‘He knows,’ says Doyle, which isn’t strictly true. But then Lonnie doesn’t want to know.
Gonzo nods unconvincingly.
‘I gotta go,’ says Doyle. He gets up and walks across this computer junkyard of an office. Just before he leaves he adds, ‘Call me tomorrow.’ Because genius that this kid is supposed to be, he seems like someone who could forget everything, including his own name, as soon as Doyle walks out the door.
For the rest of Doyle’s working day, nothing much happens. Which is not such a good thing. Because what he hoped was that someone would make a connection between the Mellish murder and the Bonnow murder. And nobody has. As far as the NYPD is concerned, these two killings are related only by the fact that they remain unsolved. They have different MOs, they were in different precincts, and there is nothing so far to suggest that the two women even knew each other. So why should anyone even conceive of a link between these two? Hell, it’s not as if there’s anyone calling up cops to suggest such a thing, now is there?
Officially, he’s still helping out on the Cindy Mellish case. Unofficially, he’s just going through the motions. He continues to chase up bookstore customers. He continues to call up people that might have known Cindy. He continues to feel guilt over his knowledge that it’s probably all such a waste of time and manpower.
He is so glad to get home. Away from other cops. Away from eyes that seem to dare him to reveal what he knows. For a few hours he can put all that to the back of his mind. He can enjoy a roast dinner with his family, a bicycle ride in Central Park, bath time with Amy, a glass of wine with Rachel. And when he finally goes to bed and melts into the warmth of his wife, he is almost convinced that there is nothing to worry about, that it will all work out in the end.
The call comes at midnight precisely.
When he blinks at the clock and the pale fuzzy light gradually forms into recognizable numerals and he sees 12:00 written in front of him, he knows the time has been chosen as a signal that this is no ordinary call. It’s the witching hour. Expect to be scared.
He hears the music before the phone even reaches his ear. It’s purely instrumental. An Irish jig.
‘Hello, Cal,’ says the smooth-talking sonofabitch.
Doyle climbs out of bed and staggers out of the bedroom, the phone clamped to his ear.
‘What do you want?’
‘I was just wondering how your day went. Did you find the diary?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘You’re too slow, Cal. You’re wasting time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘For saving lives. Speaking of which, it’s a shame about poor nurse Bonnow, don’t you think? You didn’t save her. Despite all the help I gave you, you didn’t do anything about it.’
Now in the living room, Doyle listens again to the song. He doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know what it’s called.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘I enjoy helping people, if that’s what you mean. That’s why I’m calling now. To offer my assistance again.’
‘Why me? Of all the cops in this city, why pick me?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Why does anyone donate to certain charities and not others? Let’s just say I think you’re a particularly worthy cause. I like to give where it’s most needed.’
‘Thanks, but I think you’ve done enough. I’m already overwhelmed by your benevolence. I’m sure they’ll put up a statue in your memory once you’re dead. Which I hope won’t be much longer.’
A low chuckle. ‘Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?’
‘Not really. This time of night, I’m more of a milk and cookies kinda guy.’
‘Really? Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink. Like it’s passed down in the genes or something. Your father wasn’t a drunk, was he, Cal? You have other reasons for detesting him.’
Doyle decides he’s not getting into this. He’s not giving this guy the pleasure of screwing with his mind.
‘Get to the point, asshole. I got a warm bed waiting for me.’
‘Okay, Cal. Get back to your bed. But I don’t think you’ll get much sleep. You’ve got work to do. And you’ve got less than twenty-four hours to do it in. Midnight precisely. That’s when it will happen. That’s when somebody else will die.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?’
‘I’ve told you all you need to know, Cal. Like I said before. Use your brain. Use your senses. Use what you’ve heard. Show me what a brilliant detective you are. Oh, and one other thing about the person who has just started their last day on this earth.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s somebody you know, Cal. Somebody you know pretty well.’
EIGHT
The caller was right about one thing. Doyle doesn’t get much sleep that night. He spends most of his time replaying the conversation in his mind. Over and over. Desperately trying to pick it apart for meaning. Looking for clues. Anything that will help him prevent another death.
Not for the first time he wishes he had asked for a trace on his phone, despite the warnings to the contrary he was given. But the only way he can do that is by making an official request to the Police Department, which is a sure way of alerting them to the cozy chats he’s been having with the killer.
He gets into work for six-thirty — an hour and a half before his shift is officially due to start. The desk sergeant tosses a joke at him about his wife throwing him out of bed. Doyle laughs it off and trudges upstairs to the squadroom. He spends the next hour reading through the DD5 reports — the fives — and all the other notes that have been made on the Cindy Mellish case.
And gets nowhere.
Interviews with dozens of people, but not a whiff of a solid lead. Doyle realizes he’s not going to find the killer this way. Not in the short time he’s got left.
People say goodbye and leave. New faces arrive and say hello. Doyle is largely unaware of the transitions taking place around him. His midnight chat is back on his mind. He flips to a fresh page on his notepad and starts making notes on all he can remember of the conversation. Trying to decide what’s relevant and what’s just filler. Looking for hidden meanings and subtle hints. Making connections, most of which he crosses out again as being absurd. But he has to consider all the possibilities, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. He can’t afford to get this wrong.
When he’s done that, he thinks about the only other possible pointer to the killer. The diary. If in fact it exists. And if Gonzo the wonder boy can find it. And if it does indeed contain some useful information, instead of being a pile of crap that’s going to be used to jerk him around some more.
All big ifs.
And time is ticking away, my friend.
The address has been used by many wishing to mock the New York accent.
The premises are situated above a nail salon. It has never entered Doyle’s head to consider getting a manicure, and he is surprised at how many people are not of like mind. He imagines that they do pedicures there too, then quickly blots out the thought. He’s seen quite a few corpses in his time, in various states of putrefaction, but the one thing guaranteed to turn his stomach is the idea of working on other people’s feet.
Upstairs, he knocks on a glass-paneled door and enters. The room’s sole occupant — a young girl hiding her beauty beneath too much make-up — sits behind a desk uncluttered with any signs of work. She slides a metal file along her own highly polished fingernails. Doyle wonders if she’s getting in some practice to apply for a job downstairs, because this place is dead.
