Pariah cd-1

by David Jackson

  The woman is young. Perhaps not yet twenty. To the uninitiated she might appear older, but her line of work adds years in that way. She is wearing a faux-fur jacket that ends at the waist and a skirt that extends not much farther. The signs of a severe assault are not hidden behind her face mask of caked blood. Her features are contorted and misshapen, her nose looking like a squashed strawberry. Her mouth is open and the tip of her tongue is wedged in the gap where one of her teeth has been smashed out.

  He has seen this woman before. Well, not her exactly, but quite a few like her. She’s another corpse, another DOA. As yet she doesn’t even have a name. She’s paperwork, she’s tracking down friends and family and acquaintances, she’s interrogating suspects. She’s his job. She’s what puts bread and butter on his table.

  At least, that’s what he’s learned to tell himself at scenes like this. It’s a defense mechanism that doesn’t always work. Sometimes the sheer waste of it all still gets to him. Sometimes he cares a little too much for his own good.

  And then there’s Joe, and for him Doyle cannot make even the pretense of detachment. That crumpled lifeless mass lying there in a puddle of its own blood is the body of a man who, just yesterday, was telling Doyle a joke about a blind beggar and a nudist. This was minutes after they had worked in perfect harmony in the interview room to get a confession from a suspected rapist. Which in turn was not long after they had spent over three hours freezing their asses off doing surveillance from a rooftop coated in pigeon shit.

  There are strong ties here that Doyle cannot and does not choose to deny. They make him wonder whether he made the right decision in requesting this case: he knows that the end of Parlatti’s journey is the start of a new one for himself, and that it’s going to be a rough ride. But they’re also the reason he doesn’t trust anybody else to get to the bottom of it.

  He sighs, slowly and heavily, and feels as though he exhales more than just breath.

  He looks around the enclosed space. He guesses that the chain-link fence separating it from the street has been broken for some time, making it an ideal dumping ground. Against the walls are huge piles of boxes and bags, overflowing with garbage. The air is thick with the stench of rotting food, making Doyle grateful that December is not noted for its muggy nights. The mountains of junk have converted a perfectly rectangular area into a landscape filled with dark, forbidding recesses.

  Doyle heads back toward the street, conscious of the sea of faces studying him. He pushes through, finds the lieutenant. Franklin is instructing a couple of his men to initiate a door-to-door. Doyle waits for him to finish before delivering his thoughts.

  ‘The killer’s not somebody Joe knew as a friend, not someone he trusted.’

  ‘Okay. Why?’

  ‘Because a friend could have killed Joe anywhere. He could have talked his way into Joe’s apartment and done it there, or in his car. Anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll give you that. What else?’

  ‘Although the killer wasn’t a close acquaintance, he knew a lot about Joe. Or he was hired by somebody else who knows a lot about Joe.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because last night was Wednesday. And every Wednesday night, without fail unless he’s on duty, Joe hooks up with some buddies at a bar on First. They sink a few beers and then move on to a pool hall farther down here on Third Street. At midnight precisely, Joe leaves the pool hall and walks down here, past this lot, and on to the subway station at Houston to catch the F train.’

  Franklin removes his hands from his pockets and holds them up.

  ‘Wait a minute. That’s kind of a leap. Why does the hitter have to know all that info? Maybe he’s just following Joe around. He sees an opportunity, gets the drop on Joe, forces him onto the lot and. . and that’s it.’

  Doyle catches the way that Franklin puts a stop sign on his mental journey past the fence bordering the vacant lot, as if he cannot yet fully accept what has happened to a member of his squad.

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think it went down like that. First of all, Joe wasn’t the kind of guy you just sneak up on, even with a couple beers inside him. Even if he was, the killer wouldn’t know that. All he would know is that this guy’s a cop, and cops have guns, and cops have street smarts. An amateur or your average stupid mutt might take a chance, but from what we’ve seen, our hitter was careful. He wouldn’t want to risk this thing blowing up in his face. Besides, we have to fit the pross into this somehow.’

