Putting a brave face on it, thinks LeBlanc. Would he do that if he were faking?
‘You got time to talk?’
‘Sure. It’s pretty quiet right now. You wanna come back for a coffee?’
LeBlanc nods, then walks around the counter to join Proust. He follows him through the first door into the small storeroom. It looks as though most of the glass has been cleared up, but as they get closer to the other door there is still a crunching noise underfoot.
‘I made a start,’ says Proust apologetically. ‘I’ll try to get the rest later.’
LeBlanc glances at the spot where Doyle had him pinned against the wall. The image of Doyle’s face is still vivid, his expression that of a man who was about to rip LeBlanc’s head off.
They step through the now useless door, and into the tiny living area.
‘You want coffee? Or do you prefer tea?’
‘Tea. If that’s okay.’
He watches as Proust shuffles over to the electric kettle, grunting as he picks it up.
‘Here,’ says LeBlanc. ‘Let me do it.’
He takes the kettle from Proust, then tells him to go sit down while he prepares the tea. For the next few minutes, the only conversation is about where the teabags, cups and so on are kept.
When the tea is made, LeBlanc joins Proust at the table. He starts off with some chit-chat. Some meaningless preamble to put the guy at his ease.
‘How’s business?’
‘Two customers today. The first one was a woman. Took one look at me and walked straight out again. Then a guy came in for a neck tat. He asked what happened. I told him I forgot my wife’s birthday.’
LeBlanc smiles, putting on a show for Proust’s benefit. ‘You expecting any more today?’
‘I doubt it. Nothing booked in. And this weather, not many people passing by either. You ever consider it yourself?’
‘Me? A tattoo? Nah, not my thing.’
‘You should. You worried about the pain?’
‘Should I be?’
‘Not at all. It’s like a. . like a hot scratch.’
‘A scratch, huh?’
‘Yeah. And you don’t need to worry about hygiene neither. All of my equipment is guaranteed bug-free. I use an autoclave. You know what that is?’
LeBlanc shakes his head.
‘It’s kinda like a pressure cooker, you know what I mean? It makes this super-hot steam which-’
‘Stan, what happened here today?’
Proust was happy talking about his work. LeBlanc can see the enthusiasm drain from his face.
‘What?’
‘What happened? When Doyle came to see you.’
LeBlanc watches as Proust’s eyes widen and the knuckles whiten on the fingers of his hand holding the cup.
‘We were talking. He wanted to ask me some questions.’
‘About what?’
‘About the girl who was killed. He thinks I had something to do with it.’
‘And did you?’
Proust’s stare is one of disbelief at the bluntness of the question. ‘No, man. I told Doyle and I’m telling you. I never met that girl. I wouldn’t put a tat on someone that young, and I wouldn’t hurt a girl like that. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. You gotta believe me.’
‘Why doesn’t Doyle believe you?’
‘I. . I dunno, man. I really don’t.’
LeBlanc hears something else in those words. He’s not quite sure what it is. Something Proust wants to say but which he’s holding back.
‘Okay, so he’s asking you questions. When I came into your shop, it wasn’t just a conversation, Stan. It was getting kinda heated back here.’
‘Yeah, I know. He wouldn’t let it go. I kept telling him I didn’t do this terrible thing, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept calling me a murderer. Saying how I enjoyed doing disgusting things to young girls. Sexual things. And then. . torturing them. Detective, I couldn’t even torture an ant. I respect life. He’s trying to make me out to be some kind of monster. I couldn’t do those things. Please. You have to believe me.’
Proust grimaces and brings a hand to his ribs. He’s really suffering, thinks LeBlanc.
‘What I heard, it wasn’t just an argument. You were pleading, Stan. You sounded like you were being attacked. You were begging Doyle to stop. Stop what, Stan?’
Proust drops his gaze. Stares into his tea. ‘The questions. The accusations. I’d heard them a thousand times. So many times I was starting to believe them myself. I needed for them to stop. I felt like he was driving me crazy.’
