Now Bartok doesn’t know what to do. Nobody’s ever called his bluff like this before, but he doesn’t want to give up this chance of gaining another source of his precious data.
Which is where Spinner comes in.
To Bartok, Spinner is just a pawn. Expendable. His only use is to put pressure on the cop. Bartok calls Spinner in to give him the name, but he lets the cop know about it, hoping that this time he’ll cave in.
Only he doesn’t. What he does instead is to track down Spinner and eliminate him. Whether Spinner actually learned the name or not is irrelevant. The point is that the killer believed he knew it.
And still Bartok doesn’t give up. He sends Rocca back yet again, this time with the message that he’s going to hand the killer’s name directly to the victimized cop, Doyle. It seems a win-win situation to Bartok, because he gets either the killer or Doyle as a new addition to his stable.
But the killer is always just that one step ahead. Being a cop, he may already know about the bad relations between Rocca and Bartok. He’s also had several opportunities to sound Rocca out about his employment prospects. So he makes Rocca a counteroffer, and it’s bye-bye Bartok.
Doyle stops pacing. He puts his hands over his eyes, the enormity of the truth shocking him to his core.
A fellow cop! Jesus Christ.
He wants to look for reasons to reject it as fact, to find alternatives, but he knows that nothing else will fit.
It explains so much: how the killer knew Doyle was at the boxing gym, and which was his car; how he knows Doyle’s wife and child, his address, the car that Rachel drives; how he knew Joe’s pool-night routine so well.
And there’s something else, too. When this guy phoned Rachel, pretending he was a doctor at Bellevue, he put on a fake Indian accent. The only reason for doing that is because there was a danger of Rachel recognizing his voice.
This isn’t just any cop.
This is a cop close to home.
So who?
And why is he doing this to me?
Which cops have I hurt so badly that he would go to such lengths to get back at me?
Marino? Sure, he hates my guts, but would even he stoop to this? Killing other cops just to isolate me? What kind of perverted justice is that?
Doyle collapses onto a chair, his head still in his hands. Around him are the noises of a building come to life: televisions, slamming doors, footsteps in the hallway, barking dogs, crying children. But he is oblivious to them all. He doesn’t move for a long time. He just sits and thinks, replaying recent conversations a thousand times each in his head. Looking for signs. Looking for hate. Looking for reasons.
And when his brain can take no more, he experiences utter despair. Sadness overwhelms him.
Not because the answers evade him.
But because they come to him. In a form more shocking than he would have believed possible.
He has work to do. He has people he must speak to.
If he is wrong, he may be putting their lives at risk.
That’s if he can stay alive long enough to get to them.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The house is situated near the New Croton Reservoir in Westchester County, about twenty-two miles north of the city. The body of water used to be known as Croton Lake, which, back in the mid-nineteenth century, fed a distributing reservoir located in mid-town Manhattan. Today’s users of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue might be surprised to learn that, a century and a half earlier, their ancestors were promenading above them and delighting in the view of the moonlight bouncing off glassy waters.
The property is a huge two-story affair in white clapboard, with not a neighboring building in sight. A perfect vertical line of chimney smoke betrays the stillness of the crisp air. Christmas lights are strung like icicles along the eaves, and a ghostly plastic snowman looks out from a window, a friendly smile on its big moon-like face. Somewhere in the many acres of woodland beyond the rear of the property, an animal or bird screeches. It’s a quiet, peaceful place, so different from the frenetic bustle of the city.
Doyle steps onto the wooden porch, sucks in an icy breath that stings his windpipe, then thumbs the doorbell.
A light comes on inside, and a shadow looms through the glass pane of the door. The door opens, and a woman peers at him through the porch screen. She seems surprised — shocked even.
‘Cal!’ she says.
Doyle wishes he could find a smile for her, but he can’t.
‘Hello, Nadine,’ he says.
