Pariah cd-1

by David Jackson

‘Me? What do you mean?’

  Doyle squirms on the sofa. ‘The thing is, we don’t think Joe was picked at random. We think he was targeted. Somebody had it in for Joe. He talk about anything like that recently? Any threats? Anything he was worried about?’

  ‘No. Nothing specific. He’s a cop, and cops get threats all the time, right? But nothing serious. Nothing like. . like this.’

  Doyle looks up at Alvarez, who nods back. They are done here for now.

  ‘Okay, Maria. We’re gonna leave you now. You think of anything we might need to know, just call me. We’ll come talk to you again soon, okay?’ He takes Maria’s hand in his. ‘You take care of yourself. Call someone over. Don’t stay alone, okay?’

  Doyle stands up, but Maria stays where she is.

  ‘Joe was a good man,’ she says. ‘That’s how he would have wanted to go. Helping somebody.’

  Doyle leads the way out. The detectives close the apartment door behind them. Alvarez heads for the stairs, but Doyle hesitates for a moment.

  When he hears the wail of grief that vibrates through his whole body, he knows it is time to go.

  The detectives remain immersed in their own thoughts until they are back in their car.

  ‘You think he was playing away?’ Alvarez asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joe. Him not getting any at home, you think he was poking somebody else’s fire?’

  Doyle twists in his seat. ‘What the fuck, Tony? Just for once, can you bring your mind above waist height? You know, not everybody is like you. We don’t all feel we’re going to explode unless we empty our load five times a day.’

  Alvarez puts his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, man. I’m just saying, okay? Just putting the thought out there, like we would for any other homicide.’

  Doyle lets the subject drop and guns the engine. He knows Alvarez is right. If a guy’s wife thinks that the idea of him seeking comfort elsewhere is not so outrageous, then neither should they. Wives don’t always know everything about their husbands.

  Just as cops don’t always know everything about their partners.

  FOUR

  Back in Manhattan, they fuel up on a breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast and coffee, and then spend the rest of the morning tracking down and interviewing Parlatti’s pool-playing buddies. There are four of them, and each one confirms without the slightest conflicting detail that they downed a few beers and then played in the pool hall until midnight. After that, Joe went his way and they staggered theirs. Joe seemed his usual affable self, either oblivious to or unconcerned about any danger he might have been in. There is zero about the men that suggests to the detectives they should be considered as suspects, and they have zilch to offer on reasons for his murder.

  In the afternoon Doyle and Alvarez turn their attention to the prostitute. Although a couple of uniforms claim to have seen her on the streets, they don’t have a name for her. Armed with a crime-scene photograph of the dead girl, the detectives go on the hunt.

  The daylight hours are not the best time to find a hooker on the streets of Manhattan. Gone are the days when it was impossible to stroll around the Times Square area without being propositioned by females, males and various combinations thereof. You want some pussy now, then check out the classifieds at the back of the free sheets or call up an escort agency or use the Internet. If you’re really set on doing things the old-fashioned way you can still find company on the streets, but only if you look hard, and almost always after dark.

  It takes a lot of legwork before the detectives strike lucky. As they approach a massage parlor on First Avenue, a tall Latino girl with startling red streaks in her otherwise raven hair comes click-clacking out of the front door.

  ‘Hey, Floella!’ says Doyle. ‘You working indoors these days?’

  Floella Cruz chews her gum and blinks at each of the cops in turn, her expression both puzzled and wary.

  ‘When I can get it. They were short-staffed in there.’

  ‘Many hands make light work,’ says Alvarez.

  ‘You should try it,’ she answers, glancing down at his groin. ‘Take some of that stiffness out of your posture.’

  Doyle knows that most prostitutes would prefer to work inside where it’s safer and warmer, but that for many it’s not an option, especially for the crack addicts who find it almost impossible to handle fixed hours.

  ‘And when you’re not here?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m in my Trump Tower apartment, checking my share prices. Come on, fellas, what’s this about?’

  When Doyle produces the photograph and holds it in front of her face, Floella nearly falls off her heels. As she steps back, her short leather jacket opens up and her large pale breasts almost leap for freedom from the dayglo-pink bra.

  ‘Fuck!’ she cries. ‘Is that Scarlett? Fuck! What happened to her? Is she dead?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ Alvarez confirms. ‘You know this girl?’

  ‘Not real well. Scarlett is all I got for a name. Girl’s only nineteen. Shit, what’s the world coming to when a girl’s got to start turning tricks at nineteen?’

