‘The wisecracks are all very funny, Doyle. But they don’t make this any less serious. This situation, cops dying, it’s making a lot of pen-pushers sit up and take notice. 1PP is buzzing with this right now. They’re getting nervous. They’re looking at the connections. And you know what? There’s one obvious connection staring them right in the face.’
Doyle can picture the brass in NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza, running around like soon-to-be- headless chickens and wondering who’s wielding the hatchet.
‘And you see it as your job to try to prove them right, is that it?’
Paulson looks shocked.
‘Not at all. Me, I think there’s nothing there to find. Just like there was nothing to find a year ago.’ He pauses. ‘Jeez, was it really a whole year ago? Seems like yesterday.’
It’s a vivid memory to Doyle too. He recalls only too well being cooped up in that interview room, just him and Paulson. He remembers the quick-fire salvos of questions, the devious attempts to trip him up, the insults and veiled threats. He remembers how much he hated Paulson’s guts, how close he came to leaping out of his chair and closing his meaty hands around Paulson’s throat. It was a point in Doyle’s life at which his career, perhaps even his freedom, were nearly brought to an end, and he resented with ferocity the fact that this shadow of a cop could have so much power over him.
And now, like a bad smell, the wraith-like figure is back with his poison.
‘So it’s just coincidence that you end up on this gig? All the dirt-diggers in IAB, and you’re the lucky guy gets the spade.’
‘Let’s just say I already had a vested interest in your precinct.’
The object of interest being me, Doyle thinks.
‘Like I said, Paulson, what do you want?’
Paulson takes a last long inhalation of nicotine. He drops the stub to the sidewalk and grinds it out with a polished shoe before finally blowing the fumes out through his nostrils.
‘The best way for you to think of me is as someone who can be a lot of help to you. Regard me as your benefactor, a force for good in your life.’
‘There being every reason for me to think of you in that way.’
Paulson shrugs. ‘The alternative is to feel embittered and victimized. No, in a situation like this you need to promote some positive energy. Look at it this way: anytime any criticism comes your way, anybody even hints that you might be wrong, you can point me out and say, “See, kindly Sergeant Paulson here has been dogging my every step, turning over every stone in my path, and he’s found nothing, not a crumb of incriminating evidence.” You see how that would work, Doyle? I could be the best defense a cop could possibly have.’
‘And that’s what you intend to do — stay on my case like that?’
Paulson leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘Don’t worry. It’s our secret. Nobody else needs to know I’m helping you out like this. Otherwise where would we be? Everyone would want such personal service.’
Doyle can feel his blood approaching boiling point. He has to look away from Paulson as he tells himself to calm down. Then he faces the man again.
‘Listen to me very carefully, Paulson. You want to get your kicks from watching me, that’s fine. But do it from a distance, okay? A very large distance. We got a cop killer on the streets, and I’m gonna do everything I can to get him. I don’t care whether you believe that or not — I think it’s in your nature to regard anything a real cop tells you as a lie — but just don’t get in my way. Understand?’
Paulson says nothing at first. He digs into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette pack and opens it.
‘Will you look at that. I’m out. Don’t suppose you got any smokes on you?’
Doyle turns and walks away. ‘So long, Paulson. I hope you feel proud.’
As he nears his car, he notices a white envelope that’s been pushed under his windshield wiper. He reaches over and takes it out. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ are typewritten on the front of it.
He looks back at the retreating figure of Paulson.
‘Hey! Hey, Paulson!’
Paulson stops and turns around. Doyle waves the envelope in the air. ‘You been near my car?’
Paulson doesn’t answer. He smiles and gets into his Chevy.
Doyle stands there for a while, staring at the envelope. He takes a good look around him for anyone that might be watching, then opens his car door and climbs behind the wheel. He examines both sides of the envelope, flexes it, sniffs it. Using his car key, he slits it open as carefully as he can. He slips out the single sheet of paper and unfolds it, holding it gingerly by the corners.
As he reads the typewritten note, he knows that his life will never be the same again.
NINE
Doyle enters the squadroom, his eyes zeroing in on his target. Schneider is at his desk, stabbing his podgy index fingers at a keyboard.
Doyle halts in his tracks and sniffs the air like a cat testing the breeze. Schneider raises his head and shows a puzzled frown.
‘What’s that I can smell?’ Doyle says. ‘Is that cheese, Schneider? You been feeding the rats again?’
Schneider interlaces his hands behind his head and leans back in his creaking chair, a big smile of satisfaction on his face.
‘I don’t know what you’re babbling on about, Doyle. Something happen to ruin your day?’
Doyle digs into his trouser pocket and finds a coin. He flicks it in a high arc toward Schneider. The coin hits him on the chest and rebounds onto the floor.
‘Here. Drop another dime on me. Buy another wedge of cheese. Buy a whole fucking truckload of cheddar, if it makes you feel any better.’
Schneider looks down at the coin, leaves it where it lies. ‘Anybody in bed with IAB, it’s most likely you, Doyle. All those cops turning against you like they did, that could easily drive a man crazy. Wouldn’t take much for the rat squad to flip a guy like that. Maybe it’s the rest of us ought to be worried.’
He makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm, as if to claim that he speaks for all the other detectives.
Doyle shakes his head and wills his legs to take him away from here before he inflicts some serious physical damage. As he heads toward Franklin’s office, he can hear Schneider tittering to himself.
The lieutenant’s door is wide open. Doyle raps on it without pausing in his stride, then closes the door behind him. Franklin leans back in his chair, taking his shoulders perilously close to two large cactus plants behind him, and watches Doyle intently.
‘What was that about?’ he asks.
Doyle slides out a chair and plonks himself onto it.
‘Nothing. Just Schneider being Schneider. You know how he is.’
Franklin continues to eye him. ‘You’ve got something.’ A statement, not a question.
Yeah,’ Doyle says. ‘Yeah.’
He reaches into his pocket and takes out the envelope, then tosses it onto Franklin’s desk.
‘Found this under the wipers on my car.’
Franklin wheels his chair forward and bends over the envelope, peering at the name on it.
You had it dusted yet?’
‘No, but I’m not hopeful.’
Franklin nods, then picks up the letter almost fearfully, as if anything more than a feather-light touch might cause it to disintegrate in his fingers.
With a great deal more care than Doyle himself took, he eventually extracts the note and reads it through.
Detective Doyle,
So how does it feel? Have you realized yet what is happening to you? I hope so. I hope you’re not such a