She leads him through a paneled hallway. Ornamental plates on the walls. A pendulum clock beating out the house’s pulse. A tastefully decorated Christmas tree in one corner.
When he shambles into the light, she sees what a wreck he is.
‘My God, Cal. What happened? Did you take up boxing again?’
‘Yeah. Only now I fight three at once, just to make it a challenge. Is Mo in?’
‘Not yet. It’s just another lonely night.’
Another lonely night. She could have been saying, Oh, for some male company to keep me warm on this bitter winter night. But this is Nadine the Siren. She makes men read such things into her words.
She adds, ‘He’s driving up later, but he won’t get in till after ten. Believe it or not, he’s actually taking a day’s leave tomorrow. I think he really needs it. He’s looking pretty tired lately.’
She escorts him into a spacious living room. Its centerpiece is a colossal stone fireplace. A log fire crackles and pops and throws out its cozy glow. She gestures for him to take a seat in one of two massive armchairs angled toward the fire, a lace-covered oak coffee table between them. As Doyle sits, she gets onto the other chair and curls her bare legs beneath her. Dwarfed by the chair, and with the sleeves of an oversized woolen sweater hiding her hands, she looks like a child waiting to be read a bedtime story.
‘So,’ she says, ‘how did you know I was up here?’
‘I didn’t. I went to your Manhattan apartment first. Your neighbor said you’d traveled up here.’
‘You should have phoned me. I could have told you where we were. Saved you all the trouble.’
He doesn’t answer. He looks around at the antique furniture, the sepia photographs on the walls. ‘Last time I was up here, it was summer. The barbecue, remember?’
She laughs girlishly. ‘I do. You pushed Schneider into the swimming pool and then claimed it was an accident.’
Doyle shrugs. ‘I’d had too much to drink. Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez were up here too. Remember that?’
Her smile fades in an instant. ‘Listen, Cal. It’s always a pleasure to see you — don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve become real good friends, but. . should you be here? I mean. .’
‘It’s okay, Nadine. I wasn’t followed. Nobody knows I’m here. You’re safe.’
He remembers giving a similar guarantee to Spinner, and look how that turned out.
‘I’m sorry, Cal. I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that. .’
‘Yeah, I know. A lot’s been happening. You’ve every right to be concerned. I just. . needed to see you.’
She glances at the mahogany-cased clock on the mantle. ‘Well, like I say, I think it could be some time before Mo gets here. .’
‘Actually, Nadine, I think maybe I need to talk with you first.’
She stares at him with those ice-blue eyes of hers. Christmas is all wrapped up in those eyes.
‘You must be freezing,’ she says finally. ‘Let me get you something. I make a mean hot chocolate. Marshmallows and everything.’
She starts to get up, but Doyle stops her with a raised hand.
‘No, please. Not for me. Can we just talk for a while?’
She sinks slowly back into the cushions. ‘Now you’ve got me worried. What’s going on, Cal?’
Doyle tries to find the words. He’s been trying to assemble them all the way up the Parkway.
‘I’ve been through a lot these past few days. I’m tir
ed. Maybe I got this all wrong, but some things are bugging me.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘This guy. The one who’s been following me around, picking off my partners and my friends, threatening to hurt my family, doing everything he can to cut me off from people because of some crazy idea he has that I wronged him in the past. .’
‘What about him? Have they caught him? Do they know who he is?’
‘No. See, that’s the problem. They haven’t caught him. They haven’t got a name for him. They can’t find a shred of evidence that pins anything on any of the people I’ve collared or had beefs with in the past. For a while now, I’ve been thinking that the job doesn’t really care about me. The shit I’m carrying around, there are some cops who don’t care if I live or die. The longer I’m off the squad the better, far as they’re concerned.’
‘Cal, that’s nonsense. Sure, there are a couple of cops who won’t be sending you Christmas cards this year, but they’re not all like that. I know. I’ve talked to them. Mo’s talked to them too.’
