Pariah (3 page)

Today was always going to be a bad day. He’s probably just made it a hundred times worse.

‘Cal! Hold up, man!’

Tony Alvarez catches up with Doyle as he reaches his car. He has the smooth voice and looks of a nightclub crooner – a guy who could steal away the girl on your arm with just a glance or a
word. Doyle has lost count of the number of different females he has seen him with.

‘You want company?’ Alvarez asks. Like the others, he has probably had only a couple of hours’ sleep; unlike them, he has the appearance of a man who has just walked off the
shoot for a clothing catalog.

Doyle looks at him. ‘I’m tired, I’m pissed off, and my partner’s just been found dead in a stinking lot. Do I look like I need to hear about your latest roll in the sack
right now?’

‘You want company,’ Alvarez says, a statement this time. Without invitation, he jumps into the car.

Doyle shakes his head and climbs behind the wheel. He starts the ignition and pulls the car away.

‘You sure you want to take the risk of associating with me like this? Maybe I’m taking you to a dark alleyway to shoot you in the head too.’

‘Don’t make this more than it is,’ Alvarez says. ‘Schneider’s an asshole. Nobody else in the squad believes anything he says.’

‘They were putting on a pretty good act back there.’

‘Schneider’s been on the team a long while. Compared with him, you’re still the new kid on the block. He’s made a lot of good collars in his time, so when he speaks,
people feel they have to listen. Doesn’t mean they can’t make up their own minds about things. Give ’em a chance. They’ll come round.’

‘Yeah, well, fuck ’em. I’ve been here a year already. That should be long enough for anybody. Maybe I could speed things up a little by knocking Schneider’s teeth out for
him. Stop him spreading that shit.’

‘Schneider’s as bad as anyone for believing rumors. He’s a drinking buddy of Marino’s – you know that, right? That’s where his poison comes from.’

Doyle thinks about this. Danny Marino. One-time husband of Laura Marino. Hers was the name Schneider let loose. A name that still sends tingles down Doyle’s spine.

‘Hard to believe,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Joe. Him being dead. Gonna be a while before I can accept that.’

‘Gonna be even harder for his wife,’ Alvarez answers.

They have to ring the doorbell several times before they get a response from within the Parlattis’ apartment. The building is in Carroll Gardens, in Brooklyn. Not as many
Italians in this neighborhood as there were back when Cher found Nicolas Cage here in
Moonstruck
, but they’re still around. Just don’t go looking for Luigi to bake you a loaf, or
Vito to cut your hair. The small family-run businesses have mostly been driven out by all the bars and boutiques and antique shops. And now the Italian headcount in Carroll Gardens has just been
reduced by one more.

‘Joe!’ they hear. ‘You know what time it is, Joe? What the hell do you think this is, coming home at this hour? And where’s your goddamn keys?’

The detectives wait, say nothing. What they need to say can’t be delivered through a door.

Doyle hears the slight scratching noise of a cover being slid back from the peephole. Knowing he is being examined, he tries to assemble his features into an expression that is neither too
serious nor too happy.

He hears the locks being taken off. The door opens. Maria Parlatti is belting up her pink robe over a body that is not yet ready to be vertical, and her hair looks like it could have starlings
nesting in it. She stares at them through bleary eyes. The anger has gone, to be replaced by a whole new range of emotions.

She knows what this is, Doyle thinks. She’s a cop’s wife. This is the visit that every cop’s wife dreads, and she knows.

‘Hi, Maria—’ he begins, but she cuts him off.

‘Shit, guys, what’s he done this time?’ She laughs, but it’s forced. ‘Come in, come in. Let me put some coffee on.’

They follow her into the small living room. This hour of the morning, it’s still pitch black outside. Maria has put on a single lamp that at other times might make the room seem cozy;
right now it just seems funereal. The police commendations hanging on the wall make the place feel like a shrine, and the small plastic Christmas tree and few sad hangings of tinsel do nothing to
lighten the atmosphere.

‘Sit, please sit,’ she says, urging them toward a battered brown sofa. ‘Just don’t use the recliner, okay? Joe is very possessive about his recliner.’ She laughs
again, and Doyle knows the tears aren’t that far behind.