  ‘Yeah, I was wondering about her. Somehow I don’t see Joe as the type to-’

  ‘He wasn’t, and I’m certain that Norm will confirm that. I don’t believe he beat the shit out of her either.’

  Franklin nods, and Doyle can almost hear the wheels turning. ‘So explain to me how Joe ended up like this. If it wasn’t for sex, what was he doing with this girl?’

  ‘Joe had his flashlight and his shield out, right? That means he went in there looking for something, and that he needed to identify himself. Suppose the girl was already in there, that she’d already been beaten up.’

  ‘Okay, so Joe finds the girl. He tries to help her. He’s distracted. The killer sees an opening. .’

  ‘No, there’s too much chance involved. I think this was a setup. I think the girl was involved, but not out of choice. That’s why Joe’s at the back of the lot with a flashlight in his hand. He’s trying to help her, only he doesn’t know he’s just walked right into a trap. He doesn’t know he’s just been led to a spot where nobody on the street is going to see or hear anything.’

  ‘And that would require the killer to know that Joe was going to come past this spot at about this time.’

  ‘Exactly. He would also know that Joe couldn’t ignore something like this. Most people, they hear noises in a dark corner, they cross the street to avoid it. Not Joe. Not when somebody’s in trouble.’

  Franklin draws breath through his teeth. ‘Jesus. She was bait? If you’re right, that’s a clinical kill.’ The roof lights of the radio cars bounce colors off his face as he looks around. ‘Okay. Put the word out. We want anything on someone looking to buy a hit. Also anything on the movements of known professional hitters. Find out where the pross worked, see if anyone saw her being picked up tonight. Look at the scumbags Joe put away — anyone who might have had a reason for wanting him dead. And somebody needs to speak with Maria.’

  Doyle picks up on the expectation dangling on the end of those words. ‘Yeah, I know. My first port of call when I’m done here.’

  Franklin frees a hand from his pockets, slaps Doyle on the arm to send him on his way. Doyle walks toward the uniforms, intending to find out more about the prostitute.

  The name carries to him on the thin air, not quite hidden in the snatches of conversation. It cuts him, and he snaps.

  ‘Fuck!’ he yells. ‘You fuck!’ He runs straight at Schneider. The self-assured smirk drops from Schneider’s face, but it is all he has time to do before Doyle piles into him, slamming him into a tenement wall.

  The other cops are quickly on Doyle. Arms snake around him and pull him away. He watches Schneider bounce himself off the wall and prepare to come barreling back at him, but then something stops the man in his tracks. He has seen the figure of Franklin standing there, condemnation written on his gnarled face.

  ‘What the fuck, Doyle?’ Schneider growls. ‘You feeling guilty about something?’

  ‘Fuck you, Schneider,’ Doyle answers. ‘That’s my partner lying back there. My partner, get that?’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. Your partner. Kind of like a running theme with you, huh, Doyle?’

  Doyle struggles to free himself for another pop at Schneider, but the hold on him is too strong.

  ‘You keep your shit-stirring thoughts to yourself, you fat fuck! I got nothing to be ashamed of. And I don’t ever want to hear that name from your mouth again, you got me?’

  Schneider is laughing now, taunting him.

  ‘Enough!’ Franklin commands, and an anxious sil
ence descends once more. ‘We have two homicides to solve here. One of them’s a cop. Somebody you all worked with. Show him the respect he deserves by acting professional and doing your jobs.’

  Schneider straightens his tie and brushes something off his sleeve. The grip on Doyle is relaxed, and he yanks himself free. As he heads toward his car he gives himself a mental slap for his stupidity. He knew something like that was probably coming, so he should have been more prepared to handle it.

  Today was always going to be a bad day. He’s probably just made it a hundred times worse.

  THREE

  ‘Cal! Hold up, man!’

  Tony Alvarez catches up with Doyle as he reaches his car. He has the smooth voice and looks of a nightclub crooner — a guy who could steal away the girl on your arm with just a glance or a word. Doyle has lost count of the number of different females he has seen him with.

