And still Bartok doesn’t give up. He sends Rocca back yet again, this time with the message that he’s going to hand the killer’s name directly to the victimized cop, Doyle. It seems a win-win situation to Bartok, because he gets either the killer or Doyle as a new addition to his stable.
But the killer is always just that one step ahead. Being a cop, he may already know about the bad relations between Rocca and Bartok. He’s also had several opportunities to sound Rocca out about his employment prospects. So he makes Rocca a counteroffer, and it’s bye-bye Bartok.
Doyle stops pacing. He puts his hands over his eyes, the enormity of the truth shocking him to his core.
He wants to look for reasons to reject it as fact, to find alternatives, but he knows that nothing else will fit.
It explains so much: how the killer knew Doyle was at the boxing gym, and which was his car; how he knows Doyle’s wife and child, his address, the car that Rachel drives; how he knew Joe’s pool-night routine so well.
And there’s something else, too. When this guy phoned Rachel, pretending he was a doctor at Bellevue, he put on a fake Indian accent. The only reason for doing that is because there was a danger of Rachel recognizing his voice.
This isn’t just any cop.
So who?
And why is he doing this to me?
Which cops have I hurt so badly that he would go to such lengths to get back at me?
Marino? Sure, he hates my guts, but would even he stoop to this? Killing other cops just to isolate me? What kind of perverted justice is that?
Doyle collapses onto a chair, his head still in his hands. Around him are the noises of a building come to life: televisions, slamming doors, footsteps in the hallway, barking dogs, crying children. But he is oblivious to them all. He doesn’t move for a long time. He just sits and thinks, replaying recent conversations a thousand times each in his head. Looking for signs. Looking for hate. Looking for reasons.
And when his brain can take no more, he experiences utter despair. Sadness overwhelms him.
Not because the answers evade him.
But because they come to him. In a form more shocking than he would have believed possible.
He has work to do. He has people he must speak to.
If he is wrong, he may be putting their lives at risk.
That’s if he can stay alive long enough to get to them.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The house is situated near the New Croton Reservoir in Westchester County, about twenty-two miles north of the city. The body of water used to be known as Croton Lake, which, back in the mid-nineteenth century, fed a distributing reservoir located in mid-town Manhattan. Today’s users of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue might be surprised to learn that, a century and a half earlier, their ancestors were promenading above them and delighting in the view of the moonlight bouncing off glassy waters.
The property is a huge two-story affair in white clapboard, with not a neighboring building in sight. A perfect vertical line of chimney smoke betrays the stillness of the crisp air. Christmas lights are strung like icicles along the eaves, and a ghostly plastic snowman looks out from a window, a friendly smile on its big moon-like face. Somewhere in the many acres of woodland beyond the rear of the property, an animal or bird screeches. It’s a quiet, peaceful place, so different from the frenetic bustle of the city.
Doyle steps onto the wooden porch, sucks in an icy breath that stings his windpipe, then thumbs the doorbell.
A light comes on inside, and a shadow looms through the glass pane of the door. The door opens, and a woman peers at him through the porch screen. She seems surprised — shocked even.
‘Cal!’ she says.
Doyle wishes he could find a smile for her, but he can’t.
‘Hello, Nadine,’ he says.
She leads him through a paneled hallway. Ornamental plates on the walls. A pendulum clock beating out the house’s pulse. A tastefully decorated Christmas tree in one corner.
When he shambles into the light, she sees what a wreck he is.
‘My God, Cal. What happened? Did you take up boxing again?’
‘Yeah. Only now I fight three at once, just to make it a challenge. Is Mo in?’
‘Not yet. It’s just another lonely night.’
Another lonely night. She could have been saying, Oh, for some male company to keep me warm on this bitter winter night. But this is Nadine the Siren. She makes men read such things into her words.
She adds, ‘He’s driving up later, but he won’t get in till after ten. Believe it or not, he’s actually taking a day’s leave tomorrow. I think he really needs it. He’s looking pretty tired lately.’
She escorts him into a spacious living room. Its centerpiece is a colossal stone fireplace. A log fire crackles and pops and throws out its cozy glow. She gestures for him to take a seat in one of two massive armchairs angled toward the fire, a lace-covered oak coffee table between them. As Doyle sits, she gets onto the other chair and curls her bare legs beneath her. Dwarfed by the chair, and with the sleeves of an oversized woolen sweater hiding her hands, she looks like a child waiting to be read a bedtime story.
‘So,’ she says, ‘how did you know I was up here?’
‘I didn’t. I went to your Manhattan apartment first. Your neighbor said you’d traveled up here.’
‘You should have phoned me. I could have told you where we were. Saved you all the trouble.’
He doesn’t answer. He looks around at the antique furniture, the sepia photographs on the walls. ‘Last time I was up here, it was summer. The barbecue, remember?’
She laughs girlishly. ‘I do. You pushed Schneider into the swimming pool and then claimed it was an accident.’
Doyle shrugs. ‘I’d had too much to drink. Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez were up here too. Remember that?’
Her smile fades in an instant. ‘Listen, Cal. It’s always a pleasure to see you — don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve become real good friends, but. . should you be here? I mean. .’
‘It’s okay, Nadine. I wasn’t followed. Nobody knows I’m here. You’re safe.’
He remembers giving a similar guarantee to Spinner, and look how that turned out.
‘I’m sorry, Cal. I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that. .’
‘Yeah, I know. A lot’s been happening. You’ve every right to be concerned. I just. . needed to see you.’
She glances at the mahogany-cased clock on the mantle. ‘Well, like I say, I think it could be some time before Mo gets here. .’
‘Actually, Nadine, I think maybe I need to talk with you first.’
She stares at him with those ice-blue eyes of hers. Christmas is all wrapped up in those eyes.
‘You must be freezing,’ she says finally. ‘Let me get you something. I make a mean hot chocolate. Marshmallows and everything.’
She starts to get up, but Doyle stops her with a raised hand.
‘No, please. Not for me. Can we just talk for a while?’
She sinks slowly back into the cushions. ‘Now you’ve got me worried. What’s going on, Cal?’
Doyle tries to find the words. He’s been trying to assemble them all the way up the Parkway.
‘I’ve been through a lot these past few days. I’m tired. Maybe I got this all wrong, but some things are bugging me.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘This guy. The one who’s been following me around, picking off my partners and my friends, threatening to
