Pariah

‘Cal Doyle.’

‘Cal? Is he okay? Has he been trying to get hold of me?’

He reaches into his pocket and produces his cellphone, then starts checking it for messages.

‘No. He wanted to talk to me. He has a lot of worries. About what’s happening to him. About the lack of progress on his case.’

A sigh. ‘I already talked to him about this. It’s a tough case. He’s just gotta hang in there.’

‘Yes. That’s what I told him too. Only he’s got some new theories about it. Some idea about the only true targets being Joe Parlatti and Tony Alvarez, with everything else being just stage fog.’

He barks a mirthless laugh. ‘What? Is he crazy? What’s he talking about? And why you, Nad? Why’s he telling you all this? If he’s got something to discuss about the case, why doesn’t he come to me?’

She listens to his dismissal. There’s a hollow ring to it that sickens her.

‘Could he be right, Mo? About all this boiling down to the murder of two cops? Is there any reason why someone would have wanted Joe and Tony dead, other than to hurt Cal Doyle?’

‘What? No. We would have picked it up already, the manpower we have on this.’

‘Even with everyone looking the other way because of Cal? Has it ever crossed your mind, Mo? Have you looked into that possibility, or asked any of your squad to do it?’

‘Well. . no. But only because it’s so ridiculous.’

‘Or because you didn’t want anyone to look into it.’

The silence then is ominous. Her thoughts came out faster than she wanted them to, her accusation more direct than she intended. Her words hang in the air like a death knell.

‘What are you saying, Nadine?’ His voice is gruff now. Stern.

‘Mo, I have to ask you this. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Joe and Tony?’

She wants a sudden explosion of denial. An outcry of indignation. A burst of emotion that is real and from the heart and believable. What she gets is a silent stony glare that splinters her heart.

‘How could you ask me that?’ he says. He gets to his feet and averts his face, unable to meet her eyes any longer. To Nadine it’s just another telltale sign.

She stands up too, but doesn’t go to him. ‘Mo, I’m sorry, but I need to know. I need you to tell me you had no involvement in this. I need you to convince me.’

He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, but still faces the wall. ‘I shouldn’t have to say anything, Nadine. You should trust me enough not to be asking these questions. My guess is you’ve already made up your mind. My guess is there’s nothing I can say that will save me in your eyes.’ His head snaps toward her and his gaze locks on her again. ‘Am I wrong? Haven’t you already tried and convicted me? Are you even willing to listen to anything I say in my defense?’

He looks away again. She can see his jaw muscles flexing as his anger builds.

‘I’ll listen, Mo. So tell me. Tell me where you were when Joe was being killed. Tell me why you had to work so late on the night Tony was murdered. Tell me what you were doing when that man Spinner was being tortured to death. Explain to me why you told Cal you met up with me to go shopping on Saturday.’

Mo shakes his head. ‘Boy, Doyle did a real number on you, didn’t he?’

‘Tell me, Mo.’

‘Jesus, Nadine, listen to yourself. Listen to how insane this all sounds.’

She takes a step closer to him. ‘Tell me. Tell me you didn’t kill those two detectives. Tell me you didn’t kill those other people. Tell me you didn’t hurt Cal and his family. Tell me!’

When he turns on her, he is like a ravenous Rottweiler taken off its leash. His hands fly from his pockets and his face contorts into a mask of fury. His wiry frame seems suddenly energized and ready to spring. Nadine cannot help herself from jumping back in fright.

‘And you give me a reason!’ he yells at her. ‘Give me one good fucking reason why I would want to kill two of my own men. Two young, ambitious detectives who I saw as my friends. What reason would I have, Nadine? What possible fucking reason could that be, huh?’

And in that rant he gives her what she dreaded. In what appears to be a series of questions he is really giving her an answer.

She takes another step back, the tears flooding down her cheeks. When she finds her voice again, it is but a whisper.

‘You killed them.’

He sighs again. ‘What do you want from me, Nadine?’

‘I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me that you killed Joe and Tony. I want you to admit to me what you did to Cal.’

He lowers his head, as if in defeat. He seems drained again. He looks almost relieved at this chance to unburden himself.

And so she is unprepared when he suddenly closes the gap between them and grabs hold of her shirt.

She gives a short yelp and tries to pull away, but he grits his teeth and rips open her shirt, sending buttons pinging and exposing her breasts.

She stares in wide-eyed fear as he looks down at her chest and then slowly brings his gaze up to her face.

‘You bitch!’ he says. ‘You fucking bitch!’

He lets go of her shirt with one hand, uses it to punch her hard in the face. Her head bounces backwards and forwards like she’s a toy, and her brain struggles against the internal fireworks as she tries to come up with a plan to save herself.

But her husband has already decided how things will be.

‘Get in here, Cal!’ he yells into the microphone taped below her left breast. ‘Get in here now, or she dies. And bring the recording equipment with you.’

THIRTY

Doyle leaves his car in its hiding place in the woods, and approaches the house on foot. When he reaches the porch he sees that the front door is already open. He stops and peers through the mesh of the porch screen. Franklin is in the hall, one arm around Nadine’s neck, the other holding a gun to her temple. Nadine is clearly struggling for breath. One of her hands paws at the arm which is choking her, while the other tries to keep her shirt closed over her torso.

‘Inside, Cal!’ Franklin commands. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

Since Doyle is carrying the recording equipment, it’s easy to comply with the order. He moves into the hall, follows Franklin as he shuffles backward, dragging Nadine with him. Her face is almost purple, her eyes bulging.

In the living room, Franklin flicks his gun muzzle toward a small table near the window.

‘Put the gear on there. Then your gun. Slow and easy.’

Doyle groans mentally at the thought of surrendering his weapon yet again, but does as he is told.

‘Move away,’ Franklin says.

Doyle takes a few steps to his right, his hands raised slightly, his eyes fixed on the man who has been both his boss and his persecutor.

Franklin lifts a foot from the floor, and kicks one of the armchairs so it now faces away from the fire. He spins Nadine around and shoves her down into the chair. Her shirt flaps open and she clutches it around her again.

‘Sit!’ he tells her. ‘Don’t move!’

Doyle says, ‘What now, Mo?’

Franklin doesn’t answer. He walks over to the table, picks up Doyle’s Glock and slides it under his waistband. He presses a button on the black box that Doyle set down. A small door flips open, and Franklin takes out the cassette. He moves back to the fireplace and tosses the tape onto the glowing logs. Within seconds, flames lick