Alongside her desk, another door leads to an inner office. It’s half open, and Doyle can hear a man’s voice, presumably in the middle of a telephone conversation. He’s saying, ‘What the fuck, Marty? You can’t twist their arms a little? I’m offering them bottom-dollar here. Where else they gonna get peace of mind for a price like that? Jesus.’
Doyle approaches the girl’s desk. She presents him with a bright smile but nothing more.
‘I’d like to speak with Mr Repp.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Doyle displays his gold shield, and the girl responds by arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Through the door, the voice is saying, ‘Let me speak to him, Marty. . No, just put him on the goddamned phone, will ya?’
The girl tilts her nail file toward the door and states the obvious: ‘He’s on the phone just now.’
‘No problem,’ says Doyle, and heads into Repp’s office.
Travis Repp is lounging back in his executive chair, trying to look executive. Sharp blue suit and skinny tie. Gold rings on his fingers. Big flashy wristwatch. Blond hair flopping low over his forehead. He gives Doyle the once-over, but seems uninterested. He raises a finger, instructing Doyle to wait while he continues his phone call. Doesn’t even offer him a seat.
‘Mr Uterus. . I’m sorry, Mr Yurtis. I misheard my colleague. . Yes, I know what you told him, but I assure you that we can offer a better service than any of our competitors. .’
Doyle sighs and flashes the tin again. Repp glances at it, gives Doyle a look that says,
‘Yes, Mr Yurtis. . Manpower? Of course we do. I have a whole team of investigators here that I can call on if necessary. .’
Doyle looks around the empty office and wonders where they’re all hiding. He decides he’s had enough of this, and that Mr Yurtis could probably do with a break too. He leans forward and announces his presence like he’s about to raid the joint.
‘Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct.’
Repp clamps his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Jesus! What do you think you’re doing? You wanna put me out of business here?’ He speaks into the phone again. ‘Mr Yurtis, I’m sorry about. . Hello? Mr Yurtis?’
He slams the handset down and glares at Doyle. ‘Great. You know you probably just cost me that gig? What is it with you?’
‘Something we need to discuss.’ Doyle gestures toward a chair. ‘You mind?’
‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ He makes a show of looking at his watch. ‘Is this gonna take long? Because I’m kinda busy.’
‘Yeah, I saw the long line of people waiting outside. But I guess if you share them out among all your other investigators here. .’
‘Hey! This is business. This is how you do things when you gotta fight tooth and nail for every buck, instead of just sitting there waiting for your share of the taxpayers’ money to land in your account every month. Now don’t you got criminals to catch or something?’
‘Is why I’m here,’ says Doyle. He doesn’t like Repp. He came here thinking he might be able to reason with the man. His inclination now is to take the secretary’s nail file and rasp this prick’s fingers down to the bone.
‘Meaning what?’ Repp asks.
‘You have a client. Mrs Sachs.’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Sachs. A sweet old lady who lost her daughter on 9/11.’
Repp moves his jaw from side to side. ‘So?’
Doyle can see that he’s already rattled.
‘I need you to tell her the truth. I need you to tell her that her daughter’s dead.’
‘You’re obviously a very needy person, Detective. .’
‘Doyle.’
‘Detective Doyle. But I have to act in the best interests of my client. I can’t go making shit up just to please you. What is this, anyhow? Is this an official police investigation, or is it personal? Could it be you got the hots for Mrs Sachs?’
Doyle sighs again. ‘How much have you fleeced her for, so far?’
‘I haven’t fleeced nobody. Mrs Sachs is a client. She’s paying me for a service. A service I think I do pretty damn well, as it happens. I’m a licensed private investigator with an impeccable record. You want to start casting aspersions, take it up with my lawyers.’
‘I’m taking it up with you, Travis. Patricia Sachs is dead. I know it and you know it, and now her mother needs to know it too. And you’re the one who has to break it to her.’
Repp waves his arms wildly like he’s about to have an epileptic fit. ‘Who says she’s dead? Do you know that? Do you know it for certain? No, you don’t. Have you busted your ass investigating this case? No you haven’t. That would be me. And all the evidence tells me that Patricia Sachs may in fact be alive and well. And that’s what I’ve told her mother. No more, no less.’
Doyle pulls Mrs Sachs’s photograph from his pocket and slaps it down on the desk. ‘This your evidence?’
Repp glances at it, says nothing.
‘How long did it take you to fake that?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s a phony, Travis. Dozens of people all walking in the same direction, all looking where they’re going. All, that is, except one. How come she’s the only one who finds your photographer so interesting?’
Repp waggles his jaw again. ‘We have ways. Tricks to attract attention. Anyhow, I didn’t take this; it was one of my operatives.’
‘Neat trick, singling out one member of a crowd to look your way. Do Penn and Teller know about you? Where’d you get the headshot, Travis? From a corporate brochure? That looks to me like the face of somebody posing for a portrait. Neat cut and paste job, though, making it all grainy like that just to add the right element of doubt.’
Repp is quiet for a good ten seconds. ‘You finished? Because like I say, I got work to do.’
Doyle takes back the photo and stands up. ‘Finish it, Travis. Tell Mrs Sachs what she needs to hear about her daughter, and then leave her be. I don’t want to have to come back, and I’m sure you don’t want me back either.’
On the way out, Doyle receives a smile from the secretary. He gets the impression she really enjoyed listening to her boss being told what to do.
The worry returns with a vengeance once Doyle is back at his desk. The visit to Repp was a nice distraction, but it hasn’t gotten him any nearer to catching the killer that only he knows is of the serial variety. The weight on his mind is so intense it feels as though his brain is about to burst.
An hour later he sees Cesario heading toward his office. Cesario glances across, as if to say,
Doyle starts to rise from his chair, ready to pursue Cesario. He hasn’t rehearsed this. Doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to say. The only thing he does know is that he’s about to be crucified for revealing the truth at such a late stage. But it has to be worth it. If it might improve the chances of saving somebody’s life, does he really have any alternative?
The phone on his desk rings. He looks at it, trying to decide whether to answer it or to follow through with his decision to see Cesario. Out of the corner of his eye he notices another cop looking at him, wondering why he’s hesitating.
He sits down again, answers the phone.
‘Doyle.’
‘Cal? It’s Marcus, downstairs. I got someone here says he wants to see you. Won’t say what his business is, though. Won’t give his name neither.’
Marcus Wilson is the desk sergeant. The station house’s huge black gatekeeper. Three months after Doyle arrived at the Eighth, Wilson took over the desk from the previous sergeant — a man named Hanrahan. Whereas Hanrahan didn’t even notice half the people who walked past him, Wilson rapidly gained a reputation as a man
