Pariah (5 page)

The building is a brownstone on West Eighty-seventh Street, close to Central Park. It has wrought ironwork and stone lions above the doorway and the original stoop and hardwood floors. And he
could never afford to live here. Not on the salary of a New York Detective, Second Grade. Not even if he were ever to make First Grade – an increasingly unlikely prospect, in his view.

He has his wife, Rachel, to thank for this place. Which is okay: he’s not so Neanderthal that he can’t live with that. But she in turn has her parents to thank for the apartment.
Which is not so okay. Doyle hates the thought of being indebted. He especially hates the idea of being indebted to two people who refuse to recognize or approve of anyone unless they’re rich,
white, right wing, and not a member of the Police Department.

Doyle turns the key in the lock of his apartment door and pushes it open. He hears raised voices, laughter, and feels drained by the prospect of having to dredge up polite conversation. When he
identifies the owners of the voices, things don’t seem so gloomy.

He walks up the short hallway, glancing at the framed black-and-white photographs taken by Rachel, especially that one of Amy wearing a summer dress and a goofy smile.

In the living room there are more photos on the walls, including one of him shirtless, which he keeps asking Rachel to consign to the bedroom. Tan leather furniture surrounds a glass coffee
table atop an Aztec-pattern rug. In one corner of the room is a small desk with computer equipment.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he says as he enters.

The two women parked on the sofa turn their heads to face him. Their bodies are still angled toward each other, and Doyle feels slightly awkward at the suspicion that he has just cut into one of
those deep discussions that men must never be allowed to hear, on pain of death.

The visitor’s name is Nadine. She is blond, petite, and never wears a bra. She is, Doyle knows, twenty-four years old, but looks as though she has never escaped her teens. At the moment
she is wearing a clingy silk dress. Her legs are crossed, and the dress rides high over her bare thighs. She has kicked off her shoes, and her button toes curl and uncurl as she beams at him.

If you could capture and bottle the essence of sexual desire, you’d have to call it Nadine. The girl can’t help it. It’s just there. Whenever she walks into a crowded room
it’s to the accompaniment of male jawbones hitting the floor. What makes it worse, in Doyle’s view, is that she seems oblivious to her powers, and therefore makes no attempt to
counteract her allure. Not that he’s sure how she could ever achieve that. She could put on a hazmat suit and still have the ability to straighten the Tower of Pisa.

More surprising to Doyle is that Nadine is married. To his boss, Lieutenant Morgan Franklin. A man who is twice her age. It’s a fact that constantly causes Doyle to battle the cynic within
himself. Love is unpredictable, he reasons; it shines through in the most unexpected of circumstances. This is a bond which has nothing to do with the substantial inheritance that came to Franklin
when his mother died. It has no connection to the colossal house in Westchester County they now own in addition to their Manhattan apartment.

‘Hello, Cal,’ Nadine says.

Two words, Doyle thinks to himself. A perfectly commonplace, matter-of-fact greeting. So why does it sound like she’s just invited me to take her clothes off?

‘Hi, hon,’ says the sofa’s other occupant.

Already feeling the guilt of keeping his eyes glued on Nadine for a split-second longer than is advisable, Doyle shifts his gaze to his wife. Rachel is wearing a baggy red Gap T-shirt and faded
denim jeans. Her long dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. Her expression is saying to him,
Look, I know you’re a guy and Nadine is, well, Nadine, but can you just remember that
this is your wife sitting here watching you drool like an elderly St Bernard?

In return he flashes her a twisted smile that says,
You’re jealous, even though there’s nothing to be jealous about, and I love you for it, and that’s why I like to tease
you.

And she smiles back and arches an eyebrow that says,
Keep on doing it, buster, and see what happens.

And
that,
Doyle thinks, is what makes the difference. The telepathy. The ability to convey volumes of information without uttering a word. Nadine, in all her eye-catching glory, is still
just candy when it comes down to it. What he sees in Rachel’s eyes is what he first saw all those years ago when she was showing him around a crummy studio in Washington Heights. For some
reason he found himself opening up to her, and it was only some time after she told him he could do better than this that he realized she wasn’t talking about the apartment. It was later,
too, that he discovered she wasn’t some lowly junior, but that in fact her father owned the realty company and a lot more besides.

