He nods. And then he leaves, wishing he could rely a little less on luck and a lot more on certainty.
TWENTY-NINE
A song by the Black Eyed Peas comes on the car radio. Doyle turns it up and hums along.
He’s parked on West 13th Street. Travis Repp lives on the first floor of a three-story apartment building. The stoop of the building is separated from the sidewalk by a gated fence that encloses a small, well-kept garden containing lots of shrubs. Doyle got the address from a copy of Repp’s application for a private investigator’s license.
He checks the clock on the dash. Six-thirty. An hour and a half before the killer is due to strike, but Doyle is taking no chances. He wants to see everyone who enters and leaves that building from now on. Hell, he wants to check out anyone who so much as glances at that building. He’s gonna catch this son of a bitch.
He’s going to catch him here because Repp is the next victim.
We know that, don’t we, Doyle?
The name of the band is Travis. The killer talked about people who are distractions or irritants. Well, there’s no bigger irritant than Travis Repp. Who else could it be?
But on the other hand. .
Doesn’t it seem just a little bit too easy?
The caller knew that Doyle would check out the song. He knew that Doyle had failed to do so properly before, and that it had cost a life, so there was no doubt that he would check it out fully this time.
So why would he make it so easy?
And this idea of psychologists linking all the victims together. Isn’t it just a little bit tenuous? They all saw a shrink. All except Vasey, who, it seems, didn’t consult a shrink. But he is one, so that’s okay. That ties it all up in a nice pink bow.
Yeah, like hell it does. For one thing, what about Repp? Did he ever have a need for therapy?
Doyle doesn’t know the answer. He knows next to nothing about Repp, let alone why he’s been selected as the killer’s next target.
A car slows as it passes Doyle, then pulls into the curb just outside Repp’s building. Doyle sinks down low in his seat and watches as the driver gets out. It’s Travis Repp. He doesn’t even glance in Doyle’s direction. Just goes straight into his building and closes the door.
‘It’s okay, man,’ Doyle mutters. ‘I’m watching your back. Scumbag that you are, I’m gonna keep you alive.’
A song from the cast of Glee comes on the radio. Doyle turns it right down again.
Almost seven-forty. Doyle is getting antsy. The only sign of anything possibly happening was half an hour ago when another car pulled up in front of Repp’s, and a suited guy got out and pushed through the iron gate. But he was quickly joined by the car’s passenger — a woman who was yelling after her partner — and it became clear to Doyle that they were just a bickering couple who lived in the same building. Since that brief flurry of excitement, nobody has ventured anywhere near Repp’s place. Nobody has given it the once-over. Nobody has pulled up in a car and sat there waiting. Other than Doyle himself, that is — a fact which is starting to make him distinctly uncomfortable.
He has given himself a deadline. Five minutes to eight. At that time, he will march up to Repp’s building and sound his buzzer and demand to come in. He will enter on the pretext of wanting to talk about the scam that Repp is running. In reality, he will be there to save Repp’s life. Even if it means revealing his presence to the killer, Doyle knows he can’t stay out here on the street when there’s a man in there who is about to die.
And if the killer shows, great. Who knows? Maybe he’s already inside the place. He could have been waiting in there all day, just waiting to pounce as the clock strikes eight. Go for it, thinks Doyle. Give me the chance to plug you, you piece of shit.
There’s a complication, of course. It has nagged at Doyle several times, but so far he has refused to think about it too hard. What if the killer decides to go quietly? What if he puts his hands up and surrenders and invites Doyle to take him in, giving him the opportunity to spill everything he knows about Doyle? How prepared is Doyle to let that happen?
Because if he’s not, his only other option might be to take the life of a man who is no longer a threat. Sure, he deserves to die. No doubt about it. For Tabitha and all the others, he should take a bullet. Doyle could repeat that to himself any number of times after he fired his gun. But would that be enough to make it right?
Doyle shakes his head. He can’t worry about such things. He has to just let it play out, and worry about the consequences later.
But he would so like to take that man off this earth. He has never felt so strongly about eliminating someone before now. With him gone, the whole city would breathe a sigh of relief. There would be one less cause of misery in the world.
As if the victims hadn’t suffered enough already. Tabitha, especially, when she lost her parents. But also Hanrahan, with his partner being killed in that shoot-out. Look what that did to him. And then there was. .
Wait a minute!
Doyle tenses up so much he feels as though all his ligaments should snap. Ants crawl along his scalp. His mind has already worked something out, but he’s not sure what it is yet.
Okay, start with Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. She was dumped by her boyfriend, and it really messed up her head. Ditto Lorna Bonnow when she lost her baby. And Vasey. .
Yes! It fits.
Vasey was kicked to the curb by the delectable Anna Friedrich. She revealed as much to Doyle only hours ago.
Loss. Could this be about loss?
Could it be that it’s not about the fact that these people were connected with psychologists, but about what drove them to seek help in the first place? Is that what this is?
Doyle runs the notion through his head again and again. It feels right. Only. .
Repp. What’s his loss? His failing business? Some girlfriend or wife in his past?
Doyle once more curses the fact that he knows zilch about Repp. Doesn’t know whether there’s a Repp- shaped hole in this puzzle or not.
Slow it down, Doyle. Think it through some more.
They all suffered some kind of loss. A deep loss that affected them profoundly. At least in most cases. According to his wife, Vasey claimed to be devastated, but probably wasn’t. But maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s what the killer believed that matters.
So what did they do because of this loss? They went to see a shrink. Yeah, but. .
Maybe that’s not it.
They were suffering, or claimed to be suffering. Tabitha was hurting so badly she even decided to commit suicide. Pretty ironic when you think about it, the way she was planning to end it all.
Surely not?
Doyle’s heart hammers against his chest. His brain feels as though it could burst with the blood that is surging through it.
He takes out his cellphone and selects a number from his contact list.
‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Holden.’
‘Jay? It’s Cal. Can you do something for me?’
‘No, is the answer that jumps to my lips. And that’s even before I’ve heard what it is you want. That’s what you’ve done to our relationship, man. I hope you’re satisfied.’
Doyle ignores the sarcasm. ‘I need some numbers.’
‘Yeah? How about six-six-six? There’s something not totally right about you lately, like you’re possessed or something.’
