The Helper (16 page)

Of course he should. He is painfully aware of this. It’s excruciating. It’s why he is exasperated and despondent and furious.

And it’s why he’s bringing this to an end. Initiating divorce proceedings. No more relationship with the mysterious helper.

He can’t bear the awful pressure.

He can’t live with knowing.

It means becoming a cop again. No inside knowledge means he has to do what other detectives do. He has to rely on shoe leather and his dialing finger and his wits and his
questioning skills to get at the truth. Just as he would normally do in an investigation.

Jesus, what a relief that is.

Except that it’s not so simple. He wants to talk to Gary Bonnow, husband of the murdered nurse. Only he lives in Brooklyn, and Doyle doesn’t have a good excuse to go driving over to
Brooklyn and back right now. So he decides to call him on the phone. Only he can’t make the call from the squadroom for fear of somebody overhearing and wondering what the hell he’s
doing posing questions concerning a case that has nothing to do with him. So he goes for a short stroll to grab a coffee, and on his way back he gets into his car and makes the call from his
cellphone. And as he dials he thinks back on the talk he had when Gonzo turned up unannounced at the station house, and he wonders how many more times he will use this car for clandestine
conversations like this. So much for becoming Detective Normal again.

The voice that answers the phone sounds weary. Doyle figures that this man has probably spent a lot of time on the phone these past few days.

‘Mr Bonnow? This is Detective Doyle at the Eighth Precinct. We haven’t met, but I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a coupla questions relating to your wife. Would that be
okay?’

‘Well, ya know, I’m not so sure. I don’t know if there’s anything more I can tell you guys. I don’t really know anything. Do we have to do this now?’

‘I’ll be real quick, I promise. Just a coupla things I’m sure my colleagues haven’t asked you yet.’

Doyle gets a long silence, followed by a sigh. ‘Okay, shoot.’

‘Mr Bonnow, do you know if your wife kept a diary?’

‘A diary?’

Doyle can hear the surprise in the man’s voice. He was expecting a question he’s already been asked a million times, and for a change he didn’t get one.

Bonnow repeats himself: ‘A diary?’

‘Yes, a diary. A journal. Or maybe just a notebook she liked to write in. Did she have anything like that?’

‘No. Lorna wasn’t a big writer. She was never even sure what to put in birthday cards, ya know?’

‘Okay. Here’s my other question. Did Lorna own a computer?’

‘A computer?’ Again, the question has thrown him. ‘No. She hated computers. Technology was never her thing. She always came to me just to work the DVD player.’

‘Okay, thank you, Mr Bonnow. That’s all I wanted to know.’

‘That’s all? I don’t get it. Those questions are kinda strange. I mean, a diary and a computer? I don’t get it.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Bonnow. Sometimes we hear things and we have to follow them up, and it can all seem a little weird. You might get a few more weird questions as the
investigation proceeds. It just means we’re doing our job.’

‘Oh. Well, okay then. It’s just . . . well, I loved her, ya know? Even though she went with that other guy . . . I kind of understand why she did that. So, I was . . . well, I was
hoping for a little
more
.’

‘I understand. Give us time. We’ll catch him.’

Doyle rings off. He too was hoping for a little more. He wanted a connection. A pattern. If the nurse had kept a diary or owned a computer, just as Cindy Mellish did, then that could have meant
something. As it is, it’s just another dead end.

But there has to be a link of some kind. The killer has gone to far too much trouble for the victims to have been selected purely at random. There is a thread of some kind tying these three
murdered people together.

Doyle just can’t see what it is.

Doyle waits until his lunch break before making his next excursion. When he arrives at the apartment building on Charles Street, he first of all checks that there are no parked
cars that look like they might belong to the NYPD. Satisfied, he goes looking for the wife of Sean Hanrahan. He doesn’t find her, but the building superintendent tells him that she is staying
with her daughter on Jones Street, just a few blocks away.

Doyle drives down to the address. It’s a low-rise Greek Revival rowhouse situated between a café and a record store with a stone-cladding fascia that makes Doyle queasy just to look
at it.

