taped to him without it being obvious, but that didn’t matter. C-4 detonates at a velocity of 18,000 miles per hour. You don’t need much of that shit to take out a whole roomful of people.
And if Alvarez
But Alvarez missed it in the frisk, didn’t he? A trained cop, years on the job, and he missed it. Ha! How delicious was that?
It meant that the message could be delivered, offering Alvarez the chance to puzzle over what it was he had done wrong. And yet he suspected nothing. Even when confronted with the reason for his imminent demise, he was still too stupid to grasp its implications.
It meant too that the note could be given to Alvarez, allowing him to contemplate the sounding of his death knell.
But above all, it meant that everything that Alvarez said and did right up to the moment of his annihilation could be overheard.
The man in the Ford leans back and reviews his accomplishment here tonight. He feels like he should be lighting up a cigarette, the way they do in the movies after great sex. In the distance he can hear sirens, and he knows he will have to drive away soon. But he will allow himself to revel for a moment longer. This has been so much more satisfying than the killing of Joe Parlatti.
SEVEN
When the phone rings, Doyle doesn’t know where he is. As he reaches out to his bed table he blinks his eyes until the hazy lights on his clock sharpen into recognizable numerals.
It is five-thirty in the morning.
Shit, he thinks. Telephone calls at this time of day carry only bad news. There’s a law about it somewhere.
Next to him, Rachel groans her disapproval and pulls the duvet over her head. When Doyle’s fumbling hands finally locate the handset, he answers the call with a mouth that feels like it’s filled with cotton wool.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal? It’s Mo.’
The tone is subdued.
‘Okay, Mo, what is it?’
There’s a lengthy pause. ‘It’s not good, Cal. There’s no easy way to tell you this.’
Doyle is wide awake now. ‘Spit it out, Mo.’
‘Something happened last night. To Tony Alvarez. He was killed.’
And now Doyle begins to wonder whether, in fact, he is still sleeping. Whether his mind is filled with dark imaginings of his deepest subconscious. He swings his legs over the side of the bed.
‘Killed? How? Where?’ There are a million other questions on his lips, but these will do for now.
‘There was an explosion at an apartment on Seventeenth Street. Alvarez was there with another guy, still unnamed. I only found out about this an hour ago myself. I don’t have all the details yet.’
Doyle stares into the darkness of the bedroom. His questions have all run away, as if his brain has decided it doesn’t want to know any more about this because it’s all too terrifying.
Franklin cuts into his thoughts. ‘Cal? You’re the first one on the squad I’ve told about this. I don’t think I need to say why.’
Doyle nods, not thinking that Franklin can’t see him. Mo is preparing him. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.
Franklin continues: ‘The killing was in the Eleventh, so it’s their case at the moment. But you know how quick these things get around. By the start of the day tour, everybody’ll have heard about this. I just thought. . Well, I just wanted you to know.’
Doyle clears his throat. ‘Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up, Mo. Appreciate it.’
‘Okay, Cal. See you in a couple hours.’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
He ends the call. Sitting on the edge of his bed like this, he begins to notice how cold the room is.
Two cops dead in the space of twenty-four hours. Could it be any worse?
Well, yes, if they were both partners of yours.
He leaves the house before Rachel and Amy are up. He doesn’t want to tell Rachel about it just yet — doesn’t want to discuss it with anyone — and if he sits there moping over breakfast she will know that something is wrong.
He doesn’t go directly to the station house, but instead drives the streets for a while, killing time and thinking. Eventually, he pulls up at a near-empty diner and seats himself at a booth in the corner. He orders sausage, eggs and coffee, but finds that his stomach will permit entry only to the coffee. After pushing the food around his plate for a while, he finally gives up and heads off to work. He times his arrival to be as late as he can make it, seconds before the start of his shift.
As he walks through the doorway he hears a loud fake cough, warning of his presence. Silence descends as he moves toward his desk. He waits for the first wise-ass remark, but nothing comes his way. Not yet, anyway. It might be because Mo Franklin is standing at the front of the squadroom, like a teacher keeping order among his pupils.
Jay Holden, a shaven-headed black cop who ran with street gangs in his youth, is the first to speak.
‘We’re all here now, Mo. How about you put an end to all the rumors?’
Doyle has always liked Holden. He is his own man — never to be swayed by the unsupported opinions of others. He waits until he gets all the facts, and then he makes up his own mind.
Franklin perches himself on the edge of an unoccupied desk. Tony Alvarez’s desk.
‘I wish I could say to you that all we have here are rumors, that none of it is confirmed yet, that it’s all likely to be so much bullshit. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Detective Tony Alvarez was killed in the line of duty last night.’
They know it already, but still they groan, curse, lower their heads.
‘What happened, Mo?’ somebody asks.
‘Tony was following up on the Joe Parlatti hit. He went to an apartment on West Seventeenth to meet someone who claimed to have information.’
Puzzled, Doyle looks up at Franklin. A lead on the Parlatti case? What lead? Why didn’t Tony bring him in on it?
Franklin carries on: ‘It was a trap. The apartment was booby-trapped somehow. A bomb. The guy Tony was meeting was killed instantly — blown to bits. Tony was brought out alive, but only barely. He didn’t survive the journey to the hospital.’
There is a moment of silent reflection before Schneider pipes up.
‘The news channels are saying the explosion on Seventeenth happened at about ten o’clock last night. How come we’re only just getting to hear about Alvarez getting caught in that?’
‘The bomb went off in the Eleventh Precinct, so none of our guys were on-scene. When Tony Alvarez was carried out of the building he had no ID on him. It was hours before the Bomb Squad declared the apartment clear, and another couple hours before the fire department said the building was structurally safe to enter. Eventually, they found Tony’s shield in his jacket, which had been blown across the room.’ He pauses. ‘I got a call only hours ago myself. I had to. . I had to ID the body.’
This seems to mollify Schneider for the moment. He nods almost imperceptibly and tosses his gum around his mouth.
Holden asks, ‘We have an ID on the other DOA?’
Franklin looks relieved to drag his thoughts away from the vision of Alvarez’s shattered form. ‘We think it’s a pimp named Tremaine Cavell, street handle TC. The apartment belongs to a girlfriend of his.’
