The other detective is called Jay Holden. A truck-sized black man with a shaven head that reveals a puckered circular scar above his left ear. Rumor has it that the scar is the result of a
gunshot wound inflicted when he ran with gangs in his teenage years. What Doyle likes about Holden is that he is his own man, with his own thoughts and opinions, most of which he keeps to himself.
When he occasionally does come down on one side of a debate, you can be sure that he has given it considerable deliberation beforehand.
Doyle waits for the detectives to settle themselves in, then wanders over to Holden’s desk.
‘Hey, Jay.’
Holden looks up. His expression remains fixed.
‘Cal.’
‘You anywhere with the girl?’
Holden shrugs his linebacker shoulders. ‘We talked to the mother. She didn’t really know nothing. No enemies, no fights, no jealous boyfriends, no stalkers. Nothing
useful.’
‘No boyfriends at all?’
‘Last one finished with her a year ago. The mother says she was devastated. Wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t eat – all the usual teenage angst stuff.’
‘You talk to the guy?’
‘Yeah. He’s just a kid too. Shacked up with another girl now. He seemed shocked enough when I told him about Cindy. Says he dumped her when she got too possessive, but there was no
way he wanted anything bad to happen to her. My opinion, he’s telling the truth.’
‘You think this is just a nut-job?’
Holden leans back in his chair while he ponders. The chair groans in complaint.
‘Too early to say. It looks like it, the way he cut her up like that. On the other hand, he’s been real careful. Crime Scene haven’t come up with anything yet, and I’m
not convinced they will.’
‘What about that number on her arm? Who does that belong to?’
Doyle tries to make it sound like a natural follow-on question, and hopes his anxiety doesn’t show.
Holden shakes his head. ‘Garbage. That area code ain’t in use. Looks like the ME was right. Killer offers to give his number, writes down some crap, then does his thing while
he’s holding her arm.’
So they’re dismissing the number, thinks Doyle. Which means that nobody has looked at what you get if you ignore the area code and treat the remainder as a local number. If they had,
they’d be all over him now.
He decides he’s not going to be the one to suggest it.
‘So what’s next?’ he asks.
‘I was hoping you could tell
me
. Maybe find something in that customer list you got. A name like Jack T Ripper, something like that.’
‘I’ll keep looking.’
He moves back to his own desk, relieved that the issue of the telephone number has been pushed into the background, at least as far as the squad is concerned. Maybe he should do the same. Maybe
it’s okay for him to forget about it now.
Maybe.
It’s always the same. Delight and resentment, intermingled. Every time he enters this building.
It’s a beautiful brownstone on West 87th Street. It has history and character and solidity. It has stone lions above the entrance. It has real wood floors. It has a tree-lined sidewalk
that takes you to Central Park at one end, and Riverside Drive and the Hudson at the other. But best of all, it has his apartment. The place where he lives. His home.
Except – and this is where the resentment creeps in – it’s not his home, is it? Not really. He didn’t buy it with his own money. Because he is only a New York City
detective, and second grade at that. He can’t afford this. He should be living in a crappy tenement, or a place in the outer boroughs.
But we know who
can
afford this, don’t we? That’s right: Rachel’s parents. They have the money to buy this many times over with whatever’s currently in their
wallets. And they’ll never let you forget it, either. And they’ll especially never let you forget that they only bought this for their daughter’s sake rather than yours. And
they’ll also never let you forget that they don’t like cops, and they don’t like the fact that their daughter married a cop, and they don’t like you in particular.
As always, Doyle’s unease dissolves once he enters the apartment and shuts himself off from the world outside. The family photographs on the walls welcome him in. And in the living room,
the real thing. His wife, Rachel, twisting away from the computer, sending him a smile that explains to him why life is worth living. There is music playing in the background that makes this feel
like he’s in a scene from a movie.
He goes over to Rachel, puts his arms around her neck, kisses her, breathes in her perfume and shampoo. Squeezes her until she squeaks.
‘What’s the music?’ he asks.
‘Coldplay.’
‘I should have known. You ever play anything that’s not Britpop?’