It’s a lie, thinks LeBlanc. Everything in Proust’s body language tells me it’s a lie. He can’t look at me. His words have no emotion. The question is, is he lying because he’s afraid of what Doyle might do if he tells me what really happened here? Or is he lying so badly on purpose because it’s all part of this elaborate plan to set Doyle up?
‘Okay, so then what? What happened after the shouting?’
‘I just needed to get away. I ran to the door.’ He gestures to the remains of the door behind LeBlanc. ‘I wanted to get out of here. Maybe out of the building, if that’s what it took. And then. . I just tripped.’
‘You tripped?’
‘Yeah. I musta been in too much of a hurry. My foot caught on the rug or something. That’s all I remember.’
He’s looking down at his tea again. Lies, lies, lies.
‘Look at me, Stan.’
Proust raises his head slightly, but not his gaze. His eyelids flutter as though he’s struggling to lift them.
‘Stan, look at me.’
It’s an effort, but Proust finally gets there. They lock eyes.
‘Doyle says you didn’t trip. He says you jumped through that door.’
‘What? No. No. Why would I do that? That’s crazy. Why would I jump through a glass door?’
Good question, thinks LeBlanc. Why the hell would anyone do such a thing?
‘Maybe you were trying to make it look like Doyle was assaulting you?’
Proust’s mouth drops. ‘W-what? Trying to make it look. .? That’s ridiculous. He really said that? Do you know how ridiculous that suggestion is? I coulda been killed going through that door. Why would I. . That’s fucking ludicrous, man.’
LeBlanc keeps his eyes fixed on Proust. Christ, he’s good. If this is an act, then this guy should get an Oscar. And he’s right, of course. Said out loud like this, the suggestion sounds absurd. LeBlanc feels faintly embarrassed that he even dared to voice it.
‘There’s another possibility,’ he says.
Proust says nothing for a while. He picks up his cup. Takes a sip. ‘What’s that?’
LeBlanc isn’t sure he wants to ask this. Proust has told him what happened. Isn’t that enough? Is there any need to give him the idea he might want to change that story?
‘You sure Doyle didn’t throw you through that door?’
Proust’s mouth twitches. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘You heard me, Stan. Answer the question.’
He doesn’t really want Proust to answer the question. Or if he does answer it, he doesn’t want it to convey the message that, yes, Doyle was responsible for the state Proust is now in.
Suddenly, LeBlanc’s heart is thudding. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He wants it to grow louder so as to drown out Proust’s words.
Proust lowers his head again, mumbles something.
‘What was that, Stan?’
His eyes flicker upward once more. ‘I tripped. It was like I said. I tripped.’
Right answer. The expected answer. But bullshit all the same. LeBlanc is no closer to knowing the truth.
He slurps some of his own tea, then says, ‘I don’t get it, Stan.’
‘Get what?’
‘The whole thing with Detective Doyle. Your relationship.’
Proust gives the subtlest of shrugs. ‘He hates me.’
‘Yeah. But why? Why does he hate you?’
‘He thinks I murdere
d those two girls, and he can’t prove it. And the reason he can’t prove it is because I didn’t do it.’
‘Yeah, but it still seems weird to me. Maybe you are a killer-’
‘I’m not.’
‘Okay, but suppose I thought you were. I wouldn’t waste my time and energy hating you. I would go out and find the evidence. I’d prove it was you.’
‘You’re not Doyle. That guy is obsessed. He would do anything to see me punished. Even for something I didn’t do.’
‘See, that’s where I get confused. I just don’t get why he would be that way. What buttons of his could you have pushed?’
He expects a shrug. Maybe a ‘dunno’. He expects Proust to say he is clueless about Doyle’s personal crusade. He expects him to say he is not aware of any reason aside from the one that Doyle is convinced he’s a cold-blooded killer. Which, LeBlanc reminds himself, could still be the truth here.
And yet. .
