Strange. Where would they be now?
Normally they would be sitting down to eat at this time. Or Rachel would still be cooking the meal. In any case, they would be in the apartment.
Unless. .
Unless Rachel has already heard the news about Tony Alvarez, and she’s pissed that her thoughtless husband has forgotten his pledge to keep her informed. In which case maybe she’s felt the need to escape, and has whisked Amy off to a McDonald’s or a pizza parlor.
Yeah, that’s it.
Doyle takes his cellphone from his pocket and speed-dials the number of Rachel’s own cell.
It goes straight to voicemail, and Doyle cancels the call.
She’s really pissed all right.
He snatches a few more Kleenex from the box and does his best to dry off the pages of his reports before turning his attention to them again. He stares at the pages for another half-hour, but not with the same degree of concentration he had earlier. Thoughts of Rachel keep crowding his mind. He pictures her sitting in a diner somewhere, staring into space and not eating, while Amy wolfs down her chicken strips and fries with bucketfuls of ketchup.
At seven-fifteen he repeats the calls — home first and then Rachel’s cell. Nothing has changed. Rachel has decided on a tit-for-tat approach. You don’t want to call me? Fine, I don’t want to accept your calls.
It’s the only possible explanation.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
The alternative being that the piece of shit who left that note wasn’t just talking about cops. He was saying that anyone —
But no. That’s just blowing this thing out of all proportion. Give it time. Give Rachel time. Even better, buy some flowers — she likes freesias — go home and wait for her.
The phone rings. An outside line. He snatches up the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal?’
‘Rachel, I’m sorry. I know I was supposed to-’
‘No, Cal. It’s me. Nadine.’
‘Nadine.’
‘Yes. I was supposed to meet up with Rachel tonight. I’m at your apartment building. Only, she’s not answering. She said to be here for seven, and now it’s nearly twenty past. And she’s not picking up the phone either. Is she. . I mean, has she said anything to you about a change of plan or anything?’
Stay calm. This is nothing. She’s forgotten, that’s all.
But Rachel doesn’t forget things like that.
Doyle is on his feet now. He is yanking his coat from the back of his chair and babbling something at Nadine. Telling her something must have come up, or another appointment slipped her mind. Some garbage like that.
And then he is through the squadroom door and clattering down the concrete stairs.
Racing to find his wife and child.
TEN
When he pulls up in front of his apartment building, he sees that Nadine has decided to wait on the front stoop. She is cocooned in an immense fake-fur coat, like she’s just come from Narnia — but still she looks frozen. Doyle scrambles out of the car and heads toward her, hurrying but at the same time trying to appear untroubled. He likes Nadine — she’s a good friend to Rachel — but this is not her concern. He doesn’t want to experience the embarrassment of revealing to her the details of this minor domestic dispute. Because that’s all it is: a tiff. Really.
‘Nadine,’ he says. ‘You should have gone home. No point standing out here like this.’
She stares at him, and he can tell that his cloak of tranquility has a pretty open weave.
‘I was just a little worried, Cal. It’s not like Rachel to arrange something and then just not be there. Has something happened?’
Doyle is fumbling for his door key. He wants to get in there and check out the apartment. Maybe she’s left him a note. Dinner’s in the dog — that type of thing. Something that will confirm that she’s furious with him. Something that will reassure him that she is safe and well, if perhaps a little emotionally unbalanced right now.
‘Honest to God, Nadine. It’s cool, really. Nothing to get worked up about.’
‘Cal.’
His name is delivered in the tone of a mother who is interrogating a chocolate-covered son about missing cookies. A single drawn-out syllable that manages to say,
Doyle can loiter here no longer. And if Nadine is not going to be shaken off, then so be it. Let her suffer the discomfort of being an intruder into a couple’s private affairs.
‘Okay, we had a little falling-out over something, that’s all. I didn’t call her when I was supposed to, and now she’s pissed. Either she’s up there, refusing to answer the door, or else she’s taken Amy out for dinner and turned her cellphone off. She’s trying to get back at me.’
Nadine says nothing for a while, which tells Doyle that she may now finally be satisfied and that he can get on with sorting this mess out.
He puts his key into the lobby door and opens it.
‘So go home, Nadine. Let me fix this. I’ll get Rachel to call you.’
‘Okay,’ she says through a weak smile. ‘If you’re sure.’
He steps into the lobby, is on the verge of shutting the door behind him.
And then he sees it. His mailbox poking its tongue at him.
It’s a white envelope.
For a few seconds he cannot move. Doesn’t dare confirm his worst fears.
‘Cal?’
It’s Nadine. She is still behind him, obviously bemused by his behavior.
He snatches out the envelope, looks at the writing on the front. ‘Detective Doyle.’ Exactly as it appeared on the letter that was left on his car.
Now the ability to breathe has become something of an ambition. This can’t be happening.
Doyle rips open the envelope in one savage motion. Fuck the forensics.
His eyes try to absorb the whole message in one go.
Dear Detective Doyle,
What are you doing here?
Didn’t you understand my previous message?
I said I was cutting you off.
That means from EVERYONE.
Especially your lovely wife and daughter. Rachel and Amy.
After what happened to your partners, did you really think I was kidding?
Big mistake.
Maybe next time you’ll know better.
And then Doyle is bounding up the staircase, ignoring Nadine’s confused cries from below. Adrenalin is surging through his system. He reaches his apartment door, snatches out his Glock. An inner voice quotes his training at him, cautioning him to use the softly-softly approach. He tells it to shut the fuck up. He puts his key into