What he also sees in those eyes is the look of devotion and conviction that he saw when she was forced to defy her parents’ warnings to stay away from Doyle, opening a family gulf that
still tears her apart.

Doyle inclines his head toward one of the bedrooms. ‘Amy gone to bed?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Rachel says, and it sounds to Doyle as though there is still a hint of admonition in there somewhere. ‘She left you this.’

She leans forward, slips a sheet of paper from the coffee table and holds it out to Doyle. He takes it from her and stares fondly at the colorful drawing of the house and the deranged-looking
animal that towers above it. Some penciled writing begins tight in the top left corner and gradually droops to the bottom right:

‘That’s pretty good,’ Doyle says. ‘She get any help with this?’

‘Listen to the cop,’ Rachel says to Nadine. ‘Why do they have to be so cynical about everything?’ She looks again at Doyle. ‘Would it do any harm to believe that
this is all your daughter’s own work?’

‘Why Marshmallow?’ he asks.

‘Because he’s pink and white and fluffy. Jeez, where did you go to detective school?’

‘Well, we’re still not getting a rabbit,’ Doyle says and drops the paper back onto the coffee table.

From the corner of his eye he catches Rachel mouthing something to Nadine, and she responds with a conspiratorial giggle.

‘I had a rabbit once,’ Nadine says. ‘I used to sneak him up to my room and cuddle him in bed.’

‘Yeah?’ Doyle says. ‘What did Mo think about that?’

This sets her rolling about in girlish laughter, while Rachel sits there emanating further warnings that anything pertaining to whatever Nadine does in bed is strictly off-limits.

Rachel clears her throat loudly. ‘You eaten yet?’

Doyle flops into an easy chair, knocking a newspaper off its arm. ‘No. I’ve kinda got past it. I’ll make a sandwich or something in a minute.’

As he hears himself say these words, he knows there is a tone there that Rachel will tune into.

‘Rough day?’ she asks.

‘Kind of.’

He pauses, and the two women, both police wives, know not to interrupt his silence.

Finally he says, ‘Joe was killed last night.’

There is an audible intake of breath from Nadine, like a cry in reverse. In Rachel, Doyle detects a slight slump, as though something within her has just fallen away. They live with this worry
every day, Doyle realizes, that their loved ones may not come home. And the fear is driven into them even more when a member of service is killed, and they are reminded that the protection offered
by a badge and a gun can be as fragile as life itself.

‘Joe
Parlatti
?’ Rachel asks, the shock evident in her voice.

Doyle nods. ‘It’ll be all over the news by now.’

Rachel glances at the television, but makes no attempt to switch it on.

‘What happened?’

‘He was found dead on a vacant lot. We think he went in to help out a hooker who’d been beaten and dumped there. The killer got both of them.’

There is another whimper from Nadine, who has her hand clamped to her mouth as if she is about to cry or vomit.

Rachel’s eyes flutter closed, and it looks as though she is thinking a prayer. ‘God, Cal. You know who did it?’

Doyle shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be any more negative than that, doesn’t want to give voice to the feeling that the killer has been so careful and devious that they may
never catch him.

‘So that was my day,’ he says. ‘Sorry to bring the mood down.’

Rachel reaches across and consoles Nadine by rubbing her thigh. Doyle has now lost the urge to read any eroticism into the action.

Nadine gets up. ‘I should go home,’ she says. ‘Wait for Mo to get in.’

‘He’s on his way,’ Doyle says. ‘Left before me.’

‘He is? Okay.’

Rachel leaves the sofa too, and goes to fetch Nadine’s coat.

‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ Nadine says. ‘To hear that about Joe. I know you worked well together.’

Doyle nods. He is almost sorry he brought the subject up. This perfunctory conversation contrasts jarringly with the levity, the easy chatter of a few minutes earlier. He feels like he has just
told a dirty joke at a party, unaware that all the attendees are nuns.

Rachel brings back the coat, then sees Nadine out.

‘You want a beer?’ she asks when she comes back.

‘Nah. I just want to sit a while.’ He leans his head back against the chair. ‘What’d Nadine want?’

