement. ‘I’m taking you off the squad.’

  ‘What? Off the . . .What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m sending you home for a while. Until the dust settles.’

  ‘Why? That’s ridiculous. Hit me with a Command Discipline if you want. You don’t have to suspend me.’

  ‘Yes I do, Doyle. I don’t know what the truth is here, but there are a lot of people who have already made up their minds. Your own partner doesn’t want to work with you. Others think you’ve totally lost it with regard to Proust. And now that Laura Marino’s name is in the air again, well that’s turned the clock back to a darker time for some.’

  Doyle sits there in silence, shaking his head. But he knows he can’t win this one.

  Says Cesario, ‘I have to consider the squad as a whole. I also have to protect the case you’ve been on. For both of those reasons I can’t have you around here. Oh, and in case you’re thinking of taking this out on any particular individuals, you should know that LeBlanc didn’t bring this to me. In fact, when I questioned him he didn’t want to say anything that might get you into trouble. I’m not sure you deserve it, but that’s what he did for you. Now collect your things and go home, Doyle.’

  Doyle rises slowly from his chair. ‘You’re making a mistake, Lou. I’m the only one who gives a damn about nailing Proust. He’s gonna walk away from this.’

  But Cesario doesn’t give him an answer. He’s done debating this.

  At the door, Doyle turns to his boss one last time.

  ‘He walked away once before, and now he’s gonna do it again.’

  And then he leaves.

  Back in the squadroom, he’s painfully aware of the silence. Word has got around. They know why he was called in, and they expected it to be bad. Some of them undoubtedly wanted it to be bad.

  He doesn’t talk to them. Doesn’t try to explain or defend his actions. He’s too tired for that. Tired of this place. Tired of all the shit that’s come his way when all he’s trying to do is put a vicious killer behind bars.

  When he walks out of the squadroom, he’s not sure he ever wants to come back.

  Home sweet home.

  It’s a refuge. A haven. It seems to him that ton weights drop from him as he walks through the door. All he can think about is having a beer and vegging out in front of the TV. Watch a comedy or a drama. No news. Nothing about the shit that goes on outside these windows. He wants to forget all that. Pretend it doesn’t even exist. No doubt it won’t be as easy as that – too many thoughts and mixed emotions are bubbling in a cauldron at the back of his mind – but he’s going to give it a damn good try.

  But then he sees Rachel, and bang go his thoughts of escape.

  She’s sitting at the table, and it’s clear she’s been crying. As he walks in, she glares at him.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he says. ‘Amy again? What’s she done this time?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not Amy. You.’

  ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘You tell me. I bumped into a friend today at a deli. Well, at least I thought she was a friend. I wasn’t so sure, the way she was pretending not to notice me. She’s the wife of one of your colleagues on the squad.’

  Doyle gears himself up for what’s coming.
/>   ‘Which colleague?’

  ‘Does it matter? I don’t thinks he’s unique in what he knows. Seems like everyone’s heard the news except me. So I get talking to this woman, and I can tell she’s in a hurry to pay up and get out of there, so I ask her direct. I ask her what’s on her mind. And she tells me. Do you know what she says?’

  The tension comes flooding back into Doyle. It’s like facing Cesario again. He’s back on the defensive. No quarter given by the opposing forces.

  ‘I can guess,’ he answers.

  But she tells him anyway. And after she tells him she asks him if any of it is true, even though they had this discussion a million times, back when his life was turning to shit. And after he denies it she tells him that she always believed they would never need to have a conversation about ‘that woman’ ever again. And after that, she asks why the fuck ‘that woman’ is even back on the fucking agenda. And then she brings in the old ‘no smoke without fire’ argument. And following that . . .

  Well, Doyle begins to think that ‘Home sweet home’ is the stupidest fucking phrase ever invented.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  His plan is not to tell Rachel where he is right now. Somehow he doesn’t think she will understand.

  Their discussion seemed to take for ever, and even now he’s not sure that anything was resolved. There was a lot of anger in there. Plenty of wailing. Copious amounts of tears. Doyle tried to explain, as patiently and as calmly as he could, that it was just a story, made up by some dirtbag who was trying to get him into trouble. But Rachel, bless her, had a battery of intelligent and incisive questions to put to him. She’d clearly done a lot of pondering about this before he got home. She wanted to know, for example, how this so-called dirtbag had even heard of the rumored relationship between Doyle and Laura Marino. She also wanted to know why, if this dirtbag was considered such a troublemaker with a penchant for making stuff up, the other cops of the Eighth Precinct were lending the story so much currency that it spread like wildfire. Wildfire that quickly burned the ears of Doyle’s own wife.

  He did his best to assuage her doubts and fears. But when Rachel left to pick up Amy from a party there was still confusion and sadness and anger on her face. And when she returned with Amy, the topic could not be raised in front of their daughter. Nor could it surface once Amy had been put to bed, because Rachel also decided she wanted an early night. Not the ‘Coming to bed, darling?’ type of early night, but the ‘I’m going to bed’ type. The type that emphasizes the single-participant nature of the activity.