The Helper (14 page)

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a courtesy call. You have less than two hours now. You do know that, don’t you? I hope you followed my advice and that you’re doing something about it.’

‘Your advice ain’t worth shit.’

‘That’s a bit unfair, Cal. I told you about the diary, didn’t I?’

‘Like I said, your advice is worthless.’

‘Or perhaps it’s just that you don’t know how to interpret things correctly. I’m helping you, Cal. Showing you how to be a better detective. Training you to use your mind
like a good investigator should.’

‘Yeah? Well, here’s me using my mouth in a more productive way: Get out of my fucking life, you sick fuck!’

He ends the call. Stares at the phone for several seconds. As he goes to replace it in his pocket, it rings again. He stabs the answer button so hard his finger almost pokes a hole in the
casing.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said, jerkoff? I ain’t playing this game no more. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but you’re probably doing that already. That’s if
you can find that tiny dick of yours.’

‘Uhm, Detective?’

Doyle groans inwardly.

‘Gonzo? Is that you?’

‘Uhm, yeah. Is this a bad time?’

‘How the fuck did you get my cellphone number?’

‘You gave it to me. You wrote it on your card. Remember?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Gonzo. I thought you were somebody else. Ignore what I said. I don’t really think you’re playing with yourself. What do you want?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’

‘Gonzo, you
called
me. Why would you call me to let me know you don’t want to tell me what you’re calling about?’

‘Promise you won’t get mad?’

‘I am getting madder by the second. Now what the fuck is it?’

‘I’m doing surveillance. On Vasey. I thought you should know.’

Doyle wonders if his ears are playing tricks on him.

‘Surveillance? What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve been watching Vasey for you. I’m outside his apartment building now.’

‘Gonzo, you’re not making any sense. How do you know where he lives? How do you even know what he looks like?’

‘I told you. I looked him up. He’s in the phone book. He lives in a fancy apartment building here on Sixty-first and Third. And he has a website with his photo on it. I watched him
go into his building two hours ago. I made notes and everything. “8:04: Vasey enters apartment building.” Did I do right? What should I do now?’

Doyle sighs. The kid’s a tryer, he thinks. You have to give him that.

‘Go home, is what you should do. Isn’t there something on TV you could be watching?’

‘Nah. They’re all re-runs. This is much more exciting.’

‘Believe me, it gets stale pretty fast. When you’ve been sitting there for five hours or whatever, you’ll wish you hadn’t bothered. Now go home, Gonzo.’

‘But—’

‘Gonzo, were you listening to anything I said to you before about what cops do and what lab technicians do, and about them being totally different things?’

‘Sure, but . . . well, Vasey’s a suspect, isn’t he? And I bet you don’t have the time to watch him constantly. Even if you do have a
partner
.’

Doyle smiles at the emphasis on the final word, intended to show him how hurt Gonzo feels. Gonzo is right, of course. The squad doesn’t have the resources to watch Vasey around the clock,
and Doyle isn’t sure how profitable it would be anyhow. But tonight . . . well, maybe Gonzo could be of some use after all.

Doyle checks his watch. ‘All right, Gonzo. Here’s what we’ll do. Are you prepared to sit on Vasey until midnight?’

‘You mean it? Absolutely. I’ll stay here all night if you—’

‘No, midnight’s fine. If Vasey leaves his apartment before then, I want you to call me, okay? Don’t do anything. Don’t approach him, don’t go in the building,
don’t do anything except watch the place. Is that understood?’

‘Perfectly. I will monitor and report. Don’t worry, Detective, I won’t let you down. I’ve got a flask of coffee here to keep me awake.’

He needs caffeine to keep him awake until midnight, thinks Doyle. Jesus.

‘Nice to hear you’re fully equipped. Speak to you later.’

He ends the call. He is almost surprised to realize there is a smile on his face. Gonzo’s childish enthusiasm has just brightened his night.

But it quickly fades when the enormity of what may happen next reasserts itself in his thoughts.

