coffee cup as he does so. There was only a cold mouthful left, but it seems to spread like a river that has just burst its banks. He grabs a
Kleenex and tries to mop up the murky deluge as he dials home.
He gets a ring tone, but no answer. Eventually, the answering machine cuts in and he hangs up.
Strange. Where would they be now?
Normally they would be sitting down to eat at this time. Or Rachel would still be cooking the meal. In any case, they would be in the apartment.
Unless . . .
Unless Rachel has already heard the news about Tony Alvarez, and she’s pissed that her thoughtless husband has forgotten his pledge to keep her informed. In which case maybe she’s
felt the need to escape, and has whisked Amy off to a McDonald’s or a pizza parlor.
Yeah, that’s it.
Doyle takes his cellphone from his pocket and speed-dials the number of Rachel’s own cell.
It goes straight to voicemail, and Doyle cancels the call.
She’s really pissed all right.
He snatches a few more Kleenex from the box and does his best to dry off the pages of his reports before turning his attention to them again. He stares at the pages for another half-hour, but
not with the same degree of concentration he had earlier. Thoughts of Rachel keep crowding his mind. He pictures her sitting in a diner somewhere, staring into space and not eating, while Amy wolfs
down her chicken strips and fries with bucketfuls of ketchup.
At seven-fifteen he repeats the calls – home first and then Rachel’s cell. Nothing has changed. Rachel has decided on a tit-for-tat approach. You don’t want to call me? Fine, I
don’t want to accept your calls.
It’s the only possible explanation.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
The alternative being that the piece of shit who left that note wasn’t just talking about cops. He was saying that anyone – anyone – Doyle spent the slightest time with
could be in grave danger.
But no. That’s just blowing this thing out of all proportion. Give it time. Give Rachel time. Even better, buy some flowers – she likes freesias – go home and wait for her.
The phone rings. An outside line. He snatches up the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal?’
‘Rachel, I’m sorry. I know I was supposed to—’
‘No, Cal. It’s me. Nadine.’
‘Nadine.’
‘Yes. I was supposed to meet up with Rachel tonight. I’m at your apartment building. Only, she’s not answering. She said to be here for seven, and now it’s nearly twenty
past. And she’s not picking up the phone either. Is she . . . I mean, has she said anything to you about a change of plan or anything?’
Stay calm. This is nothing. She’s forgotten, that’s all.
But Rachel doesn’t forget things like that.
Doyle is on his feet now. He is yanking his coat from the back of his chair and babbling something at Nadine. Telling her something must have come up, or another appointment slipped her mind.
Some garbage like that.
And then he is through the squadroom door and clattering down the concrete stairs.
Racing to find his wife and child.
TEN
When he pulls up in front of his apartment building, he sees that Nadine has decided to wait on the front stoop. She is cocooned in an immense fake-fur coat, like she’s
just come from Narnia – but still she looks frozen. Doyle scrambles out of the car and heads toward her, hurrying but at the same time trying to appear untroubled. He likes Nadine –
she’s a good friend to Rachel – but this is not her concern. He doesn’t want to experience the embarrassment of revealing to her the details of this minor domestic dispute.
Because that’s all it is: a tiff. Really.
‘Nadine,’ he says. ‘You should have gone home. No point standing out here like this.’
She stares at him, and he can tell that his cloak of tranquility has a pretty open weave.
‘I was just a little worried, Cal. It’s not like Rachel to arrange something and then just not be there. Has something happened?’
Doyle is
Kleenex and tries to mop up the murky deluge as he dials home.
He gets a ring tone, but no answer. Eventually, the answering machine cuts in and he hangs up.
Strange. Where would they be now?
Normally they would be sitting down to eat at this time. Or Rachel would still be cooking the meal. In any case, they would be in the apartment.
Unless . . .
Unless Rachel has already heard the news about Tony Alvarez, and she’s pissed that her thoughtless husband has forgotten his pledge to keep her informed. In which case maybe she’s
felt the need to escape, and has whisked Amy off to a McDonald’s or a pizza parlor.
Yeah, that’s it.
Doyle takes his cellphone from his pocket and speed-dials the number of Rachel’s own cell.
It goes straight to voicemail, and Doyle cancels the call.
She’s really pissed all right.
He snatches a few more Kleenex from the box and does his best to dry off the pages of his reports before turning his attention to them again. He stares at the pages for another half-hour, but
not with the same degree of concentration he had earlier. Thoughts of Rachel keep crowding his mind. He pictures her sitting in a diner somewhere, staring into space and not eating, while Amy wolfs
down her chicken strips and fries with bucketfuls of ketchup.
At seven-fifteen he repeats the calls – home first and then Rachel’s cell. Nothing has changed. Rachel has decided on a tit-for-tat approach. You don’t want to call me? Fine, I
don’t want to accept your calls.
It’s the only possible explanation.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
The alternative being that the piece of shit who left that note wasn’t just talking about cops. He was saying that anyone – anyone – Doyle spent the slightest time with
could be in grave danger.
But no. That’s just blowing this thing out of all proportion. Give it time. Give Rachel time. Even better, buy some flowers – she likes freesias – go home and wait for her.
The phone rings. An outside line. He snatches up the handset.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal?’
‘Rachel, I’m sorry. I know I was supposed to—’
‘No, Cal. It’s me. Nadine.’
‘Nadine.’
‘Yes. I was supposed to meet up with Rachel tonight. I’m at your apartment building. Only, she’s not answering. She said to be here for seven, and now it’s nearly twenty
past. And she’s not picking up the phone either. Is she . . . I mean, has she said anything to you about a change of plan or anything?’
Stay calm. This is nothing. She’s forgotten, that’s all.
But Rachel doesn’t forget things like that.
Doyle is on his feet now. He is yanking his coat from the back of his chair and babbling something at Nadine. Telling her something must have come up, or another appointment slipped her mind.
Some garbage like that.
And then he is through the squadroom door and clattering down the concrete stairs.
Racing to find his wife and child.
TEN
When he pulls up in front of his apartment building, he sees that Nadine has decided to wait on the front stoop. She is cocooned in an immense fake-fur coat, like she’s
just come from Narnia – but still she looks frozen. Doyle scrambles out of the car and heads toward her, hurrying but at the same time trying to appear untroubled. He likes Nadine –
she’s a good friend to Rachel – but this is not her concern. He doesn’t want to experience the embarrassment of revealing to her the details of this minor domestic dispute.
Because that’s all it is: a tiff. Really.
‘Nadine,’ he says. ‘You should have gone home. No point standing out here like this.’
She stares at him, and he can tell that his cloak of tranquility has a pretty open weave.
‘I was just a little worried, Cal. It’s not like Rachel to arrange something and then just not be there. Has something happened?’
Doyle is
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