brain. Use your senses. Use what you’ve heard. Show me what a brilliant detective you are. Oh, and one
other thing about the person who has just started their last day on this earth.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s somebody you know, Cal. Somebody you know pretty well.’
EIGHT
The caller was right about one thing. Doyle doesn’t get much sleep that night. He spends most of his time replaying the conversation in his mind. Over and over.
Desperately trying to pick it apart for meaning. Looking for clues. Anything that will help him prevent another death.
Not for the first time he wishes he had asked for a trace on his phone, despite the warnings to the contrary he was given. But the only way he can do that is by making an official request to the
Police Department, which is a sure way of alerting them to the cozy chats he’s been having with the killer.
He gets into work for six-thirty – an hour and a half before his shift is officially due to start. The desk sergeant tosses a joke at him about his wife throwing him out of bed. Doyle
laughs it off and trudges upstairs to the squadroom. He spends the next hour reading through the DD5 reports – the fives – and all the other notes that have been made on the Cindy
Mellish case.
And gets nowhere.
Interviews with dozens of people, but not a whiff of a solid lead. Doyle realizes he’s not going to find the killer this way. Not in the short time he’s got left.
People say goodbye and leave. New faces arrive and say hello. Doyle is largely unaware of the transitions taking place around him. His midnight chat is back on his mind. He flips to a fresh page
on his notepad and starts making notes on all he can remember of the conversation. Trying to decide what’s relevant and what’s just filler. Looking for hidden meanings and subtle hints.
Making connections, most of which he crosses out again as being absurd. But he has to consider all the possibilities, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. He can’t afford to get this
wrong.
When he’s done that, he thinks about the only other possible pointer to the killer. The diary. If in fact it exists. And if Gonzo the wonder boy can find it. And if it does indeed contain
some useful information, instead of being a pile of crap that’s going to be used to jerk him around some more.
All big ifs.
And time is ticking away, my friend.
The address has been used by many wishing to mock the New York accent.
Toidy-toid and Toid.
Meaning: Thirty-third and Third.
The premises are situated above a nail salon. It has never entered Doyle’s head to consider getting a manicure, and he is surprised at how many people are not of like mind. He imagines
that they do pedicures there too, then quickly blots out the thought. He’s seen quite a few corpses in his time, in various states of putrefaction, but the one thing guaranteed to turn his
stomach is the idea of working on other people’s feet.
Upstairs, he knocks on a glass-paneled door and enters. The room’s sole occupant – a young girl hiding her beauty beneath too much make-up – sits behind a desk uncluttered with
any signs of work. She slides a metal file along her own highly polished fingernails. Doyle wonders if she’s getting in some practice to apply for a job downstairs, because this place is
dead.
Alongside her desk, another door leads to an inner office. It’s half open, and Doyle can hear a man’s voice, presumably in the middle of a telephone conversation. He’s saying,
‘What the fuck, Marty? You can’t twist their arms a little? I’m offering them bottom-dollar here. Where else they gonna get peace of mind for a price like that? Jesus.’
Doyle approaches the girl’s desk. She presents him with a bright smile but nothing more.
‘I’d like to speak with Mr Repp.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Doyle displays his gold shield, and the girl responds by arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Through the door, the voice is
other thing about the person who has just started their last day on this earth.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s somebody you know, Cal. Somebody you know pretty well.’
EIGHT
The caller was right about one thing. Doyle doesn’t get much sleep that night. He spends most of his time replaying the conversation in his mind. Over and over.
Desperately trying to pick it apart for meaning. Looking for clues. Anything that will help him prevent another death.
Not for the first time he wishes he had asked for a trace on his phone, despite the warnings to the contrary he was given. But the only way he can do that is by making an official request to the
Police Department, which is a sure way of alerting them to the cozy chats he’s been having with the killer.
He gets into work for six-thirty – an hour and a half before his shift is officially due to start. The desk sergeant tosses a joke at him about his wife throwing him out of bed. Doyle
laughs it off and trudges upstairs to the squadroom. He spends the next hour reading through the DD5 reports – the fives – and all the other notes that have been made on the Cindy
Mellish case.
And gets nowhere.
Interviews with dozens of people, but not a whiff of a solid lead. Doyle realizes he’s not going to find the killer this way. Not in the short time he’s got left.
People say goodbye and leave. New faces arrive and say hello. Doyle is largely unaware of the transitions taking place around him. His midnight chat is back on his mind. He flips to a fresh page
on his notepad and starts making notes on all he can remember of the conversation. Trying to decide what’s relevant and what’s just filler. Looking for hidden meanings and subtle hints.
Making connections, most of which he crosses out again as being absurd. But he has to consider all the possibilities, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. He can’t afford to get this
wrong.
When he’s done that, he thinks about the only other possible pointer to the killer. The diary. If in fact it exists. And if Gonzo the wonder boy can find it. And if it does indeed contain
some useful information, instead of being a pile of crap that’s going to be used to jerk him around some more.
All big ifs.
And time is ticking away, my friend.
The address has been used by many wishing to mock the New York accent.
Toidy-toid and Toid.
Meaning: Thirty-third and Third.
The premises are situated above a nail salon. It has never entered Doyle’s head to consider getting a manicure, and he is surprised at how many people are not of like mind. He imagines
that they do pedicures there too, then quickly blots out the thought. He’s seen quite a few corpses in his time, in various states of putrefaction, but the one thing guaranteed to turn his
stomach is the idea of working on other people’s feet.
Upstairs, he knocks on a glass-paneled door and enters. The room’s sole occupant – a young girl hiding her beauty beneath too much make-up – sits behind a desk uncluttered with
any signs of work. She slides a metal file along her own highly polished fingernails. Doyle wonders if she’s getting in some practice to apply for a job downstairs, because this place is
dead.
Alongside her desk, another door leads to an inner office. It’s half open, and Doyle can hear a man’s voice, presumably in the middle of a telephone conversation. He’s saying,
‘What the fuck, Marty? You can’t twist their arms a little? I’m offering them bottom-dollar here. Where else they gonna get peace of mind for a price like that? Jesus.’
Doyle approaches the girl’s desk. She presents him with a bright smile but nothing more.
‘I’d like to speak with Mr Repp.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Doyle displays his gold shield, and the girl responds by arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Through the door, the voice is
Similar Books