A woman aged about thirty opens the door of the first-floor apartment and directs a gaze filled with suspicion at Doyle.

‘Yes?’

‘I, uh, I’m looking for Mrs Hanrahan.’

‘Are you a police officer?’

‘Yes, but I was also a friend of Sergeant Hanrahan. Was he . . . was he your father?’

‘Look, this is not a good time, okay? My mother, she’s not in the best of health. She’s tired, she’s upset, and right now she could do with a rest. So if this isn’t
urgent—’

‘I’ll only take a few minutes of her time. Please.’

He sees her wavering. This is a lawman at her door, and as a good law-abiding citizen she wants to do what’s right. But as a grieving daughter she also wants to tell him to fuck off and
leave them alone. And Doyle understands that perfectly. He wonders what she would do if he told her how he failed to save her father’s life last night.

‘Who is it, dear?’

The voice comes from inside the apartment. Its owner comes into view. Doyle sees a flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

‘We’ve met before,’ she says. ‘Detective . . .’

‘Doyle,’ he says. ‘Cal Doyle. Hello, Mrs Hanrahan.’

‘Please, come in.’

She beckons him inside. With reluctance, and wearing an expression of annoyance, the daughter opens the door wide to admit him. Doyle nods his gratitude and his apology as he enters.

It’s a light, airy apartment. The furnishings are modern and tasteful. On the walls are numerous photographs of two young children. An upright piano sits in one corner of the room, and
supports yet more photos.

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ says the daughter. ‘I need to get some air.’

She grabs a coat from a peg near the door, then shoots Doyle another look of anger as she leaves.

Doyle turns back to Mary Hanrahan. He knows that she is somewhere in her mid-fifties, but thinks she looks a dozen years older. He remembers Sean telling him that she used to own a bakery store
but had to sell up because of problems with her circulation. He notices now how ruddy her complexion is, and how her breathing seems somewhat labored.

‘You’ll have to forgive Fiona,’ she says. ‘She’s been through a lot.’

Doyle smiles at her. ‘Nothing to forgive. I know how difficult this must be for both of you. I was really sorry to hear about what happened to Sean.’

She nods slowly, her eyes glistening. For an awful moment Doyle thinks she’s going to break down, but then she recovers her composure.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Take a seat.’

They sit at opposite ends of a long cream-colored sofa.

‘How did you find me?’ she asks.

‘The super at your building directed me here. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I can’t be at our apartment. I don’t know if I can ever go back to our apartment. Even if they can clean it up, I’m not sure that, well . . .’

Doyle makes a show of looking around the living room. Anything to change the subject.

‘This is a nice place.’

She gives him a matronly smile. ‘Fiona and Brett have done well for themselves. They both have good jobs. They work hard. They deserve a break every now and then, but it’s difficult
with two young children. Do you have children, Cal?’

He holds up a finger. ‘One. A girl.’

‘Then you know. I mean, how hard it is to get time to yourselves. That’s why I came here last night. To look after the children while Fiona and Brett had a night out. That’s
why I wasn’t at home.’

Doyle gets what she’s saying. She wasn’t at home last night. When her husband was killed. She wasn’t there with him, and she regrets it bitterly. Doyle can hear the
self-recrimination in her voice.

She continues: ‘You see, last night was their wedding anniversary. I couldn’t say no, could I? I couldn’t let them down. The reason we moved to the Village was to be near our
children and grandchildren. I love to see them. Why would I say no to helping them out? I can walk here in just a few minutes. And it’s good for me too. I have problems with my circulation,
you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re a wonderful parent and grandparent. It’s nothing to beat yourself up about.’

She looks at him, seemingly grateful that he understands. He imagines she has spent the whole morning talking to people who are concerned with
just the facts, ma’am
. The whos,
whats, whys and whens. And when she answered their questions, perhaps nobody picked up on her subtext. Perhaps they failed to see what was happening to her inside.

‘They won’t make me see him, will they?’ she asks. ‘For identification purposes, I mean. They say that he’s . . . well, that he’s not what he was. I
don’t want to see him like that. I want to remember him as he used to be.’