Doyle nods. ‘Yeah, I’m beginning to believe that. I’m beginning to believe that they really are doing their damnedest to catch this guy, or at least work out who might hold such a grudge against me. Me too. I’ve been going through lists of perps in my mind over and over again. The most likely suspects are either dead or locked up or have ironclad alibis. The rest. . well, to be honest, I just don’t see it. I don’t want to sound like I got no modesty or anything, but I just can’t see any of these people hating me enough to do this.’
‘Yeah, but Cal, you’re forgetting how people can change. The guy you locked up ten years ago is probably not the same guy today. He’s had time to brood. Maybe things happened to him in prison that he blames on you. And then there’re the lunatics. The people who see you through their crazy eyes as someone who was responsible for a lot more than you did. They could blame you for 9/11 — who knows with these people? Or maybe it’s a relative of a perp you put away — someone who sees himself as a victim of yours even though you’ve never met him. There are a lot of possibilities, Cal. Maybe you just need to give it more time.’
‘Yeah. Mo said similar things to me.’
‘And he’s right.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Doyle says, but the doubt is evident in his voice.
‘You don’t buy it, do you? So what’s the alternative?’
Doyle looks at her. Her logic seems so impeccable, it almost seems ridiculous to suggest anything else.
‘The alternative is, the reason nobody can identify this guy, me included, is that. . is that he doesn’t exist.’
He watches her face for the reaction. She looks as though she hasn’t heard him. As if she’s still waiting for him to say something. Or at least something intelligible. Finally, she blinks several times as if coming out of a hypnotic trance.
‘Cal, what are you talking about?’
He has to look away from her, so as not to let her expression of incredulity prevent him from voicing his train of thought.
‘I met a guy last night. He knew the name of the person doing this to me, but he was killed before he could tell me. The very last thing he told me was that I could stop digging into my past. At the time, I thought he meant there was no need to keep looking through the files because I was about to discover the name. But now I think what he was telling me was that I was looking in the wrong place. That it had nothing to do with my past. That maybe it didn’t even have anything to do with me.’
There’s a silence, and he has to slide his eyes to her again to try to discern her thoughts. He decides that she still assumes he’s gone ga-ga.
‘Cal, I seriously think you need to get some rest. How can one ambiguous statement from a guy who’s now dead make you start to think that none of this is real? Look at what’s happened. To
your partners, to your wife, to your friend Spinner, to this guy you were speaking to last night. That’s not imaginary, Cal. Horrible though it all is, you have to start accepting that you’re the common factor in this or you’ll lose your mind.’
‘Yeah, I admit that’s how it looks. .’
‘That’s how it looks?’
‘. . but when you break it down I’m not so sure. The guy last night was killed to shut him up. Spinner was also killed because he knew too much, not because he was close to me. Rachel wasn’t even hurt; I was just tricked into thinking she was. Take all of them out of the equation, and that just leaves Joe and Tony.’
‘Aren’t they enough? And anyway, it’s not true. What about the two hookers who died, and that pimp?’
‘Cavell. Yeah, I been thinking about them too. You know what the funny thing is? All along, people kept asking me, “You got the cop killer yet? You got the guy who whacked your partners?” It would get me so pissed off, I would say to them, “Don’t forget the hookers and the pimp; they died too, you know. They were human. They mattered.” And you know what? I was wrong and they were right. To most people, the killer included, they didn’t matter. They didn’t count. Their only use was as bait to set traps. The problem was, I couldn’t see that I was wrong. I kidded myself that I was on some kind of moral high ground. Hell, I never even bothered to find out that second hooker’s name, that’s how much I cared about her.’
‘But that still leaves Joe and Tony. Your partners. Or do you have a way to cross them off your list too?’
‘Sure, Joe was my partner. But Tony never was. Not really. I worked with him for a few hours, that’s it.’
‘So what are you saying? That it’s just pure coincidence that you happen to be linked to all these people? Come on, that’s kind of a stretch.’
