him on his ass in a second — but a squaring off while some serious truth-seeking takes place. He doesn’t care if anyone else is there to listen. He needs to hear what Doyle has to say for himself. Doyle owes him that much, and he will demand that Doyle gives it up.
Except that there is no sign of Doyle in the squadroom. His desk is unoccupied. His jacket isn’t on his chair or the rack. LeBlanc came in here with adrenalin pumping through his system, and now he has no way of putting it to use.
‘What’s the matter, kid?’
This from Schneider, who has watched LeBlanc thunder into the squadroom like he’s about to tear it apart.
LeBlanc rounds on him. ‘I’m looking for Doyle. You seen him?’
‘Me? No. But then he’s not a guy I make it my business to find very often. Ain’t he supposed to be your partner?’
LeBlanc knows what Schneider’s doing. He’s saying:
‘That’s what I thought too,’ he snarls. ‘But hey, what do I know?’
Schneider raises his eyebrows in obvious surprise at the vehemence of LeBlanc’s reply.
‘I told you. Doyle doesn’t do partners. You get put with him, you still have to watch your own back. Remember that. Look after number one, kid, because you can be sure that’s what Doyle’s doing.’
LeBlanc doesn’t know what to do. This is unfamiliar territory. The last thing he wants is to jam up a fellow cop, especially his own partner. But Schneider is right. In his own blunt, opinionated way he is uttering wise words. LeBlanc needs to make sure he doesn’t end up getting accused of covering up for Doyle through his failure to speak out. He needs guidance. An older, wiser head to whom he can turn for help.
‘You wanna talk about it?’ says Schneider.
And there it is. The offer of assistance. Right here, right now.
‘You got a few minutes?’ LeBlanc asks.
The marks are already darkening into savage bruises. Purples, blues and greens stain almost his entire body, making it look as though it bears one huge abstract tattoo.
Proust is impressed by the workmanship.
One missing tooth, another broken in half, and a hairline fracture of one rib.
That’s pretty damned good. To be carrying all those marks and to have only those underlying injuries — well, that’s the sign of a true craftsman. Gowerson performed exactly as advertised. Proust has always admired those who not only have great skill, but who also go to great pains to make things just so.
Speaking of pains. .
The rib hurts like crazy. A red-hot dagger into the chest every time he breathes or moves, both of which he tends to do frequently. Who would have guessed that such a tiny crack could make its presence felt so emphatically?
The hospital staff told him there was nothing more they could do for the rib. Rest and strong painkillers is what they prescribed. They told him he was lucky to come through an assault like that with nothing more serious. Said he was, in fact, fortunate to be alive.
He wanted to laugh when they told him that. He does it now instead. Naked in front of the mirror, he lets out a long, loud burst of laughter, stopping only when the tears running down his cheeks are those not of amusement but of indescribable agony.
He hasn’t taken the painkillers. He wants to experience this pain. He is so used to others enduring pain at his hands in the tattoo shop, and yet he has suffered very little in his lifetime. He has never broken a bone before or had toothache or even a severe headache. Pain has always been something to avoid, to fear. He feels that he is somehow conquering that fear. He is becoming stronger. He can cope much more easily with what life may throw at him.
Bring it on, Doyle, you miserable, puny fuck. Bring it on.
FOURTEEN
‘You need to talk with her.’
This from Rachel, across the dinner table. It’s spaghetti bolognese tonight. Not fish. There shouldn’t be bones. If there are bones, then his wife has planted them there to teach him a lesson.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, even though he knows it’s pointless.
‘No, not tomorrow. I know what it’s like when you’re working a homicide. We hardly ever see you. You’ll be out before Amy is up for breakfast, and you’ll be home after she’s gone to bed. I’m not complaining about that. That’s just how it is. To be honest, I’m a little surprised you’re home right now. But since you are, you should take the opportunity to talk to Amy. It can’t wait, Cal.’
The reason Doyle is home right now is that it’s probably his only chance today to see his family and have a decent meal. He hasn’t told Rachel yet, but he’s got a busy night planned, and it doesn’t involve dancing or drinking. It doesn’t involve solving the murder of Megan Hamlyn either. As far as Doyle is concerned, he’s already nailed that one. All he needs to do now is find a way to prove it. And it’s precisely because of what he intends to do tonight that he is determined the couple of hours he can spend at home now will be friction-free.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Gimme five minutes, okay?’
She smiles at him. Doyle finishes his meal. Doesn’t find a single bone.
‘What’s for dessert?’ he asks.
‘Chocolate mousse,’ says Rachel. ‘It’ll be your reward for counseling Amy.’
Doyle frowns at her. ‘You do know that attempting to bribe a police officer is a felony, don’t you?’
‘It’s also an offense for an officer to accept a bribe. Let’s see what you do when the chocolate mousse is on the table in front of you.’
Doyle gets up from his chair and starts to head out of the living room.
‘This mousse better not be something you made up just to get your own way,’ he says.
He finds Amy in her bedroom. She’s lying on her bed, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her head buried in a book.
He’s had a lot of conversations with Amy in this room. For some reason, it has become a place of opening up, of voicing fears and innermost thoughts and wishes for the future. And not only by Amy. Doyle has often found himself putting his own opinions and worries under the spotlight during these brief one-on-ones with his only daughter. She has that effect on him. Her innocence and complete trust never fail to make him lower his shield.
‘Hey, sugar,’ he says. ‘What’s the book?’
She looks up at him, beams a cheeky smile. ‘Hi, Daddy. It’s about stromony.’
‘Stromony, huh? What’s that?’
She looks wide-eyed at him. ‘You don’t know what stromony is?’
‘Nope. Is it about dinosaurs?’
‘No, silly.’
‘Ponies?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Fairies?’
‘No, Daddy,’ she says in despair. ‘It’s about stars and planets and space.’
‘Ah. And little green moon goblins?’
‘No. No moon goblins. Don’t you know anything?’
‘Not a lot, I guess.’
He tries to dredge up a fascinating astronomical fact, and fails miserably. All that comes to mind is a