It goes like this sometimes. You can never tell. Some people, they collapse in a heap as soon as they see you – maybe even faint. Others wail hysterically. But there’s a surprisingly
large number that go into denial. Even after you’ve told them – practically spelled it out for them – you’re still not sure when the hammer is going to strike the bell.
Doyle still remembers that day from his time in uniform, when he drew the short straw over explaining to a distressed woman that her husband had been decapitated in a traffic accident. He took at
least an hour over it, thought he did a good job. Sensitive, and not too graphic. When he went to leave, she asked him what time the hospital visiting hours were.

The detectives glance at each other. They don’t want to sit unless Maria joins them, and right now she seems far too wired to do that.

Doyle tries again: ‘Maria, about Joe—’

‘Jesus, I must look a mess,’ she interrupts. Her hands fly to her disheveled dark hair, try to tease it into some order. ‘Sorry fellas, I’m afraid I’m not one of
these women jumps out of bed looking like a supermodel.’

‘You look fine,’ Alvarez says.

‘Well, thank you, Tony. From the man who’s seen any number of women first thing in the morning, that has to be a real compliment, huh, Cal?’

‘Maria—’

‘Coffee. I mentioned coffee, didn’t I? How d’you take it?’

‘Not for me. I . . . we just want to talk for a while, if that’s okay.’

Maria’s eyes dart as if seeking another distraction, something else to move the conversation off-topic. She tightens the belt on her robe again, tying up her vulnerability.

‘He send you here to do his dirty work? Which is it, too drunk or too ashamed? He get himself into some kind of scrape? Never mind, I don’t want to know. He can’t be trusted to
get home to his wife, then I don’t want to know.’

She turns then and starts to head toward the kitchen, but Doyle stops her. It can be put off no longer.

‘Maria, Joe was killed tonight.’

She halts, her back still to them. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: ‘You’re sure? That it was Joe? Did you see him?’

‘Yes. I saw him.’

She turns toward the detectives again, then pads across the carpet and sits on the sofa. Doyle sits down next to her. She can’t look him in the eye, and he’s glad of it.

‘Tell me,’ she says.

‘He was shot. His body was found on a vacant lot in the East Village.’

‘A vacant lot. What was he doing on a vacant lot? He wasn’t working, was he? He went to play pool. He was meeting his pals.’

Alvarez speaks up: ‘We’re not sure of all the details yet, but the way they were found—’

‘They?
There was more than one? Who else?
’

‘There were two killings,’ Doyle says. Better to hear this now, from them, than later on the news. ‘The other was a female. A prostitute.’

‘A prostitute,’ Maria says flatly. ‘A fucking whore?’ She jumps to her feet again.

‘No, Maria. Listen. It’s not—’

‘I have a new job, you know?’ Maria says. Her lower lip is quivering. The tide is ready to break. ‘At Barnes and Noble. It’s not much, but it helps to pay my tuition.
Because I’m taking night classes too. Trying to better myself. Get some qualifications. I never really took an interest in high school.’

‘Maria—’

‘But I’m so goddamn tired all the time. When I hit the pillow, I’m out for the count. Was a time I never could have slept without knowing Joe was next to me. But last night I
didn’t even know . . . I wasn’t even aware . . . And our love life? What happened to that? Where would I get the energy or the time for that? So if Joe . . . I mean, if he felt the need
to go elsewhere, I can understand that. But a whore?’

‘Maria, let me finish. We don’t think he was with her the way you’re saying. Our belief is he went to help her because she’d been beaten, and that’s when they both
got shot.’

Maria’s eyes are glistening. ‘You’re not just saying that? Not trying to make me feel better? ’Cause I don’t want that. I don’t want lies.’

Doyle stands up and approaches her. ‘We wouldn’t lie to you. Far as we can tell, that’s how it went down.’

She considers this. ‘You really think he died trying to help somebody?’

‘Yes, we do. Come on. Sit down over here.’

They both sit again. Maria puts her hand to her mouth, and tears run over it. After a moment she says, ‘That’s Joe for you. Always willing to lend a hand.’ She cries some more,
then says, ‘You get the bastard who did this?’

‘No. Not yet. But we will. We’re hoping you can help us on that.’

‘Me? What do you mean?’

Doyle squirms on the sofa. ‘The thing is, we don’t think Joe was picked at random. We think he was targeted. Somebody had it in for Joe. He talk about anything like that recently?
Any threats? Anything he was worried about?’