When the cops from the Eighth Precinct say they’re heading over to the Island, they don’t always mean Staten Island. Or Long Island. Or Roosevelt Island, Governors
Island, Liberty Island, Randall’s Island, or even Riker’s Island, for that matter. Quite often, what they are referring to is a drinking den more properly known as Gilligan’s.
Which isn’t an island at all, except in the poetic sense of being a place to escape from life’s hustle, bustle and trouble. Television has a lot to answer for.

Gilligan’s is situated on Avenue A, and has been for a long time, even back in the days before all the other bars and restaurants sprang up in this area – back when Alphabet City was
not as friendly an area as its preschool-sounding name might suggest (although it was certainly capable of giving visitors an education they would never forget). What has always made the Island a
safe watering hole is the fact that, on an average night, you probably have more chance of finding a cop here than in the Eighth Precinct station house.

Doyle guesses the place hasn’t changed much since those fun-filled days of yore. It has always been styled as an Irish pub, but unlike more recent pretenders to that title it manages to
pull it off. As soon as Doyle opens the door, the Irish music draws him inside. Admittedly, it’s emanating from a music system rather than a live ceilidh band, but he always knows that as
soon as he knocks back some of that smooth Guinness and tunes in to the Irish lilt of the garrulous bartender, he is able to transport himself back to the land of his childhood. Or at least to a
censored and somewhat romanticized version of what he recalls of those bygone days.

Except that tonight he cannot drink alcohol. He must remain as sober as a judge on antibiotics. Someone’s life may depend on it.

For the hundredth time, he thinks back on what he was told over the phone.

Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?

Irish music – check. Drink – check. Guinness – check.

He approaches the bar, more alert than he has ever been before in this place. He tries to perceive and absorb every detail. As he walks, he notices for the first time how loud his footsteps seem
on the wood-planked floor. He scans faces. Many are familiar. He receives smiles, nods, a couple of handshakes, one or two slaps on the shoulder. He is aware that his responses are muted to the
point of being rude, but he knows he cannot afford to narrow his focus. His eyes search every corner of the room, on the lookout for anything unusual, anything suspicious, anything warranting
further scrutiny.

‘A late start for you tonight, Cal.’

This from the bartender. He is also the owner of this bar, and his name is Patrick Gilligan, although most know him as Paddy. The previous owner was Paddy’s father, another Patrick
Gilligan. He died of cirrhosis of the liver, but before he succumbed to the devil that is drink, before he took ownership of the pub, he was a cop. Paddy here never became a cop, but he should have
been, in Doyle’s opinion. Doyle has seen him defuse many a potentially explosive situation simply by walking up to the offenders and telling them how things are going to be. He is one of
those people whose mere presence demands respect, even among those who wear a badge.

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.

Not a cop – check. Son of a cop who drank – check. In the company of drink now – check.

It all fits.

Doyle looks into the eyes of the big man behind the counter – eyes as blue as his own are green – and thinks, If I get this wrong, Paddy, if I fuck this up, then you are a dead
man.

‘Cal?’ says Paddy. He already has a glass in one hand and the other on the Guinness pump-handle.

‘Yeah, sure,’ says Doyle, nodding for Paddy to pour him one out. He has no plans to drink it, but he also knows that he can’t sit there with an orange juice in front of him
unless he wants to draw attention to himself.

Says Paddy, ‘You come straight from the House?’

Even talks like a cop, thinks Doyle.

‘Yeah,’ says Doyle. ‘There was some OT on offer. And with my daughter’s birthday coming up . . .’

‘I know what you mean. Grab it while you can. You never know what’s around the corner.’

Well,
you
certainly don’t, thinks Doyle.

They pass a few more pleasantries back and forth while the ancient art of Guinness-pouring is carried out in the proper leisurely fashion. Then Doyle says, ‘You got a newspaper back there,
Paddy? I need some downtime.’

Paddy finds a
New York Post
and hands it across. ‘You find any good news in there, let me know.’

‘You’ll be the first,’ says Doyle, hoping that tomorrow’s edition won’t have Paddy’s face splashed all over it. Hoping even more that Paddy’s face
doesn’t get splashed all over anything tonight.

Doyle carries his drink and his newspaper to a quiet spot at the end of the bar. Somewhere he can get a good view of anyone who comes near Paddy. He opens the newspaper, puts his hand up to the
side of his face so that nobody can see what his eyes are really doing, and waits.