  ‘How’d you know her?’

  ‘Just from seeing her on the streets. Girl’s pretty new around here. I gave her some of the benefits of my extensive experience.’

  ‘When’d you last see her?’

  ‘About three, four nights ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eleventh, Twelfth Street. Somewhere around there.’

  ‘She tell you anything about any of her johns?’

  Floella puts a finger to her temple as she thinks. A theatrical pose. Her jacket swings open again, affording the detectives another view of her plump assets.

  ‘Nobody in particular,’ she says finally. ‘I mean, we talked about some of the crazy shit we get from time to time.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like this one guy she had, liked her to lick his bald head while they fucked. And then this black motherfucker, wanted Scarlett to put a cork up his ass and take it out with a corkscrew. .’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Alvarez says. ‘But she didn’t mention any real psychos? Nobody she thought would try to hurt her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about cops?’ Doyle asks, and he catches the sidelong glance from Alvarez. ‘She go with any cops?’

  Floella smiles and jiggles her breasts in invitation. ‘Honey, do cops do that sort of thing? I mean, aren’t you highly trained to keep your weapons holstered and out of sight at all times?’

  Doyle sighs and Alvarez says, ‘Speaking of which, do you have a carry permit for those?’

  As Floella laughs and turns toward Alvarez, Doyle feels a surge of irritation.

  ‘Who’s the pimp?’ he demands. Again he picks up on a glance from Alvarez, which tells him that the note of anger in his voice has not been missed.

  ‘I. . I dunno,’ Floella says, and it’s clear that she too has detected the change in the air.

  ‘Floella, I’m gonna ask you one more time, and I don’t want to have to come looking for you again. We’re working a double homicide. Your girlfriend here was beaten until the snot flew out of her ears, and then she had three bullets put in her head. The other victim is a cop. My partner, in fact. So you can guess how I’m feeling about that right now. I’ll ask you again: who’s the pimp?’

  ‘Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me. Tremaine Cavell. Most know him as TC.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘Prob’ly hanging with his boys. He owns an auto repair place on Houston. The Pit Stop.’

  Doyle pulls a card from his pocket. ‘Thanks. You think of anything else, give us a call. Oh, and put those away before you get frostbite.’

  They are walking away when Floella says, ‘She counted. Only other thing I know about her. She counted a lot.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Doyle says. ‘She still counts with us too.’

  At the Pit Stop, a group of young black men is gathered around a brand new silver Mercedes SL convertible, re
d leather interior. One of the men is doing all the talking, showing off his new acquisition. Despite the cold, he wears a tight black sleeveless T, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest. Around one wrist is a gold Rolex; heavy gold chains are on the other wrist and around his neck. His hair is braided in cornrows. His face is boyish, the only thing putting any menace on it being a small moon-shaped scar high on his cheek.

  As Doyle and Alvarez walk in off the street, the gang descends into silence and focuses its energy in a collective stony glare.

  ‘Tremaine Cavell?’ Doyle asks the apparent leader.

  The man chin-points at Doyle. ‘Who you?’

  Doyle flips open his wallet, flashes his own gold. ‘Detectives Doyle and Alvarez.’

  Cavell looks to his boys, a hint of amusement on his lips. He gets a rumble of laughter in return.

  ‘Yeah, thass me,’ he says. ‘Friends call me TC.’

  Doyle turns to Alvarez. ‘Close friends get to call him TC.’

  Alvarez smiles. ‘The indisputable leader of the gang.’

  Doyle points to a short, rotund man in blue mechanic’s overalls. ‘That Benny the Ball?’

  ‘Yeah, and you Officer Dibble,’ Cavell says. ‘Now what you want?’

  ‘Information. On one of your girls.’

  Cavell puffs out his already-substantial pectorals. ‘I got more honeys than Winnie the fuckin’ Pooh, man. You gonna have to get more, like, specific.’

  ‘I’m talking about the girls who turn tricks for you, Tremaine.’

  Cavell puts a finger to his neck chain. ‘Me? Running hookers? Nah, man, I don’t do that shit. Who gave you that?’

  ‘All right, Tremaine. This ain’t a vice bust. I just want to know about one girl. Blond, age nineteen. Goes by the name Scarlett.’

  Cavell folds his arms. ‘Never hearda her.’

  Doyle surveys the faces of the other young men in the garage. Their faces, like their souls, are hard. He wishes that, just for once, people in this city would be a little more cooperative.

  He drops his gaze to the Mercedes. ‘Nice ride.’