‘No. Nothing specific. He’s a cop, and cops get threats all the time, right? But nothing serious. Nothing like . . . like this.’

Doyle looks up at Alvarez, who nods back. They are done here for now.

‘Okay, Maria. We’re gonna leave you now. You think of anything we might need to know, just call me. We’ll come talk to you again soon, okay?’ He takes Maria’s hand
in his. ‘You take care of yourself. Call someone over. Don’t stay alone, okay?’

Doyle stands up, but Maria stays where she is.

‘Joe was a good man,’ she says. ‘That’s how he would have wanted to go. Helping somebody.’

Doyle leads the way out. The detectives close the apartment door behind them. Alvarez heads for the stairs, but Doyle hesitates for a moment.

When he hears the wail of grief that vibrates through his whole body, he knows it is time to go.

The detectives remain immersed in their own thoughts until they are back in their car.

‘You think he was playing away?’ Alvarez asks.

‘What?’

‘Joe. Him not getting any at home, you think he was poking somebody else’s fire?’

Doyle twists in his seat. ‘What the fuck, Tony? Just for once, can you bring your mind above waist height? You know, not everybody is like you. We don’t all feel we’re going to
explode unless we empty our load five times a day.’

Alvarez puts his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, man. I’m just saying, okay? Just putting the thought out there, like we would for any other homicide.’

Doyle lets the subject drop and guns the engine. He knows Alvarez is right. If a guy’s wife thinks that the idea of him seeking comfort elsewhere is not so outrageous, then neither should
they. Wives don’t always know everything about their husbands.

Just as cops don’t always know everything about their partners.

Back in Manhattan, they fuel up on a breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast and coffee, and then spend the rest of the morning tracking down and interviewing Parlatti’s
pool-playing buddies. There are four of them, and each one confirms without the slightest conflicting detail that they downed a few beers and then played in the pool hall until midnight. After
that, Joe went his way and they staggered theirs. Joe seemed his usual affable self, either oblivious to or unconcerned about any danger he might have been in. There is zero about the men that
suggests to the detectives they should be considered as suspects, and they have zilch to offer on reasons for his murder.

In the afternoon Doyle and Alvarez turn their attention to the prostitute. Although a couple of uniforms claim to have seen her on the streets, they don’t have a name for her. Armed with a
crime-scene photograph of the dead girl, the detectives go on the hunt.

The daylight hours are not the best time to find a hooker on the streets of Manhattan. Gone are the days when it was impossible to stroll around the Times Square area without being propositioned
by females, males and various combinations thereof. You want some pussy now, then check out the classifieds at the back of the free sheets or call up an escort agency or use the Internet. If
you’re really set on doing things the old-fashioned way you can still find company on the streets, but only if you look hard, and almost always after dark.

It takes a lot of legwork before the detectives strike lucky. As they approach a massage parlor on First Avenue, a tall Latino girl with startling red streaks in her otherwise raven hair comes
click-clacking out of the front door.

‘Hey, Floella!’ says Doyle. ‘You working indoors these days?’

Floella Cruz chews her gum and blinks at each of the cops in turn, her expression both puzzled and wary.

‘When I can get it. They were short-staffed in there.’

‘Many hands make light work,’ says Alvarez.

‘You should try it,’ she answers, glancing down at his groin. ‘Take some of that stiffness out of your posture.’

Doyle knows that most prostitutes would prefer to work inside where it’s safer and warmer, but that for many it’s not an option, especially for the crack addicts who find it almost
impossible to handle fixed hours.

‘And when you’re not here?’ he asks.

‘I’m in my Trump Tower apartment, checking my share prices. Come on, fellas, what’s this about?’

When Doyle produces the photograph and holds it in front of her face, Floella nearly falls off her heels. As she steps back, her short leather jacket opens up and her large pale breasts almost
leap for freedom from the dayglo-pink bra.

‘Fuck!’ she cries. ‘Is that Scarlett? Fuck! What happened to her? Is she dead?’

‘She’s dead,’ Alvarez confirms. ‘You know this girl?’

‘Not real well. Scarlett is all I got for a name. Girl’s only nineteen. Shit, what’s the world coming to when a girl’s got to start turning tricks at nineteen?’