his gun still raised, he revealed to Cavell
what he’d just done. The expression of disbelief and horror on the pimp’s face was so exaggerated it was comical.
Even with Cavell’s big muscles and the hooded sweater there was only so much explosive that could be taped to him without it being obvious, but that didn’t matter. C-4 detonates at a
velocity of 18,000 miles per hour. You don’t need much of that shit to take out a whole roomful of people.
And if Alvarez had found it, so what? It would have simply meant pressing the button that little bit sooner.
But Alvarez missed it in the frisk, didn’t he? A trained cop, years on the job, and he missed it. Ha! How delicious was that?
It meant that the message could be delivered, offering Alvarez the chance to puzzle over what it was he had done wrong. And yet he suspected nothing. Even when confronted with the reason for his
imminent demise, he was still too stupid to grasp its implications.
It meant too that the note could be given to Alvarez, allowing him to contemplate the sounding of his death knell.
But above all, it meant that everything that Alvarez said and did right up to the moment of his annihilation could be overheard.
The man in the Ford leans back and reviews his accomplishment here tonight. He feels like he should be lighting up a cigarette, the way they do in the movies after great sex. In the distance he
can hear sirens, and he knows he will have to drive away soon. But he will allow himself to revel for a moment longer. This has been so much more satisfying than the killing of Joe Parlatti.
SEVEN
When the phone rings, Doyle doesn’t know where he is. As he reaches out to his bed table he blinks his eyes until the hazy lights on his clock sharpen into recognizable
numerals.
It is five-thirty in the morning.
Shit, he thinks. Telephone calls at this time of day carry only bad news. There’s a law about it somewhere.
Next to him, Rachel groans her disapproval and pulls the duvet over her head. When Doyle’s fumbling hands finally locate the handset, he answers the call with a mouth that feels like
it’s filled with cotton wool.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal? It’s Mo.’
The tone is subdued.
‘Okay, Mo, what is it?’
There’s a lengthy pause. ‘It’s not good, Cal. There’s no easy way to tell you this.’
Doyle is wide awake now. ‘Spit it out, Mo.’
‘Something happened last night. To Tony Alvarez. He was killed.’
And now Doyle begins to wonder whether, in fact, he is still sleeping. Whether his mind is filled with dark imaginings of his deepest subconscious. He swings his legs over the side of the
bed.
‘Killed? How? Where?’ There are a million other questions on his lips, but these will do for now.
‘There was an explosion at an apartment on Seventeenth Street. Alvarez was there with another guy, still unnamed. I only found out about this an hour ago myself. I don’t have all the
details yet.’
Doyle stares into the darkness of the bedroom. His questions have all run away, as if his brain has decided it doesn’t want to know any more about this because it’s all too
terrifying.
Franklin cuts into his thoughts. ‘Cal? You’re the first one on the squad I’ve told about this. I don’t think I need to say why.’
Doyle nods, not thinking that Franklin can’t see him. Mo is preparing him. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.
Franklin continues: ‘The killing was in the Eleventh, so it’s their case at the moment. But you know how quick these things get around. By the start of the day tour,
everybody’ll have heard about this. I just thought . . . Well, I just wanted you to know.’
Doyle clears his throat. ‘Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up, Mo. Appreciate it.’
‘Okay, Cal. See you in a couple hours.’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
He ends the call. Sitting on the edge of his bed like this, he begins to notice how cold the room is.
Two cops dead in the space of twenty-four hours. Could it be any
what he’d just done. The expression of disbelief and horror on the pimp’s face was so exaggerated it was comical.
Even with Cavell’s big muscles and the hooded sweater there was only so much explosive that could be taped to him without it being obvious, but that didn’t matter. C-4 detonates at a
velocity of 18,000 miles per hour. You don’t need much of that shit to take out a whole roomful of people.
And if Alvarez had found it, so what? It would have simply meant pressing the button that little bit sooner.
But Alvarez missed it in the frisk, didn’t he? A trained cop, years on the job, and he missed it. Ha! How delicious was that?
It meant that the message could be delivered, offering Alvarez the chance to puzzle over what it was he had done wrong. And yet he suspected nothing. Even when confronted with the reason for his
imminent demise, he was still too stupid to grasp its implications.
It meant too that the note could be given to Alvarez, allowing him to contemplate the sounding of his death knell.
But above all, it meant that everything that Alvarez said and did right up to the moment of his annihilation could be overheard.
The man in the Ford leans back and reviews his accomplishment here tonight. He feels like he should be lighting up a cigarette, the way they do in the movies after great sex. In the distance he
can hear sirens, and he knows he will have to drive away soon. But he will allow himself to revel for a moment longer. This has been so much more satisfying than the killing of Joe Parlatti.
SEVEN
When the phone rings, Doyle doesn’t know where he is. As he reaches out to his bed table he blinks his eyes until the hazy lights on his clock sharpen into recognizable
numerals.
It is five-thirty in the morning.
Shit, he thinks. Telephone calls at this time of day carry only bad news. There’s a law about it somewhere.
Next to him, Rachel groans her disapproval and pulls the duvet over her head. When Doyle’s fumbling hands finally locate the handset, he answers the call with a mouth that feels like
it’s filled with cotton wool.
‘Hello?’
‘Cal? It’s Mo.’
The tone is subdued.
‘Okay, Mo, what is it?’
There’s a lengthy pause. ‘It’s not good, Cal. There’s no easy way to tell you this.’
Doyle is wide awake now. ‘Spit it out, Mo.’
‘Something happened last night. To Tony Alvarez. He was killed.’
And now Doyle begins to wonder whether, in fact, he is still sleeping. Whether his mind is filled with dark imaginings of his deepest subconscious. He swings his legs over the side of the
bed.
‘Killed? How? Where?’ There are a million other questions on his lips, but these will do for now.
‘There was an explosion at an apartment on Seventeenth Street. Alvarez was there with another guy, still unnamed. I only found out about this an hour ago myself. I don’t have all the
details yet.’
Doyle stares into the darkness of the bedroom. His questions have all run away, as if his brain has decided it doesn’t want to know any more about this because it’s all too
terrifying.
Franklin cuts into his thoughts. ‘Cal? You’re the first one on the squad I’ve told about this. I don’t think I need to say why.’
Doyle nods, not thinking that Franklin can’t see him. Mo is preparing him. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.
Franklin continues: ‘The killing was in the Eleventh, so it’s their case at the moment. But you know how quick these things get around. By the start of the day tour,
everybody’ll have heard about this. I just thought . . . Well, I just wanted you to know.’
Doyle clears his throat. ‘Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up, Mo. Appreciate it.’
‘Okay, Cal. See you in a couple hours.’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
He ends the call. Sitting on the edge of his bed like this, he begins to notice how cold the room is.
Two cops dead in the space of twenty-four hours. Could it be any
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