  There is a sudden softening in Cavell. He lowers his arms, becomes more animated.

  ‘You like that, huh? It got DVD, multi-CD, GPS. Shit, it even got a Playstation in the back. .’

  Doyle sits down on the vehicle’s hood. He doesn’t do it lightly, but throws his whole weight on there.

  ‘Whoa!’ Cavell shouts.

  Doyle bounces heavily up and down a few times. ‘Good suspension too,’ he says. He is aware of the consternation among Cavell’s boys, but he knows that Alvarez has his back.

  Doyle points to his left foot. ‘Will you look at that? Damn shoelace coming untied again.’ He lifts his foot, plants the heel securely on the fender.

  ‘Oh, man. .’ Cavell says, raising his arms to the sky.

  As Doyle reties his lace, he pretends to peer at something on the spotless hood. ‘I think you got some dirt on here, Tremaine. Some tar or something, man.’

  He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bunch of keys.

  Cavell is getting worked up into a frenzy; his voice goes up an octave. ‘What the fuck?’

  Doyle leans over the hood, brings the jagged teeth of a key within millimeters of the paintwork.

  ‘Aiight!’ Cavell screams. ‘I know the bitch, yo. Thass all I’m saying. I know the bitch. Aiight?’

  Doyle slides off the car and points a finger at Cavell. ‘Gotcha, TC.’ He drops the keys back into his pocket and swaps them for the photograph. ‘This her?’

  Cavell takes a look, then a closer look. ‘Shit!’ He turns to his buddies and says, ‘Bitch be dead. Fuckin’ bitch be dead, yo,’ like it’s a line from an updated Wizard of Oz.

  ‘You sound awful cut up about it, Tremaine.’

  ‘Shit, you don’t know how fuckin’ inconvenient that is.’

  Doyle suddenly feels like getting his keys out again and playing tic-tac-toe on the Mercedes.

  ‘Inconvenient? Yeah, I guess that just about sums it up. What’s her real name?’

  ‘Danielle O’something. A mick name like yours. O’Hara, yeah thass it.’

  ‘Right. Hence the street name.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Scarlett O’Hara. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’

  Cavell turns to his crew for enlightenment, gets no help there. He says, ‘First of all, I ain’t your “dear.” Second of all, the fuck you doing wasting my time if you don’t give a shit?’

  Doyle sighs. He flicks the corner of the photograph. ‘You do this to her?’

  ‘Hell, no. Why I wanna go waste my own merchandise?’

  ‘What about the beating she took? You behind that?’

  ‘No. What fool gonna pay for a ho looks like she Herman Munster’s sister?’

  ‘Ever take a hand to her? Slap her around a little when she gets out of line?’

  ‘Not my style. My charming personality is all I need to get the ladies on my side.’

  Around the garage the others smile and nod, as if profound truth has just been uttered to a gospel congregation.

  ‘Any idea who might have killed her?’

  ‘Ain’t that your job?’

  ‘When’d you last see her?’

  ‘I checked her ass out last night, ’bout seven, seven-thirty.’

  ‘What about later? Toward midnight?’

  ‘Nah. I was too busy getting it on my own self, know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Did she call at any point, let you know who she was with?’

  ‘I don’t need no running commentary. She doing her job is all I gots to know.’

  ‘She ever talk to you about any johns she was worried about? Anyone who threatened to hurt her?’

  ‘No. Tell you somethin’, though: whoever did this is gonna be hearing from me.’

  ‘Nice to know you care.’ Doyle fishes out a card. ‘Okay, Tremaine, this is how it’s gonna be. You hear anything, and I mean anything, about the person who did this, you call us. And just so you know, we ain’t about to let this drop. This ain’t a show we’re putting on here, this is for real. Any part of you want to know why this is so serious?’

  Cavell just shrugs.

  ‘Because your girl Scarlett wasn’t the only one killed last night. A cop was murdered too. You know anything about that?’

  ‘No. Real shame, though. Now I really am cut up.’

  ‘Sure you are. Just know that it’s personal now, and that if I hear anything about you holding out on me, I’m coming right back. And next time I won’t be so nice.’

  With that, Doyle licks the back of his card and pastes it on the inside of the Mercedes windshield.

  ‘Call me,’ he says.

  He and Alvarez head out of the garage, but pause on the sidewalk. Cavell and his boys have pulled together into a tight knot.

  Doyle calls back to them: ‘You know what they’re saying on the street about TC, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Cavell says.

  ‘Word is, he’s a pussy.’

  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.