  ‘You want company?’ Alvarez asks. Like the others, he has probably had only a couple of hours’ sleep; unlike them, he has the appearance of a man who has just walked off the shoot for a clothing catalog.

  Doyle looks at him. ‘I’m tired, I’m pissed off, and my partner’s just been found dead in a stinking lot. Do I look like I need to hear about your latest roll in the sack right now?’

  ‘You want company,’ Alvarez says, a statement this time. Without invitation, he jumps into the car.

  Doyle shakes his head and climbs behind the wheel. He starts the ignition and pulls the car away.

  ‘You sure you want to take the risk of associating with me like this? Maybe I’m taking you to a dark alleyway to shoot you in the head too.’

  ‘Don’t make this more than it is,’ Alvarez says. ‘Schneider’s an asshole. Nobody else in the squad believes anything he says.’

  ‘They were putting on a pretty good act back there.’

  ‘Schneider’s been on the team a long while. Compared with him, you’re still the new kid on the block. He’s made a lot of good collars in his time, so when he speaks, people feel they have to listen. Doesn’t mean they can’t make up their own minds about things. Give ’em a chance. They’ll come round.’

  ‘Yeah, well, fuck ’em. I’ve been here a year already. That should be long enough for anybody. Maybe I could speed things up a little by knocking Schneider’s teeth out for him. Stop him spreading that shit.’

  ‘Schneider’s as bad as anyone for believing rumors. He’s a drinking buddy of Marino’s — you know that, right? That’s where his poison comes from.’

  Doyle thinks about this. Danny Marino. One-time husband of Laura Marino. Hers was the name Schneider let loose. A name that still sends tingles down Doyle’s spine.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe. Him being dead. Gonna be a while before I can accept that.’

  ‘Gonna be even harder for his wife,’ Alvarez answers.

  They have to ring the doorbell several times before they get a response from within the Parlattis’ apartment. The building is in Carroll Gardens, in Brooklyn. Not as many Italians in this neighborhood as there were back when Cher found Nicolas Cage here in Moonstruck, but they’re still around. Just don’t go looking for Luigi to bake you a loaf, or Vito to cut your hair. The small family-run businesses have mostly been driven out by all the bars and boutiques and antique shops. And now the Italian headcount in Carroll Gardens has just been reduced by one more.

  ‘Joe!’ they hear. ‘You know what time it is, Joe? What the hell do you think this is, coming home at this hour? And where’s your goddamn keys?’

  The detectives wait, say nothing. What they need to say can’t be delivered through a door.

  Doyle hears the slight scratching noise of a cover being slid back from the peephole. Knowing he is being examined, he tries to assemble his features into an expression that is neither too serious nor too happy.

  He hears the locks being taken off. The door opens. Maria Parlatti is belting up her pink robe over a body that is not yet ready to be vertical, and her hair looks like it could have starlings nesting in it. She stares at them through bleary eyes. The anger has gone, to be replaced by a whole new range of emotions.

  She knows what this is, Doyle thinks. She’s a cop’s wife. This is the visit that every cop’s wife dreads, and she knows.

  ‘Hi, Maria-’ he begins, but she cuts him off.

  ‘Shit, guys, what’s he done this time?’ She laughs, but it’s forced. ‘Come in, come in. Let me put some coffee on.’

  They follow her into the small living room. This hour of the morning, it’s still pitch black outside. Maria has put on a single lamp that at other times might make the room seem cozy; right now it just seems funereal. The police commendations hanging on the wall make the place feel like a shrine, and the small plastic Christmas tree and few sad hangings of tinsel do nothing to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘Sit, please sit,’ she says, urging them toward a battered brown sofa. ‘Just don’t use the recliner, okay? Joe is very possessive about his recliner.’ She laughs again, and Doyle knows the tears aren’t that far behind.

