Pariah

Spinner into coming to him, only to drag Spinner back to his apartment to torture and kill him?

So what if he really was on his way to a meeting? He talked about they — plural. Could they be Bartok and Rocca?

Think it through, Doyle.

Okay, so Spinner is asking around on his behalf, trying to find out who’s giving him all this grief. The mistake Spinner makes is talking to Bartok or one of Bartok’s men — those good old buddies of his. They say, Sure, come on in; we’ll give you the name.

Two things. First of all, why? Why would they offer to give Spinner the name? What was in it for them? Were Spinner’s services as a fence of such great value to them?

Thought number two: if Bartok wasn’t bluffing about the name, then that means he knew it well before he called Doyle in and told him he could get hold of it. So why didn’t he just say, I know the name you want, and here’s my price for it?

Answer: Because he didn’t want Doyle connecting him with things that had gone on before.

He didn’t want me linking him to Spinner’s death!

The perp didn’t need X-ray vision or a cloak of invisibility to know about Doyle’s meeting with Spinner. He was told by Bartok about Spinner’s interest. Spinner wasn’t killed because he got too close to Doyle, but because he knew, or was about to discover, the killer’s name. Same probably goes for Doyle’s meetings with Bartok. The perp didn’t have to be watching him around the clock. Bartok or one of Bartok’s men told the killer that Doyle was talking to them.

But why would Bartok go to all the trouble of bringing Spinner in to give him the name, then hand him over to be tortured and put to death? It doesn’t make sense.

Unless. .

Unless it was a way of putting pressure on the killer. Because the thing that Bartok was offering was his silence in return for the killer’s cooperation.

Bartok was saying, I know your name, and unless you do what I want, I’m giving it out.

Only the approach backfired. Twice. The second time fatally for Bartok.

Which brings us back to the earlier question: What form of cooperation did Bartok want? Why was this guy of such interest?

Doyle reaches for his phone again. Dials another number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, hon. It’s me.’

‘Cal! Where are you? Are you coming home?’

He doesn’t want to tell her where he is. He doesn’t want her to know he’s hiding away in this shit-heap, doing his best to stay alive.

‘Soon, Rach. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Something came up. A snag.’

Ha, he thinks. A snag! If that’s a term you can use to cover three more people dead and me trying to get into a Lexus through its roof.

‘At breakfast, Amy wanted to know why you weren’t there yet. She drew a lot of new pictures for you last night. She’s desperate for you to see them. I didn’t know what to say to her.’

He doesn’t want to hear this. It’s too painful.

‘Honey, I need you to do something for me.’

‘What?’

‘You know that little address book of mine in the bureau? Could you go fetch it for me?’

‘An address book. Cal, have you been listening to a word of what I’ve just said to you?’

What to tell her? That maybe his life is hanging on this? That if this doesn’t pan out as he hopes, she may never see him again?

‘Rachel, please. It’s important.’

He hears her put the phone down and walk away. Seconds later she’s back.

‘All right, I’ve got it.’

‘Go to the P section.’

He hears her tuck the phone under her chin, then her trying to steady her breathing as she flicks through the pages.

‘Okay. Now what?’

‘I need a cellphone number.’

‘Cut to the chase, Cal. Whose number do you want? And it better not be an old girlfriend.’

He tells her, then waits out the expected shocked silence.

‘Cal, what is this?’

‘I just need to call him, that’s all.’

‘You want to talk to that bastard?’

‘Yes.’

‘The man who nearly destroyed you? The man who nearly broke up our marriage?’

‘Yes.’

There comes an exhalation of redirected anger. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Cal. And when you see Paulson, you can tell him from me he can go fuck himself.’

TWENTY-SIX

Says Paulson, ‘Coffee and donuts.’

Says Doyle, ‘Look, Paulson, all I want to do is ask you a lousy question or two. We can do this on the phone.’

Paulson sighs. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you wouldn’t go for coffee and donuts with me. I was insulted. Hurt, in fact. Now you need something from me, I think it’s only fair you make amends. Coffee and donuts.’

Doyle thinks on it. A date with Paulson has never ranked high on his list of ambitions.

‘You know my circumstances. Being around me is even worse for your health than those high-tar cigarettes you keep puffing on. I should carry a warning from the Surgeon General.’

‘You know my circumstances too. My line of work, other cops tend to be a little shy in making the first advance. It’s nice when guys like you realize what a valuable service we perform. Come on, Doyle, pop the question. I promise I won’t be a prick-teaser.’

Fuck him, Doyle thinks. He wants to be the next rat in the trap, so be it. This time the perp may actually be doing me a service.

‘Where and when?’

The when is four-thirty in the afternoon. It’s the earliest Paulson can make, which means that Doyle has no choice but to bide his time in Spinner’s palace, switching his gaze between daytime TV and the cockroaches and trying to decide which has more entertainment value.

The where is Kath’s Koffees on Eighth Street, a place which Doyle feels is uncomfortably close to the precinct station house and people who might recognize him. But then, anywhere in the state of New York seems too close to the station house right now.

When he arrives, Paulson is already seated in a booth. It’s a window booth, so Doyle couldn’t be any more visible to passers-by. Sighing, Doyle takes a seat opposite Paulson.

The IAB man is pouring a packet of white sugar into tar-black coffee. The remnants of several other packets are scattered around the table, meaning that either Paulson has had several cups already, or else he likes his coffee tooth-achingly sweet.

‘Nice place,’ says Doyle. ‘You come here often?’

Paulson dips a spoon into the murk and begins to stir. It looks like he’s struggling to push it through the molten sugar.

‘It has a certain ambience.’