The Helper (10 page)

Doyle picks up the jacket. He looks for somewhere to hang it, but can’t find anywhere, so he hands it across to Gonzo. Still munching, Gonzo takes the jacket, holds it for a few seconds,
then tosses it onto the floor.

As Doyle lowers himself onto the chair, he takes a closer look at his host. Gonzo’s hair is red and curly and thinning at the temples, even though he looks to be in his early twenties. His
thick-framed glasses are supported by a beak of a nose. His body is thin and wiry. On the window ledge to the side of the desk is an inhaler of the type that asthmatics use.

‘You want a Dorito?’

The shock is threefold. It surprises Doyle that Gonzo can speak at all; he is surprised by the spray of food fragments that hits him in the face; and he is surprised by the voice, which is a
high-pitched squawk that sounds like it belongs to Homer Simpson’s wife.

Jesus, thinks Doyle. The offspring of Woody Allen and Marge Simpson. What a set of genes that is.

‘They’re my favorite,’ Gonzo continues. ‘Give me some Doritos and a salsa dip, and I’m your friend for life.’

‘Yeah,’ says Doyle, not sure how to progress that topic. ‘Anyways, I got this computer here . . .’

He hands it across to Gonzo, who gives it the once-over before dumping it unceremoniously on his desk.

‘You like Lugzz?’

‘Are they anything like Doritos?’

Gonzo stares at him, then taps a finger on his headphones. ‘The band. Music. You wanna listen?’

‘Uh, actually I thought we might talk about the computer.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ says Gonzo, seemingly amazed that Doyle is willing to pass up such a golden opportunity. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, I’m trying to find something on it.’

‘Have you tried switching it on?’

Doyle looks across to check whether Gonzo is yanking his chain, but he seems serious enough.

‘Yes, I’ve switched it on. I just can’t find the file I want.’

‘The file being?’

‘A diary.’

‘A diary?’

‘Yeah. You know. A journal. A record of events in somebody’s life.’

Gonzo stares again. He pushes another fistful of chips into his mouth.

‘You sure you don’t want some of these? I got lots. Six more bags.’

Doyle is starting to wonder what planet this kid is on.

‘No. Thank you. Now, the diary. You think you can find it for me?’

‘Sure. If it’s on there, I’ll find it.’

The very words Adelman used. But Doyle is starting to find it hard to believe that this kid is capable of anything other than ingesting corn chips to a four-four beat.

‘Great. How long?’

‘How long is what?’

Jesus, thinks Doyle. Do I have to spell everything out?

‘How long will it take you to find the file?’

‘Depends on how well it’s hidden. Plus I got a whole load of other stuff I need to get done first.’

‘So how long?’

‘Give me till tomorrow. I’ll call you. What precinct are you at?’

Doyle reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card and a pen.

‘I’m putting my cellphone number on the back of this card. That’s the only number you call me on, okay?
Not
the precinct number.’

Just to be sure, Doyle crosses out the precinct telephone number.

Gonzo narrows his myopic eyes at him. ‘You don’t want me to phone you at the precinct?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Does Lonnie know about this?’

‘He knows,’ says Doyle, which isn’t strictly true. But then Lonnie doesn’t want to know.

Gonzo nods unconvincingly.

‘I gotta go,’ says Doyle. He gets up and walks across this computer junkyard of an office. Just before he leaves he adds, ‘Call me tomorrow.’ Because genius that this kid
is supposed to be, he seems like someone who could forget everything, including his own name, as soon as Doyle walks out the door.

For the rest of Doyle’s working day, nothing much happens. Which is not such a good thing. Because what he hoped was that someone would make a connection between the
Mellish murder and the Bonnow murder. And nobody has. As far as the NYPD is concerned, these two killings are related only by the fact that they remain unsolved. They have different MOs, they were
in different precincts, and there is nothing so far to suggest that the two women even knew each other. So why should anyone even conceive of a link between these two? Hell, it’s not as if
there’s anyone calling up cops to suggest such a thing, now is there?

Officially, he’s still helping out on the Cindy Mellish case. Unofficially, he’s just going through the motions. He continues to chase up bookstore customers. He continues to call up
people that might have known Cindy. He continues to feel guilt over his knowledge that it’s probably all such a waste of time and manpower.