‘I thought you’d like it, you being a Brit and all.’
He shows her a fist that’s backed up by a smile. It’s a running joke between them: Rachel referring to him as a Brit just to get a rise out of him. His father, wherever he is now,
would have become apoplectic at the very mention of the word.
‘How’s Amy?’ he asks.
Rachel shuts off the music. ‘Exhausted. I took her over to Ellie’s house this afternoon. You know what those two are like together – thick as thieves. God knows what they find
to talk about, considering they see each other at school every day. And you know what? Soon as I got her home she was on Skype, talking to Ellie again.’
‘She in bed now?’
‘Yeah. She wanted to stay up to see you, but she couldn’t make it. Fell asleep on the couch in the end.’
‘I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.’ He nods toward the computer screen. It’s displaying an image of a wrinkled old black guy sitting on a stoop. ‘What you working
on?’
‘Just some touching up. I’ve got some gallery space at that exhibition in the Rennie Building next month.’
‘Yeah? That’s fantastic. You need a model to pose for you?’ He puts the tips of his fingers to his chin, adopts a wistful expression and flutters his eyelashes at her.
Rachel grimaces. ‘Uhm, no, that’s okay. I don’t think the world is ready for that just yet.’
He chin-points at the screen. ‘You got much more to do?’
‘Plenty, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? What you really want to know is when your dinner’s ready.’
Doyle smiles. ‘How come you can always see through me?’
‘You’re a man, and men are transparent to us women. You like to think you’re impenetrable and enigmatic. What you don’t know is you’re all glass vases. Big, round,
see-through and empty.’
‘The only thing empty about me is my stomach. Now get in that kitchen, wench, and rustle me up some food.’
She gets off her chair and slides past him. ‘About this vase. Did I mention that it was antiquated yet worthless?’
He sends her toward the kitchen with a smack on the ass, then watches the wiggle in her walk.
Without turning round, she calls back to him, ‘And I should also add that only women know how to make them and break them. So watch your step, mister.’
When she’s out of sight, he looks again at the image of the old man on the stoop. He’s tempted to use the software to draw a mustache on the man, or maybe something pornographic.
Only he knows next to nothing about computers, and is afraid he might do something irreversible. Now
that
would cause a real fight.
He met Rachel when she was working for her father as a realtor. She was showing him an apartment in Washington Heights. He knew as soon as he walked into it that he hated it, but he pretended to
like it just so he could spend longer in her company.
She could read him way back then too. When she asked him what he thought of the apartment and he said it was okay, she said ‘Bullshit.’ In the next few minutes she managed to
discover a multitude of facts about him, from where he was born to his current status as a single man, all apparently without asking him about those things directly. And later, when she told him he
could do a lot better than his current situation, it wasn’t just a place to live she was talking about.
She gave up the realty business after they got married. She wanted to follow her real passion: photography. Her parents blame Doyle for that too.
Sometimes Doyle wonders what he would have to do to get in the good books of his in-laws. He believes that even becoming President wouldn’t cut it.
Sighing, he shucks off his coat, slings it onto the back of the sofa, then collapses into the cushions. Rachel walks back in a minute later.
‘Lasagna okay? It just needs reheating.’
‘Sure.’
She curls up next to him on the sofa and studies his face. ‘So are you going to tell me what the big case is?’
The question doesn’t surprise him. For months now he’s been coming home directly after his shift. Tonight he was hours late.
‘A homicide.’
She smiles, then punches him on the bicep. ‘Hoo hoo. Way to go, Detective! They letting you play with the big boys again?’
‘Don’t you start. I get enough of that at work.’
‘But still – a real honest-to-goodness homicide. Somebody must think you deserve another chance. Is it a juicy case?’
Doyle narrows his eyes at her. Juicy isn’t a word he would normally use for something like this.
‘A girl working in a used bookstore on Tenth. Someone came in and cut her up.’
‘My God. You got any leads?’
‘Nothing much. No motive we can find. Nothing in the girl’s personal life. Who knows? Could be some psycho who wanted a book they didn’t have in stock.’