Doyle has seen bodies with shotgun wounds to the face. It’s not a pretty spectacle. Uncomfortable even for cops who have seen all kinds of terrible sights.

‘No, don’t worry. The NYPD has his fingerprints on file. You won’t need to identify him.’

She nods again. Doyle is glad that he has been able to lift one small weight from her shoulders. Not much, but something.

She says, ‘You probably know more about this than I do, but the police were very interested in hearing about our friends. People we know well. People we trust. Is it possible, do you
think? That someone we know might have done this?’

Another worry. It’s bad enough when an act of extreme violence is perpetrated on you or your family, but the thought that it could have been done by somebody you know, somebody you might
meet again very soon, can be almost impossible to accept.

Doyle hesitates before answering. She is looking to him for help, and by God he owes it to her to clear this fear from her mind. But he has to be careful. What he knows and what he can say are
not necessarily the same.

He says, ‘My guess is that there were no signs of a break-in, no signs of a struggle?’

‘No. The police said there was nothing like that.’

‘Then it’s understandable that they would want to talk to everyone who Sean might have allowed into the apartment. In most cases that would mean friends, family, people the victim
knew pretty well.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘But that’s not always the case. It could be somebody pretending to be something they’re not. An authority figure, maybe. It could be someone Sean never met before in his
life.’

She looks at him like it’s a ridiculous suggestion. Which, he has to admit, is exactly how it sounds. A complete stranger who is such a smooth talker that he can get close enough to an
ex-cop to pull out a shotgun and obliterate the man’s features before they can even register surprise. The funny thing is, Doyle is pretty sure that it’s almost exactly how it went
down. The killer, whoever it is, has this magic ability to inveigle his way into the homes of his victims. Into their lives. And once he’s there . . .

‘But if it’s somebody he never met before,’ Mrs Hanrahan is saying, ‘why on earth would they want to kill him? And why would they go to such lengths? If they hated him
that much, why not just gun him down on the street?’

Why indeed? Because maybe it’s not about hate. Maybe it’s about power. Maybe he’s doing it simply to prove he can. And that makes him so much more dangerous than a killer who
is blindly driven by something as basic and primitive as raw hatred.

‘I don’t know. I think it’s too early to say. But we’ll catch him. That’s one thing I’m sure of.’

‘We?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said, “We’ll catch him.” Are you working Sean’s case?’

He hears a note of hope in her question. She wants someone who knew Sean personally to be taking care of things for him.

‘I meant the police. But I’ll do everything I can.’

He notes the look of disappointment. She was a cop’s wife for God knows how many years. She knows how these things work. She knows that unless there’s a break in the case in the
first forty-eight hours, then it’s unlikely the perp will ever be caught. And that means she wants every resource at the NYPD’s disposal to be allocated to the search for her
husband’s murderer. Doyle has promised her that he will play his part, and he intends to keep that promise.

‘I suppose the detectives asked you all the usual questions about whether Sean had any enemies, anyone that may have threatened him recently.’

‘Yes, they did. My answer was no. Nobody that I know of.’

‘Anything bothering him recently? Any financial worries, that kind of thing?’

She hesitates before answering. ‘Sean was a very troubled man, Cal. It started a long time before last night. But as for anything specific happening more recently, the answer is no
again.’

Now it’s Doyle’s turn to pause. He tries to slip the next question in with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

‘I don’t suppose that Sean was the type of guy who might have put his troubles down on paper? In a diary or a notebook maybe?’

She gives him a quizzical look. ‘No. That wasn’t Sean. He needed an outlet, all right, but writing wouldn’t have done it for him.’

‘What about a computer? You have one of those at home? Maybe Sean made a connection with the wrong people on the Internet.’

Now her brow is furrowed in suspicion. ‘No, we’ve never seen the attraction. I guess that Sean and I have always been old-fashioned in that way.’

Give it up, Doyle tells himself. The diary, the computer – there’s nothing there. That’s not the way you’re gonna find the killer. So what is? What possible link can
there be between this woman’s husband, a young girl who worked in a bookstore, and a nurse who was having an affair? What am I missing?