It’s the most awkward he has ever felt in a bar. Not drinking, but with a beautiful tall glass of black and white just demanding to be poured down his gullet. Not reading, but with an
expanse of images and headlines tugging at his eyeballs for attention. And all this while trying to appear to be just another harmless customer winding down after a hard day at the office.

When Paddy looks across and catches his eye, Doyle hastily picks up his glass, raises it in a salute, and pushes his lips into the creamy foam. He takes the tiniest of sips, and when Paddy looks
away, he puts the glass down again. The taste of the beverage on his tongue is sheer torture. He’s starting to think he should have ordered an OJ after all.

He is also thinking that maybe he should just let Paddy know what’s going on. Tell him to leave the bar now, go upstairs, and lock himself away in a room until midnight has come and gone.
Until another day is here and Paddy is free to enjoy it and all the other days that will follow.

Except that he knows it won’t solve a thing. Because, despite what the caller said about midnight being the deadline, the killer could just try again later. Or maybe another night
entirely. And Doyle can’t spend the rest of his midnights coming to Gilligan’s, even if he could permit himself to drink the beer. His only chance to catch the perp is to let him think
he has a chance of completing his mission tonight. Which means that Paddy has to be kept out of the picture. He has to be unaware that his hours – or rather his minutes now – may be
numbered.

It’s not an easy choice for Doyle. And he’s not sure that Paddy will ever forgive him.

He checks his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Only forty-five minutes to go.

Doyle allows his attention to wander from the bar. His gaze skips from table to table, from booth to booth. Everyone chilling. Alcohol-emboldened guys eyeing up girls. Girls discreetly flicking
their own eyes toward their admirers. Cops exchanging stories about the job. Dirty jokes. Laughter. Nobody alone. Nobody looking like they have an appointment with death tonight. It’s all
good.

It occurs to Doyle that this is a weird choice of location for a hit. Most of the cops he knows carry guns when they are off-duty. Even those who don’t take their service sidearms usually
carry a smaller, lighter weapon. That’s potentially a lot of muzzles pointing at anyone who starts trouble in here.

Doyle slips a hand under his jacket. His fingers find the reassuring cold metal of his own Glock 19.

How the hell is he going to get away with it? he wonders. Does he even expect to survive?

But then this killer is one clever son of a bitch. He’s already proved that.

‘You sick or something?’

Doyle realizes that Paddy is talking to him. He doesn’t understand the question until he sees Paddy nod his head toward Doyle’s full glass.

‘It’s my second,’ says Doyle. ‘Terry just poured me one.’

Paddy stands there looking unconvinced. ‘Still not up to your usual standard. How am I going to turn a profit with you drinking at that rate?’

Doyle laughs, but when Paddy doesn’t turn away, he’s glad for the ring of his cellphone. He answers it and gives his name.

‘It’s me, Detective.’

‘Gonzo?’

‘Yeah. I’m still outside the apartment building, like you asked. Only I thought you should know: Dr Vasey has just come out the front door.’

Doyle glances at his watch again. Eleven-twenty.

‘He’s leaving? Which way’s he going?’

‘Heading west on Sixty-first.’

That’s not toward here, Doyle thinks. Where the hell’s he going?

‘He’s staying on foot?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to follow him.’

‘Gonzo . . .’ He wants to stop him, but he also wants to know what Vasey is up to. ‘All right. Stay with him. When he gets where he’s going, give me another call. And be
careful, okay?’

‘Don’t you worry about me, Detective. I can do this. I’m watching him like a hawk, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.’

Doyle rings off. He doesn’t like this. Vasey leaving his apartment at this time of night is just too much of a coincidence. He starts to wonder if he did the right thing in sending Gonzo
after him. He worries about it until his phone rings again barely ten minutes later.

‘Detective, it’s me. Gonzo. I, uhm, I lost Vasey.’

‘You lost him? You’ve only been tailing him for a few minutes. What did he do, jump in a taxi?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. We got as far as Sixty-second and Park, and then he just disappeared. I’ve been looking everywhere. There’s no sign of him.’