Proust seems to be toying with something. Tossing something around in his mind while he stares at his tea again. Appears to be wondering just how much he should reveal to this cop sitting at his table, drinking with him, acting like he’s on his side.
‘What?’ LeBlanc urges.
‘I, uhm. . The girl. Maybe the girl.’
‘You mean the victim? Yeah, but aside from-’
‘No, not her. I mean the one I saw Doyle with.’
Something crawls over LeBlanc’s skin. ‘What girl? Who are you talking about, Stan?’
‘The cop. Doyle’s partner. Look, maybe I shouldn’t be saying-’
‘His partner? When was this?’
‘When the first girl was killed. The one they found in the Hudson. Doyle came to see me with his partner.’
‘You remember her name?’
‘I think so. Marino. Something like that.’
‘Laura Marino?’
‘I don’t know her first name.’
‘Okay, so what about her?’
‘They pulled up in the car one day. I saw them through the window. They were. . they were necking.’
‘They were kissing?’
‘Yeah. For about two minutes. Then Doyle got out of the car and came inside.’
‘He came in alone?’
‘Yeah. She was fixing her makeup in the car. When Doyle came in, I didn’t even know he was a cop. I made a joke about what he was getting up to out there.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He, uhm. . Let’s just say he didn’t like what I said. He made that very clear.’
‘He accuse you of killing the Palmer girl?’
‘Yeah. That time, and every other time too.’
‘The other times he came back, was he with his partner?’
‘No, I never saw her again. Doyle was alone. One time I made the mistake of mentioning the necking incident again. He went ape-shit, man.’
‘Did he assault you?’
‘I. . I don’t wanna answer that question.’
LeBlanc’s mind races. He doesn’t want to believe this. This is information he’s not sure he can handle. And yet there is a ring of truth here. A pretty solid ring at that. It ties in with a lot of things he’s been told about Doyle, much of which he has always dismissed as fable. Until now.
‘If you never spoke with the female cop, how come you know her name?’
There is no hesitation before Proust replies. ‘Doyle told me. He said that if I mentioned Detective Marino one more time, either to him or anybody else, he would. . well, I don’t wanna say.’
LeBlanc collapses back in his chair. Shit! Proust can’t be making this up. How could he know any of this if it wasn’t true?
Laura Marino. The female cop who was killed when an apartment bust went bad up in Harlem. The cop whose death many blamed on Doyle. They said he sent her the wrong way, when he knew there was a killer just waiting to blast her with a shotgun. And why would he do that? Because they were having an affair that he wanted to end and she didn’t. She threatened to go public and he couldn’t allow that to happen.
That’s what many said. It’s what some, including Schneider, still believe. But there was never any proof. Nothing to say that Doyle and Marino were actually anything more than just partners. It was all just rumor and hearsay.
But this. . This changes everything.
LeBlanc asked for a reason why Doyle might hate Proust, and now he’s got what he asked for.
He feels like he’s just been handed a grenade with its pin pulled out.
TWENTY
Doyle actually feels grateful to LeBlanc.
He has spent most of the afternoon away from his desk, trying to track down leads. Talking to Megan Hamlyn’s girlfriends. Trying to find people who may have seen her on the subway, or in the East Village. Questioning the owners of security cameras that may have picked up her image during the final moments of her short life.
More particularly, though, he has stayed away from Proust. And he feels better for it. Proust has an irritating habit of raising Doyle’s blood pressure. Of making him think he’s about to blow an artery. The man’s a health hazard. Which is quite an understatement for a murdering, torturing piece of shit like Proust.
Calm down, Doyle.
And then there are these stupid games Proust is playing. Making himself out to be the victim. Trying to give the illusion, without actually making the blatant accusation, that Doyle is violently attacking him at every opportunity. What the hell is that about? Does he really think that’ll work? What the fuck does that crazy, fucked-up, psychopathic-
Chill, dude. Relax.
He lets out a long, slow breath. He switches on the car radio. Hears Adele. Nice. Soothing. Sing along, man. You’ll be home soon. Away from all that shit.