‘No, what I’m saying is that somebody killed Joe and Tony, and then made it look like just a part of a greater plan to hurt me. That’s why the killer sent me revenge messages: to make me and everyone else think I was the focal point.’
‘Why? Why would they do that?’
‘To shift the attention away from Joe and Tony as the real victims. And it worked. Nobody is looking for links between Joe and Tony because they’re all too busy looking at me.’
Nadine stares for a while, then shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, Cal. To do all this, just as a diversionary tactic. .’
‘What, you don’t think escaping the death penalty is sufficient motive? The killer’s got the whole NYPD looking in the wrong direction, and that means they’re never going to find him. I’d say that makes his efforts pretty damn worthwhile, wouldn’t you?’
Seeing that Nadine still looks doubtful, he says, ‘Look, if this guy really wanted to hurt me, why didn’t he just kill Rachel and Amy rather than go through that whole charade of making me think they were in trouble? Why didn’t he kill Spinner after my first meeting with him, rather than wait until Spinner became a danger to him? Where’s the consistency?’
Another pause from Nadine. ‘If you’re right, and I still think it’s a huge if, then that still means somebody wanted Joe and Tony dead. Why would they do that? You knew Joe better than most. Why would someone want to kill a nice guy like that?’
Images of Joe Parlatti laughing and smiling jump to Doyle’s mind. He feels slightly guilty that the events of the past few days have not allowed him more time to think about his partner. Yes, Joe was a nice guy. One of the nicest. His wife, Maria, said the same. She said a few other things too.
‘I don’t know why,’ Doyle says, although he could venture a guess. ‘But I got some ideas as to who.’
Nadine’s eyes narrow. He can almost feel the touch of her gaze flicking over his face, searching it for clues.
‘Are you going to let me in on it?’
‘A cop.’
‘A cop. Any particular reason?’
‘Several, actually. The details don’t matter.’
‘Ooo-kay. Any particular cop?’
And this is where it gets difficult, thinks Doyle. This is where friendships are tested. This is where bonds are stressed to their breaking point. This
is where hearts are broken.
‘You remember the night after Joe was killed?’ he begins. ‘When I came home, and you were there with Rachel?’
Nadine doesn’t move. Her eye-line doesn’t shift even a degree away from Doyle’s face.
‘Go on,’ she says.
‘I told you that Mo was on his way home, because that’s what he told me. And you seemed surprised at that, like you weren’t expecting him home until much later.’
This time she says nothing. Just waits.
‘So was he there when you got back? Or did he get in much later?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Was he in the apartment when Tony Alvarez was being killed?’
So there it is. He’s crossed the line, and he can see as much on Nadine’s face.
‘Cal, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’
Doyle has no choice but to press on. ‘What about the previous night, when Joe was killed? Was Mo home then?’
‘He works hard. You know that. He’s a hard-working, hands-on cop. He’s out all kinds of strange hours, just like you are, Cal. Now before you say another word, I think you need to-’
‘What about Saturday, Nadine?’
‘Saturday? What about it?’
‘That’s the day Spinner was killed. According to Mo, he was in a meeting at police headquarters that afternoon.’
‘And?’
‘You’re right. Nothing unusual in that. No reason to doubt him. Except that he said something else too. He said that directly after leaving 1PP he met up with you to do some Christmas shopping.’
Nadine’s silence says everything.
Doyle continues: ‘All perfectly normal too, right? Nothing suspicious there. In fact, it was only today that it clicked with me. He couldn’t have gone shopping with you.’
Nadine is angry now. Angry and fearful. ‘Why, Cal?’ she snaps. ‘Why couldn’t he? Suppose I say he was shopping with me? What then?’
‘You’d be lying. Saturday evening was when Amy was in the dance competition. And you were there. I remember Rachel telling me you were going to be there. You weren’t available to go shopping because you were at the dance competition. Am I wrong about that, Nadine? Am I?’
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