Doyle doesn’t mention the phone number. Why should he? It’s not important. It’s totally irrelevant.
‘What else?’
Rachel reading him yet again.
‘Huh? Nothing. It’s just been a weird day.’
‘Weird how?’
She’s not letting this drop. But let’s not bring the number into this. Let’s not freak her out. Not that it
should
freak her out, of course, it being one of those
funny coincidences that happens to all of us from time to time.
‘A different case,’ he lies, and hopes it sneaks past his wife’s bullshit detector. ‘A sweet little old lady called Mrs Sachs. She lost her daughter in 9/11. She got a
phone call from her in the South Tower, just before it came down. Mrs Sachs said something to me. She said that she would have given anything at that moment to swap places with her daughter. She
would have walked straight into the wall of flames in front of her if it meant her girl could live.’
He can see the tears already building in Rachel’s eyes. He knows she’s a sucker for human interest stories like this, and now he feels guilty as hell for using such diversionary
tactics.
‘Tell me about it,’ she says. So he does. And once he gets into it, he’s glad of the distraction himself.
When the phone rings and Rachel gets up to answer it, still sniffing and talking about how unfair life can be, Doyle offers silent thanks to Mrs Sachs.
‘It’s for you,’ Rachel says, handing him the phone. ‘I’ll go fix you a side-salad.’
He takes the phone and she walks away.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Doyle. No, let me start that again. Hello, Cal. It’s okay to call you Cal, isn’t it? A little more friendly that way.’
Doyle doesn’t recognize the male voice. It’s deep, quiet and well-spoken. Loud music is playing in the background, almost drowning him out.
‘Who is this?’
‘Forgive me. We haven’t met, although I hope we will one day. I know a lot about you, though. About you and Rachel and Amy. About your apartment on West 87th Street. About your work
as a detective in the Eighth Precinct. You’re a fascinating man, Cal. That’s why I picked you.’
‘Picked me for what? Who the hell is this?’
‘Picked you to receive my help. Didn’t you get the message I left for you?’
‘Message? No. What message?’
‘Your phone number, of course. On the girl’s arm.’
The world vanishes. There is no Rachel, no living room, no apartment. There is only this man’s voice, this man’s words.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Did you like the little twist I gave it? The Irish touch? Your birthplace, I believe. To be more exact, County Kerry, wasn’t it?’
For a moment Doyle cannot speak. The music blares in his ear. U2. An Irish band. Ha, ha, very funny.
But there is no humor in Doyle’s thoughts. Only anger. And, yes, fear. If this man knows so much about him, about his family . . .
‘You want any dressing on this salad?’
It’s Rachel, calling from the kitchen. Doyle gets off the sofa and moves to the kitchen doorway. He makes some hand signals to indicate that he doesn’t want dressing, and that he
needs to continue this call. When she nods that she understands, he walks into the bedroom and closes the door.
‘Hey, Cal, are you still there, buddy?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Was that Rachel I heard just then? Nice find, Cal. I saw her picking up Amy from her friend Ellie’s house today. Those tight black slacks really show off her curves, don’t you
think?’
He’s been watching me and my family, thinks Doyle. Stalking us. Finding out everything he can about us.
He heads for the window, looks down onto the street below. The traffic is light. Plenty of cars parked up, but no sign of anyone monitoring the building. Nothing that he can see in the windows
of the buildings across the street, either.
‘Listen to me, you son of a bitch. If you’re thinking about making some kind of threat to me or my family, then you better think again. I don’t respond lightly to
threats.’
‘Whoa, steady there, Cal. I said I wanted to help you, didn’t I? I’m not threatening you. That’s the last thing on my mind.’
Doyle concentrates on the voice again. There’s a slight inflection to his accent that makes it sound mid-Atlantic. Doyle tries to match it with any of the faces he’s encountered
before, but fails.
‘Help me how?’
‘With the investigation. The bookstore girl.’
‘That’s not my case.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Cal. I saw you there. At the bookstore.’
He was watching me? Where was he? Did I see him?
‘I mean I didn’t catch the case. I was just helping out.’