Page 24

KEVIN DOYLE QUICKLY set down the cake box on the kitchen counter, away from Roger Dzoriack.

The elderly man stood in the middle of his tiny living room and mumbled, “Lou Sanvos was a good man.”

Doyle said, “I agree.”

That made Dzoriack look up and acknowledge Doyle’s existence in his apartment. He said, “Where are you stationed?”

“The Bronx.”

“What precinct?”

Immediately, Doyle realized his error. He hadn’t thought this through.

Roger Dzoriack said, “Cat got your tongue? I asked you where you’re stationed. What are you, some kind of moron?”

Doyle said, “Look, I’m really sorry about this.” He pulled his Beretta out from under his jacket.

“What the shit is this? Who the hell are you? Did some bastard I once arrested send you?” Dzoriack shook his head in disgust. “You look too clean-cut to be a killer for a dope dealer. Those are the only criminals I arrested with enough money to hire someone like you.” Then in a softer voice, he said, “Doesn’t matter. I sit in this shithole bored and depressed. I don’t have the balls to end it all. Now a cocksucker like you shows up. Looks like you have the balls to shoot me.”

Doyle was dumbfounded. This had never happened before. Not in private jobs or government ones. He wasn’t sure what to say. “I … I … um.” He had to pause for a moment. “You want me to kill you?”

“Yes, I do. If you’re not a pussy.”

Doyle didn’t want to waste this fantastic opportunity. “Can I get you to write a note?”

“A suicide note? Shit yeah. Can I keep it short and sweet?”

“Anything you want.”

As Dzoriack snatched a yellow Post-it note and pen, Doyle pulled out his pill bottle with the crushed meds inside. He stepped into the kitchen, opened a couple of cabinets until he found a glass. He filled the glass with water from the leaky faucet—took some work to get it to shut off completely—and mixed in the crushed pills.

Doyle stepped back into the living room, handed the glass to Dzoriack, and politely asked him to drink it.

Dzoriack stared at the glass, then at Doyle. “I thought you were going to shoot me. I could have taken pills myself.”

“What if I tell you I’ll shoot you if you don’t drink it?”

Dzoriack shrugged, then took the glass and gulped most of it down. He looked up at Doyle and said, “I just thought of a better note.” He stepped over to the counter and grabbed another Post-it note. Then he smacked his lips and said, “That shit you had me drink is nasty. Like a Russian whore.”

The old man talked like a crusty Marine. Doyle helped Dzoriack to his bedroom, where a Michael Connelly hardcover Harry Bosch novel lay open on the nightstand. Echo Park . Doyle made a mental note to get a copy.

He wiped his prints from the glass, then took Dzoriack’s left wrist and said in a soft voice, “Can you close your hand around the glass?”

Dzoriack slurred a response but reached out and closed his left hand around the glass once. He barely had the energy to bring the hand back to his side on the bed. Doyle carefully placed the glass on the nightstand next to the book.

It wasn’t long before the old man was out cold. A few minutes later, Doyle checked his pulse. There was none. He had completed another assignment flawlessly.

He twisted the lock on the handle of the front door. He wanted to make sure the place was secure for whoever found Roger Dzoriack. Doyle caught himself smiling as he closed up the apartment. It would look like a suicide inside a locked apartment. Perfect.

Just as Doyle turned toward the staircase, the door to the apartment next door opened. A woman, about thirty, with very long, straight black hair looked out and smiled.

She said, “I’m so glad Roger had a visitor. Are you a relative?”

All Doyle could think was Oh, shit .