"Hitman?" I gave a half-laugh, as if testing whether Doyle was joking.
"Yeah. Feds are trying to keep it quiet, but that won't last. What I heard, they were already suspicious, but this one sealed it."
"But a hired killer? For a guy like Kozlov? Was there anything in his history to...?"
"Explain why someone would pay even a nickel to off him? Maybe back when he was with the Russian mob."
"The mob?"
Doyle took a long draft of his beer. "I've heard rumors. Probably racist bullshit, you know? Guy's a petty criminal, looks like a thug, Russian background. If it's racism, he played it up. Used to talk big when he was in his cups, yammer on about his glory days with the mob."
"Are the Feds checking this out?"
"Maybe. But even if it's true, it's ancient history, and it doesn't explain how he wound up dead a couple of decades later. I thought about taking a peek but..." He shrugged. "No time to satisfy idle curiosity. This case I'm working on now takes up all my time. As it should." He wrapped his hands around his mug. "Kiddie porn. Fucking sick shit."
"There's nothing worse," I said.
"Big-city cops, maybe they get used to it. But me? I've seen some stuff before, but not like this. Nothing like this. My wife--" He stopped. Shrugged.
"You can't talk to her about it."
"Gotta play by the rules. I'm supposed to leave it at the station, not let it affect me, but, Christ, of course it affects me. Then I go home and I'm moody, snapping, she gets mad, and I...I can't explain, right? So I left."
"Ouch."
"There's more than that, but..." Another shrug. A gulp of beer.
Doyle nodded and we talked some more, about the case, about his wife. Any hope of circling back to Kozlov was gone, but I didn't rush to leave. By the end of his third beer, he pushed the mug aside and smiled ruefully.
"Guess this isn't going anywhere, is it?" he said. "My first shot, and I spend it talking about my marriage."
I pointed at his ring. "If you're still wearing that, you're not ready." I checked my watch. "I should be getting back soon. My cousins will wonder what happened to me."
"I should go, too."
I cast a sidelong glance at his two friends, still at the bar. "You want me to walk out with you?"
A small smile. "If you don't mind."
* * *
TEN
Doyle walked me to my car in the parking lot, where we talked for another ten minutes before he left.
I unlocked the rental-car door.
"'Bout time," said a voice to my left. "You shaking down a witness? Or making a new friend?"
"With cops, I'm better at making friends," I said, turning as Jack slid from a pickup truck's shadow. "What happened to picking you up at the coffee shop when I was done?"
"Drank enough coffee."
He started heading toward the passenger door, but I pulled him to a stop and handed him the keys.
"And I drank enough beer."
I told him what I'd learned.