‘Just company. I think she’s still finding it hard to adjust to being a cop’s wife. The long hours, not knowing if your husband is safe.’ She retakes her place on the
sofa. ‘You know, we do have a phone here.’

Doyle realizes that it’s no longer Nadine she is talking about, but herself.

‘What do you mean?’

She goes to say something, then changes it to a simple ‘Nothing.’

‘No. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

She looks down at her hands as she scratches at something in her palm, saying nothing. When she finally looks up, a tear escapes and runs down the side of her nose.

‘It could have been you, Cal. Joe was a good cop and a nice guy. He shouldn’t be dead, and it must be cutting you up inside. But if it can happen to him then it can happen to you. I
need to know you’re safe, Cal. When you’re out there doing what you do, I need to know you’re okay. Can you imagine what would have gone through my head if I had turned on the TV
and heard that a detective from the Eighth Precinct had been found dead with a hooker?’

As she says this, her other eye sends down a tear to join the first. Doyle gets up and crosses over to her. He sits next to her and pulls her into his embrace, absorbing the warmth of her body
and enjoying the comfort it brings, but also sensing the slight heaving of her shoulders as she cries more freely.

When they finally part, Rachel reaches her hand up to wipe the wetness away from Doyle’s own cheeks.

‘Just call me, okay? Not every hour. Not even every day – I know how hectic it can get for you. But once in a while. Especially when something like this happens.’ She smiles at
him. ‘Deal?’

‘Deal.’ He hugs her again, seals the contract with a kiss.

She ruffles his hair as she stands up. ‘I think you need that beer now.’

She walks away, still talking as she tries to lighten the mood. ‘You know, Amy’s got her Christmas dance show on Saturday. She’ll be getting a medal, and she really, really
wants you to be there.’

‘I’ll be there. Promise.’

She pauses at the door and smiles teasingly at him. ‘I got a ticket for Nadine too. She’ll be there, in case it makes any difference.’

‘Who? That dumpy broad? Why should that matter to me?’

‘Right answer,’ she says, laughing.

She disappears into the kitchen, then comes back a minute later clutching a cold bottle of Heineken. He takes it from her, stares for too long at the vapor tumbling down its sides.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Tell me.’

‘Joe wasn’t just any member of the squad. He was my
partner
.’

As he stresses the word, he notices a shift in Rachel’s posture, like she expects what’s coming.

‘Yes, I know. And?’

‘One or two of the guys, they’re making noises about that, giving me a hard time. Because of what happened, back in my old precinct.’

Rachel’s lips tighten. This subject has not been discussed for many months. There is an unwritten, unspoken rule that it never will be again. Which is understandable, Doyle thinks, given
that it nearly destroyed their marriage.

‘That’s bullshit,’ she declares. ‘And you can tell them I said that. Joe had to be somebody’s partner, and he just happened to be yours. What occurred with that
woman a year ago has no connection with what happened to Joe last night. I’ll fix you a sandwich.’

She turns on her heel and marches back to the kitchen, a stiffness in her figure that was not there previously.

Tony Alvarez begins to think he must be getting old or sick or something. Not so long ago he would have been hitting the bars and clubs about now, working his charm, making his
moves. Or else he would be in bed, bouncing it against the wall to the tune of some female vocal accompaniment beneath him. Instead, here he is, sitting in front of an empty pizza box, two empty
beer cans, and an empty TV program. He feels a little like Homer Simpson. Okay, he didn’t get much sleep last night, but that was never an excuse he would have made before now.

He worries about getting old. His father, God rest his bones, passed only a month after his fiftieth birthday. Tony doesn’t want to go when he’s fifty. Or even ninety, for that
matter. The only plan he has for his police pension is to stock up on the huge supply of condoms he’s going to need.

Since he has to blame his apathy on something, he decides to blame it on the fact of Joe Parlatti’s death. Man, he thinks, that is some serious shit. Joe was a nice guy – everybody
liked him. Stands to reason that a good guy getting whacked like that – someone he worked with, no less – is bound to affect a man’s libido. Keeping the old johnson at half mast
tonight is just paying the proper respect.