Pariah

‘Go on,’ she says.

‘I told you that Mo was on his way home, because that’s what he told me. And you seemed surprised at that, like you weren’t expecting him home until much later.’

This time she says nothing. Just waits.

‘So was he there when you got back? Or did he get in much later?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Was he in the apartment when Tony Alvarez was being killed?’

So there it is. He’s crossed the line, and he can see as much on Nadine’s face.

‘Cal, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’

Doyle has no choice but to press on. ‘What about the previous night, when Joe was killed? Was Mo home then?’

‘He works hard. You know that. He’s a hard-working, hands-on cop. He’s out all kinds of strange hours, just like you are, Cal. Now before you say another word, I think you need to-’

‘What about Saturday, Nadine?’

‘Saturday? What about it?’

‘That’s the day Spinner was killed. According to Mo, he was in a meeting at police headquarters that afternoon.’

‘And?’

‘You’re right. Nothing unusual in that. No reason to doubt him. Except that he said something else too. He said that directly after leaving 1PP he met up with you to do some Christmas shopping.’

Nadine’s silence says everything.

Doyle continues: ‘All perfectly normal too, right? Nothing suspicious there. In fact, it was only today that it clicked with me. He couldn’t have gone shopping with you.’

Nadine is angry now. Angry and fearful. ‘Why, Cal?’ she snaps. ‘Why couldn’t he? Suppose I say he was shopping with me? What then?’

‘You’d be lying. Saturday evening was when Amy was in the dance competition. And you were there. I remember Rachel telling me you were going to be there. You weren’t available to go shopping because you were at the dance competition. Am I wrong about that, Nadine? Am I?’

Nadine’s eyes well up and glisten with the reflected light of the fire. Through tight, trembling lips she says, ‘Do you know what you’re accusing him of, Cal? I heard about what happened to Spinner. He was tortured. For a long time. And then his throat was cut. Do you really believe that Mo is capable of such a thing? He’s my husband, Cal. Your boss. He’s always said great things about you. You brought a lot of baggage with you to the Eighth, and he’s always defended you. Do you think he could turn on you like this? Do you think he deserves this kick in the teeth from you?’

‘I don’t want to believe it, Nadine. Really I don’t. But it all fits. The person who’s doing this is a cop, and it has to be a cop who knows a lot about me. He had to know a lot about Joe too, and the fact that Tony had interviewed Cavell. And there’s something else. .’

Nadine sniffs. ‘What?’ she asks, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t really want to hear the answer.

‘Something else that Mo said on Saturday, when he came to Spinner’s apartment. He was giving me a hard time, letting rip at me for all the mistakes I was making. One of the things he didn’t like was the fact I had an unlogged meeting with an informant.’

‘So?’

‘I hadn’t told him about that meeting. I hadn’t told anyone about it. The only way Mo could have found out about it is if he was the one who killed Spinner.’

Nadine shakes her head, gets to her feet.

‘You’re wrong. There has to be another explanation. Mo couldn’t do all this. You’re wrong.’

She moves closer to the fire. She slides a poker from its beaten-copper holder. Idly, she pokes it into the logs. They hiss at her like disturbed rattlesnakes.

Doyle stands up. ‘The guy I met with last night? Someone paid a lot of money to have him killed. Most cops I know don’t have that kind of money. Mo does, though. This house, the inheritance from his mother. He must be worth a fortune now. I hear he plans to retire next year.’ She stabs at the logs more vigorously. Doyle takes a step closer. ‘I’m sorry, Nadine, but it all fits. It’s the only possible answer.’

She whirls on him, brandishing the poker. The glowing red tip is a foot from his face.

‘Then answer me this,’ she yells at him. The tears are streaming down her face now, and he hates that he’s doing this to her. ‘Why, Cal? Why would Mo do it? Why would he want to kill Joe and Tony?’

Doyle looks at her pain. Sees beyond it to the understanding and the damage it has done.

‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

They stand there for a full minute, either side of a broken friendship, until Nadine’s arm begins to shake with the weight of the outstretched poker. Finally she lowers it and pushes it back into the fire, coaxing new life from it.

Doyle waits patiently for her response. He waits for words that will either form the last piece of the puzzle, or else will leave him wondering whether he has somehow got this terribly, horribly wrong.

‘I’d like you to leave now, Cal,’ she says, giving him neither.

TWENTY-NINE

She waits alone in front of the fire. Even though the logs are now just glowing embers, she has removed the woolen sweater that was covering her white silk shirt. She has also slipped on some shoes and combed her hair. Because for some reason she doesn’t want to feel cozy and snug and Christmassy. She wants — needs — to be businesslike and objective and distanced from that precipice which seems so perilously close to her feet.

She curses Doyle for coming here tonight. He was supposed to be a pariah. He should have acted like one. He should have stayed away.

But he didn’t. And the demons followed him, bringing not death this time but destruction and misery of a different form.

She hears the car approaching, sees the flash of headlights across the drapes. The slam of a car door. The jangle of keys. The unlatching of the front door. The steps across the hallway.

She manufactures a smile as he enters the living room.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hey,’ she echoes.

‘Long day.’

‘When isn’t it? You eaten?’

He looks at her, puzzlement and suspicion in his gaze.

‘Yeah. I grabbed something earlier. Are you. . is everything okay?’

‘Mo, can I talk to you, please?’

For a long time he doesn’t answer. He puts his hands on his hips and looks her up and down, appraising her. As if thinking, What is this? What is this woman doing, getting above her station like this? Where’s the welcome-home Scotch and the sexy negligee and all the other things in our contract? Where did it say she could ask for a damn conversation, for Christ’s sake?

‘Sure. What’s wrong?’

She sits down on one of the armchairs, then gestures for Mo to do likewise. Mo stares at the chair like it’s haunted, before finally stepping across the room and lowering himself onto it.

She studies his face. She sees the tiredness there. But more than that she thinks she sees turmoil. An immense tension inside, pulling him in on himself, making him appear small and withdrawn and incredibly old.

‘I had a phone call tonight,’ she lies.

‘Who from?’