Because it’s driving him out of his skull. He knows this. He knows he is not acting normally. Not with his family, not with LeBlanc, not with anyone.
Poor Tommy. He doesn’t know what to make of any of this. Doesn’t know what to believe about his own partner.
And yes, it’s my fault, thinks Doyle. I’m not playing fair with Tommy. I’m keeping him in the dark.
And yes, I did feel out of control when I had my hand around his throat. The poor kid was scared shitless. That’s what Proust does to me. He makes me crazy. But it’s not an excuse. What I did back there was unforgivable.
So maybe Tommy is right after all. Maybe this is the way to nail Proust. Play it by the numbers. Proust isn’t perfect. He will have made mistakes. With enough time and effort I can find out what those mistakes were. And, by God, I won’t stop until I do. I owe it to those two young girls, and to their families.
As he turns onto West 87th Street, he is still thinking about LeBlanc. Thinking he is actually starting to like him. He was never sure before. Didn’t know what views LeBlanc had of him, especially with LeBlanc working so closely with Schneider. And because he was uncertain, he tended to shun him. LeBlanc was right about that, too. Doyle is too quick to dismiss people. Sometimes he should give others more of a chance.
Hell, he thinks, maybe I should start going to LeBlanc for psychotherapy.
He also admires the way LeBlanc stood up to him. That took balls. And he didn’t jam him up with the bosses when he could have. That took loyalty.
Christ. I’m starting to sound like I’m falling in love with the guy.
Smiling, Doyle squeezes his car into a space several buildings down from his own. He wishes he could get closer, seeing as how there’s still no let-up in this damned rain. He clambers out. Locks up the car. Makes a dash along the street. Draws level with his front stoop.
‘Hey, Doyle.’
The call is as brief as that, but Doyle recognizes the voice immediately, and it stops him in his tracks. His smile vanishes. His day has grown somewhat darker.
Oh yes, he knows this voice.
It’s a reminder of a part of his past he would rather forget.
‘Get in,’ says the voice through the open window of the gray Chevy Impala.
/>
Doyle doesn’t move.
‘Come on. You’re getting soaked out there. And I’m getting wet with this window open.’
Doyle looks up at the front door of his apartment building. He is just steps away from warmth, dryness, friendly faces. The last thing he needs right now is a conversation of the type he’s being invited to have.
But he knows this guy won’t go away. He knows how this man operates.
Doyle steps around the car, opens the door and climbs in. The man behind the wheel closes his window and then turns to face Doyle.
It’s like being confronted by one of the undead. The man’s pale skin glows white in the dim interior of the car. His cheeks are hollow, his lips thin. Lank black hair furls across his forehead like a raven’s wing. He wears a dark suit, dark overcoat and dark tie.
‘Hello, Doyle,’ he says.
‘Hello, Paulson,’ says Doyle. ‘Little early for trick or treat, ain’t it?’
They are not, and probably never will be, on first-name terms, these two. Although they go back some way, it has not always been the most affable of relationships.
After Laura Marino died in that apartment on that fateful night, and all the rumors of Doyle’s possible role in it began to surface like dead fish, Sergeant Paulson here was assigned the task of investigating his fellow officer. Except that ‘fellow officer’ is a term that most cops would choke on when trying to describe Paulson and his ilk.
Sergeant Paulson is a member of the Internal Affairs Bureau, that section of the NYPD charged with unearthing corruption in the force. It was at one time known as the Internal Affairs Division, but it got promoted, such was the thirst for its activities amongst the bosses and the politicians, who were determined to demonstrate how seriously they took the integrity of the city’s law enforcers. Whatever its name, its job is to police the police. And it is not known for wearing kid gloves when it carries out its mission.
Doyle found that out for himself when seated across a table from Paulson. He found out just what a bastard this man was. He found out what it’s like to be the suspect rather than the one doing the suspecting. And he found out what it was like to hate another man with an intensity that brought him close to committing murder.
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