  It goes like this sometimes. You can never tell. Some people, they collapse in a heap as soon as they see you — maybe even faint. Others wail hysterically. But there’s a surprisingly large number that go into denial. Even after you’ve told them — practically spelled it out for them — you’re still not sure when the hammer is going to strike the bell. Doyle still remembers that day from his time in uniform, when he drew the short straw over explaining to a distressed woman that her husband had been decapitated in a traffic accident. He took at least an hour over it, thought he did a good job. Sensitive, and not too graphic. When he went to leave, she asked him what time the hospital visiting hours were.

  The detectives glance at each other. They don’t want to sit unless Maria joins them, and right now she seems far too wired to do that.

  Doyle tries again: ‘Maria, about Joe-’

  ‘Jesus, I must look a mess,’ she interrupts. Her hands fly to her disheveled dark hair, try to tease it into some order. ‘Sorry fellas, I’m afraid I’m not one of these women jumps out of bed looking like a supermodel.’

  ‘You look fine,’ Alvarez says.

  ‘Well, thank you, Tony. From the man who’s seen any number of women first thing in the morning, that has to be a real compliment, huh, Cal?’

  ‘Maria-’

  ‘Coffee. I mentioned coffee, didn’t I? How d’you take it?’

  ‘Not for me. I. . we just want to talk for a while, if that’s okay.’

  Maria’s eyes dart as if seeking another distraction, something else to move the conversation off-topic. She tightens the belt on her robe again, tying up her vulnerability.

  ‘He send you here to do his dirty work? Which is it, too drunk or too ashamed? He get himself into some kind of scrape? Never mind, I don’t want to know. He can’t be trusted to get home to his wife, then I don’t want to know.’

  She turns then and starts to head toward the kitchen, but Doyle stops her. It can be put off no longer.

  ‘Maria, Joe was killed tonight.’

  She halts, her back still to them. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: ‘You’re sure? That it was Joe? Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him.’

  She turns toward the detectives again, then pads across the carpet and sits on the sofa. Doyle sits down next to her. She can’t look him in the eye, and he’s glad of it.

  ‘Tell me,’ she says.

  ‘He was shot. His body was found on a vacant lot in the East Village.’

  ‘A vacant lot. What was he doing on a vacant lot? He wasn’t working, was he? He went to play pool. He was meeting his pals.’

  Alvarez speaks up: ‘We’re not sure of all the details yet, but the way they were found-’

  ‘They? There was more than one? Who else?’

  ‘There were two killings,’ Doyle says. Better to hear this now, from them, than later on the news. ‘The
other was a female. A prostitute.’

  ‘A prostitute,’ Maria says flatly. ‘A fucking whore?’ She jumps to her feet again.

  ‘No, Maria. Listen. It’s not-’

  ‘I have a new job, you know?’ Maria says. Her lower lip is quivering. The tide is ready to break. ‘At Barnes and Noble. It’s not much, but it helps to pay my tuition. Because I’m taking night classes too. Trying to better myself. Get some qualifications. I never really took an interest in high school.’

  ‘Maria-’

  ‘But I’m so goddamn tired all the time. When I hit the pillow, I’m out for the count. Was a time I never could have slept without knowing Joe was next to me. But last night I didn’t even know. . I wasn’t even aware. . And our love life? What happened to that? Where would I get the energy or the time for that? So if Joe. . I mean, if he felt the need to go elsewhere, I can understand that. But a whore?’

  ‘Maria, let me finish. We don’t think he was with her the way you’re saying. Our belief is he went to help her because she’d been beaten, and that’s when they both got shot.’

  Maria’s eyes are glistening. ‘You’re not just saying that? Not trying to make me feel better? ’Cause I don’t want that. I don’t want lies.’

  Doyle stands up and approaches her. ‘We wouldn’t lie to you. Far as we can tell, that’s how it went down.’

  She considers this. ‘You really think he died trying to help somebody?’

  ‘Yes, we do. Come on. Sit down over here.’

  They both sit again. Maria puts her hand to her mouth, and tears run over it. After a moment she says, ‘That’s Joe for you. Always willing to lend a hand.’ She cries some more, then says, ‘You get the bastard who did this?’

  ‘No. Not yet. But we will. We’re hoping you can help us on that.’