grapevine about the death of their former sergeant. When they tell him about an unknown perp entering Hanrahan’s apartment and blowing his face off with a shotgun he has to react with the expected level of disbelief and horror. And he has to do all this without sounding like he’s a member of the local amateur dramatics society.
Because yes, this is theater. Doyle is an actor. Delivering lines already written in his mental script. And it has to be the most convincing portrayal of his life. Otherwise his audience will see him for what he really is and their faith will be gone.
But it’s difficult. Reality keeps wanting to intrude. It wants to point a huge finger at Doyle and say, ‘See this guy here? Well, he had information relating to the death of Hanrahan. Truth be known, he possessed it way before Hanrahan was killed. And you know what? He didn’t want to share it with any of you. He didn’t want to give any of you the chance to prevent the murder of your big old friendly desk sergeant. What do you think of that?’
He tries doing what he did previously: telling himself that it would have made no difference if he had revealed his inside information. But this time the assurances ring hollow. This time he knows he made a huge error of judgment. He had an Irish tune sounding loud and clear in his head, and he didn’t follow it up. He could have gone into a record store or called up a music society or a relative in Ireland and he could have hummed or whistled it to them, and maybe they would have known what it was. And if they had said, ‘Yeah, I know that tune; it’s called “Hanrahan’s Last”,’ then he wouldn’t have spent fruitless hours sitting in a bar on the wrong side of the city. So maybe a difference
Of course he should. He is painfully aware of this. It’s excruciating. It’s why he is exasperated and despondent and furious.
And it’s why he’s bringing this to an end. Initiating divorce proceedings. No more relationship with the mysterious helper.
He can’t bear the awful pressure.
He can’t live with knowing.
It means becoming a cop again. No inside knowledge means he has to do what other detectives do. He has to rely on shoe leather and his dialing finger and his wits and his questioning skills to get at the truth. Just as he would normally do in an investigation.
Jesus, what a relief that is.
Except that it’s not so simple. He wants to talk to Gary Bonnow, husband of the murdered nurse. Only he lives in Brooklyn, and Doyle doesn’t have a good excuse to go driving over to Brooklyn and back right now. So he decides to call him on the phone. Only he can’t make the call from the squadroom for fear of somebody overhearing and wondering what the hell he’s doing posing questions concerning a case that has nothing to do with him. So he goes for a short stroll to grab a coffee, and on his way back he gets into his car and makes the call from his cellphone. And as he dials he thinks back on the talk he had when Gonzo turned up unannounced at the station house, and he wonders how many more times he will use this car for clandestine conversations like this. So much for becoming Detective Normal again.
The voice that answers the phone sounds weary. Doyle figures that this man has probably spent a lot of time on the phone these past few days.
‘Mr Bonnow? This is Detective Doyle at the Eighth Precinct. We haven’t met, but I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a coupla questions relating to your wife. Would that be okay?’
‘Well, ya know, I’m not so sure. I don’t know if there’s anything more I can tell you guys. I don’t really know anything. Do we have to do this now?’
‘I’ll be real quick, I promise. Just a coupla things I’m sure my colleagues haven’t asked you yet.’
Doyle gets a long silence, followed by a sigh. ‘Okay, shoot.’
‘Mr Bonnow, do you know if your wife kept a diary?’
‘A diary?’
Doyle can hear the surprise in the man’s voice. He was expecting a question he’s already been asked a million times, and for a change he didn’t get one.
Bonnow repeats himself: ‘A diary?’
‘Yes, a diary. A journal. Or maybe just a notebook she liked to write in. Did she have anything like that?’
‘No. Lorna wasn’t a big writer. She was never even sure what to put in birthday cards, ya know?’
‘Okay. Here’s my other question. Did Lorna own a computer?’
‘A computer?’ Again, the question has thrown him. ‘No. She hated computers. Technology was never her thing. She always came to me just to work the DVD player.’
‘Okay, thank you, Mr Bonnow. That’s all I wanted to know.’
‘That’s all? I don’t get it. Those questions are kinda strange. I mean, a diary and a computer? I don’t get it.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Bonnow. Sometimes we hear things and we have to follow them up, and it can all seem a little weird. You might get a few more weird questions as the investigation proceeds. It just means we’re doing our job.’
‘Oh. Well, okay then. It’s just. . well, I loved her, ya know? Even though she went with that other guy. . I kind of understand why she did that. So, I was. . well, I was hoping for a little
‘I understand. Give us time. We’ll catch him.’
Doyle rings off. He too was hoping for a little more. He wanted a connection. A pattern. If the nurse had kept a diary or owned a computer, just as Cindy Mellish did, then that could have meant something. As it is, it’s just another dead end.
But there has to be a link of some kind. The killer has gone to far too much trouble for the victims to have been selected purely at random. There is a thread of some kind tying these three murdered people together.
Doyle just can’t see what it is.
Doyle waits until his lunch break before making his next excursion. When he arrives at the apartment building on Charles Street, he first of all checks that there are no parked cars that look like they might belong to the NYPD. Satisfied, he goes looking for the wife of Sean Hanrahan. He doesn’t find her, but the building superintendent tells him that she is staying with her daughter on Jones Street, just a few blocks away.
Doyle drives down to the address. It’s a low-rise Greek Revival rowhouse situated between a café and a record store with a stone-cladding fascia that makes Doyle queasy just to look at it.
A woman aged about thirty opens the door of the first-floor apartment and directs a gaze filled with suspicion at Doyle.
‘Yes?’
‘I, uh, I’m looking for Mrs Hanrahan.’
‘Are you a police officer?’
‘Yes, but I was also a friend of Sergeant Hanrahan. Was he. . was he your father?’
‘Look, this is not a good time, okay? My mother, she’s not in the best of health. She’s tired, she’s upset, and right now she could do with a rest. So if this isn’t urgent-’
‘I’ll only take a few minutes of her time. Please.’
He sees her wavering. This is a lawman at her door, and as a good law-abiding citizen she wants to do what’s right. But as a grieving daughter she also wants to tell him to fuck off and leave them alone. And Doyle understands that perfectly. He wonders what she would do if he told her how he failed to save her father’s life last night.
‘Who is it, dear?’
The voice comes from inside the apartment. Its owner comes into view. Doyle sees a flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes.
‘We’ve met before,’ she says. ‘Detective. .’
‘Doyle,’ he says. ‘Cal Doyle. Hello, Mrs Hanrahan.’
