squad hearing all kinds of negative things about you, and most of the time you prove to me they’re unfounded. Then you go and do something stupid like this, and all my doubts come jumping back again. When are you going to start thinking about the consequences of your actions?’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Lou,’ says Doyle. He gets up from his seat.
Big mistake.
‘
Doyle sits again. Thinks, This is not going well.
There is a moment’s silence while they wait for the echoes of Cesario’s roar to die away. Doyle realizes they must have heard it out in the squadroom. Schneider is probably having the time of his life.
Says Cesario, ‘Tell me what happened when you went to see Proust this afternoon.’
Doyle shrugs. ‘I asked him some questions. He answered them. We left.’
‘That’s all? No pressure tactics? No need to twist his arm a little to refresh his memory?’
‘Why? What does Proust say?’
‘He says you frightened the living daylights out of him. He says he doesn’t want to go into detail or put a complaint on record, but you came on real strong with him. Any truth in that? You think maybe you overstepped the mark?’
Before Doyle can answer, LeBlanc pipes up. ‘Proust got a little overexcited, Lou. His behavior became threatening. At one point we had to restrain him physically. My opinion, we used minimum force.’
Cesario looks at LeBlanc in surprise. Doyle feels a little surprised too, given the ankle-high rating he must now have in LeBlanc’s eyes.
Cesario addresses Doyle again. ‘You got a good partner there, Cal. Treat him like one. Show him what a good cop you can be when you want to.’
To Doyle it sounds like the sermon is over, but after what happened last time he thinks he should check.
‘We done here?’
The way Cesario looks at him makes Doyle realize his response was perhaps a little curt. Maybe a more deferential ‘Yes, sir’ would have been better. Never ask me to be a diplomat, he thinks.
‘Not quite,’ says Cesario, as though feeling the need to punish Doyle for his impudence. ‘I want to make things clear before you go. From now on, Proust is off-limits, understand?’
‘What? That’s crazy. He’s a suspect, Lou. No, scratch that. He is
‘You bring me something concrete to implicate him in all this, then maybe I’ll change my mind. Until then, you back off. If we need to talk to this guy, then fine, Tommy does it. Without you present. I’m not giving this guy a chance to sue my ass for ignoring his complaint. And if you hassle him again, I’ll take you off the case and glue you to a desk for the rest of your days. Do you get what I’m saying to you, Cal?’
Doyle doesn’t answer. He can’t say no, and he doesn’t want to give Cesario the satisfaction of hearing him acquiesce.
Cesario says, ‘Now get out of my sight, the pair of you. Run this like you would run any other case, preferably without letting prejudice cloud your judgment.’
Doyle stands up and heads for the door. LeBlanc is right behind him. As soon as they get back into the squadroom, LeBlanc starts up.
‘Cal, you got a few minutes for me? We need to talk.’
Doyle doesn’t want to talk. After the verbal assassination he’s just been through in Cesario’s office, talking is the last thing on his agenda. He heads toward where his coat is hanging on a rack, still drying off.
‘Cal, are you listening to me? I said we need to discuss this.’
Doyle glances at Schneider, who has tipped his chair back on two legs. His arms are behind his head and there’s a stupid smirk on his ugly mug. Doyle wishes like hell for those chair legs to snap.
He grabs his coat and starts to put it on as he heads out the door.
LeBlanc calls after him. ‘Where the hell are you going? Why are you doing this, man?’
And then Doyle stops listening. He doesn’t want to debate and he doesn’t want to listen.
He just wants to act.
Proust is at work when Doyle gets there. A shirtless guy is having a mermaid tattooed on his upper arm. He’s big, but it’s mostly flab. Doyle walks across the room and casts his shadow over Proust.
‘We need to talk. In private.’
The bare-chested client nudges Doyle’s arm with the back of his hand.
‘Hey, asshole. We’re busy. Come back another time.’
Doyle gives the man his best look of disdain, then turns again to Proust.
‘Let’s go out back.’
Another nudge, harder this time. ‘You deaf or just stupid? I said come back later.’
Doyle looks at the man again. ‘You touch me one more time and I’ll break every finger on your hand. And then I’m gonna take that tattoo gun and write “Nil by Mouth” across your forehead. Might help you shift some of that ugly fat you’re carrying.’
‘Right, that’s it! You fucking piece of shit.’
Incensed, the man starts to shift his bulk. His pallid flesh quivers as he struggles to raise himself from the reclined chair.
Doyle puts his left hand around the man’s throat and forces him back into the chair. His right hand whips out his detective shield and suspends it two inches in front of the man’s nose.
‘Don’t get yourself so worked up, fatso. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. At the very least you’ll get your ass kicked before I throw you in the slammer.’
‘You didn’t say you was a cop.’
‘Yeah, well, think of it as a test of your social skills. You got a failing grade, by the way. Now do you wanna stay and appeal the decision, or do you wanna go get a coffee for ten minutes while I talk to Michelangelo here?’
‘I, uhm, I could do with a beer.’
‘Sure you could. There’s a good bar on the corner of this block. They don’t even have an anti-obesity policy. Take your time.’
Doyle releases his grip, then helps the man out of the chair. He waits until the man has dressed and left the building before he turns his burning gaze on Proust.
Proust backs away a little, cowering just as he did on their previous encounter.
‘Cut the act, Stanley. There’s nobody else here to see it.’
‘What act? I’m not acting, man. You’re here to scare me. You wanna hurt me.’
‘I’m not here to hurt you. Not this time. I’m here to warn you.’
‘W-warn me about what?’
‘It’s not gonna work, Stan. Calling up my boss. Putting in complaints about me. All you’ve done is made me mad. It ain’t gonna stop me coming after you. In fact, you’ve just started a whole new ball game. From now on, I only come here alone. No partner to see what I might do to you. And that way, I can deny I was ever here. You haven’t made yourself safe, Stan. You’ve made it a hundred times worse for yourself. Think about that before you try to jam me up again.’
Proust shrinks back against the counter. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t touch those girls. I never even met them. You’ve got it all wrong about me.’
Doyle steps forward. Gets right in Proust’s face. So close he can smell the onions he must have had on his sandwich.
‘It’s just you and me now, Stanley. Nobody can save you. Start being afraid.’
Doyle stands there for a while. Allowing time for this moment, this threat, this promise, to burn itself into Proust’s consciousness.
When he finally turns and leaves, he feels himself trembling. He runs through the rain and gets into the car. He looks at his hands. They’re shaking, and he has to grip the steering wheel tightly to stop them.
He wonders what he’s becoming.