He is so glad to get home. Away from other cops. Away from eyes that seem to dare him to reveal what he knows. For a few hours he can put all that to the back of his mind. He can enjoy a roast
dinner with his family, a bicycle ride in Central Park, bath time with Amy, a glass of wine with Rachel. And when he finally goes to bed and melts into the warmth of his wife, he is almost
convinced that there is nothing to worry about, that it will all work out in the end.

The call comes at midnight precisely.

When he blinks at the clock and the pale fuzzy light gradually forms into recognizable numerals and he sees 12:00 written in front of him, he knows the time has been chosen as a signal that this
is no ordinary call. It’s the witching hour. Expect to be scared.

He hears the music before the phone even reaches his ear. It’s purely instrumental. An Irish jig.

‘Hello, Cal,’ says the smooth-talking sonofabitch.

Doyle climbs out of bed and staggers out of the bedroom, the phone clamped to his ear.

‘What do you want?’

‘I was just wondering how your day went. Did you find the diary?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘You’re too slow, Cal. You’re wasting time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘For saving lives. Speaking of which, it’s a shame about poor nurse Bonnow, don’t you think? You didn’t save her. Despite all the help I gave you, you didn’t do
anything about it.’

Now in the living room, Doyle listens again to the song. He doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know what it’s called.

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘I enjoy helping people, if that’s what you mean. That’s why I’m calling now. To offer my assistance again.’

‘Why me? Of all the cops in this city, why pick me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Why does anyone donate to certain charities and not others? Let’s just say I think you’re a particularly worthy cause. I like to give where it’s
most needed.’

‘Thanks, but I think you’ve done enough. I’m already overwhelmed by your benevolence. I’m sure they’ll put up a statue in your memory once you’re dead. Which
I hope won’t be much longer.’

A low chuckle. ‘Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?’

‘Not really. This time of night, I’m more of a milk and cookies kinda guy.’

‘Really? Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink.
Like it’s passed down in the genes or something. Your father wasn’t a drunk, was he, Cal? You have other reasons for detesting him.’

Doyle decides he’s not getting into this. He’s not giving this guy the pleasure of screwing with his mind.

‘Get to the point, asshole. I got a warm bed waiting for me.’

‘Okay, Cal. Get back to your bed. But I don’t think you’ll get much sleep. You’ve got work to do. And you’ve got less than twenty-four hours to do it in. Midnight
precisely. That’s when it will happen. That’s when somebody else will die.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?’

‘I’ve told you all you need to know, Cal. Like I said before. Use your 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.’

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 saying, ‘Let me speak to him, Marty . . . No, just put him on
the goddamned phone, will ya?’

The girl tilts her nail file toward the door and states the obvious: ‘He’s on the phone just now.’

‘No problem,’ says Doyle, and heads into Repp’s office.

Travis Repp is lounging back in his executive chair, trying to look executive. Sharp blue suit and skinny tie. Gold rings on his fingers. Big flashy wristwatch. Blond hair flopping low over his
forehead. He gives Doyle the once-over, but seems uninterested. He raises a finger, instructing Doyle to wait while he continues his phone call. Doesn’t even offer him a seat.

‘Mr Uterus . . . I’m sorry, Mr Yurtis. I misheard my colleague . . . Yes, I know what you told him, but I assure you that we can offer a better service than any of our competitors .
. .’

Doyle sighs and flashes the tin again. Repp glances at it, gives Doyle a look that says,
So what?
Then resumes his conversation.

‘Yes, Mr Yurtis . . . Manpower? Of course we do. I have a whole team of investigators here that I can call on if necessary . . .’

Doyle looks around the empty office and wonders where they’re all hiding. He decides he’s had enough of this, and that Mr Yurtis could probably do with a break too. He leans forward
and announces his presence like he’s about to raid the joint.

‘Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct.’

Repp clamps his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Jesus! What do you think you’re doing? You wanna put me out of business here?’ He speaks into the phone again. ‘Mr Yurtis,
I’m sorry about . . . Hello? Mr Yurtis?’

He slams the handset down and glares at Doyle. ‘Great. You know you probably just cost me that gig? What is it with you?’

‘Something we need to discuss.’ Doyle gestures toward a chair. ‘You mind?’

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ He makes a show of looking at his watch. ‘Is this gonna take long? Because I’m kinda busy.’

‘Yeah, I saw the long line of people waiting outside. But I guess if you share them out among all your other investigators here . . .’

‘Hey! This is business. This is how you do things when you gotta fight tooth and nail for every buck, instead of just sitting there waiting for your share of the taxpayers’ money to
land in your account every month. Now don’t you got criminals to catch or something?’