The Helper (18 page)

Doyle turns his gaze on Vasey. ‘You can go if you want, Doctor, but if you want my advice, you should stay. This isn’t looking good for you at the moment. Two people are dead, and
you’re the only thing we can find that connects them. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Maybe somebody’s trying to set you up. Who knows? But if you’re innocent, then I’m
sure you’ll want to get to the bottom of this as much as we do. This is your chance to do that.’

Friedrich now also turns to Vasey. ‘Andrew, the only people trying to set you up here are the police. That means any advice they offer you is less than worthless. If they had anything on
you, they would have charged you by now. Let’s get out of here.’

She waits. Doyle and Holden wait. Vasey wavers, his mouth opening and closing.

‘I’ll stay,’ he says.

Friedrich stares at him in disbelief. When she twists back in her chair, she folds her arms in what seems a petulant gesture, the action pushing up her breasts.

‘So,’ says Doyle, ‘do you still want to deny that you ever met Cindy Mellish in your office, whether she was officially registered as a client or not?’

‘I never met that girl,’ says Vasey. ‘And I also want to put on record that I have never acted in anything other than a professional manner in my consultations. The idea that I
would physically assault somebody is . . . it’s abhorrent.’

Doyle thinks the good doctor is starting to sound a little melodramatic. He wants to ramp up the pressure. In particular, he wants to ask about Lorna Bonnow, but he knows that if he throws that
in he’ll have a lot of explaining to do to Holden.

‘What would you say if I asked you to open up your client files to us, Dr Vasey?’

It’s Friedrich who answers. ‘He’d tell you to take a hike. Those files are confidential. A psychologist’s reputation is built on trust. A lot of people tell Andrew a lot
of things. Very intimate things. They do so in the knowledge that he won’t go divulging their personal details to everybody that asks for them. Next question.’

‘We could get a court order.’

‘You think? On what grounds? That one of Dr Vasey’s former clients was murdered? Big deal.’

‘On the grounds that Dr Vasey is the common factor in two homicide cases currently under investigation.’

‘Hello? Didn’t we cover this already? You’ve got one guy who Andrew saw twice, and you’ve got a woman he never met even once, despite your continued insistence that he
did. What kind of common factor is that? I bet I could find two dead people who both ate at Katz’s at some point in their lives. Wouldn’t mean that the owner poisoned them. But if you
think you can get a lame duck like that to fly in front of a judge, then good luck to you, Detective.’

Doyle is starting to feel more than a little pissed now. Not least because he knows that she is correct. He tries to appear as though she hasn’t rattled him, although he suspects she
already scents triumph.

‘Doctor, where were you last night, around midnight?’

‘Here we go,’ Friedrich mutters.

Vasey says, ‘I was at home. Where else would I be?’

‘At home. Are you sure?’

‘What do you mean, am I sure? Of course I’m sure.’

‘And what were you doing?’

‘At midnight? I was in bed.’

‘You were in bed.’

Doyle goes silent then. He gives Vasey his best withering stare. Any second now, he thinks. The beads of sweat, the loosening of the collar, and then he’ll break.

‘All right, Detective,’ says Friedrich. ‘Now that we’ve established my client’s nocturnal habits and found them to be completely mundane, can we bring this
interview to a close? Dr Vasey is a very busy man, and I am sure you are too when you’re not going on fishing expeditions like this one.’

Any second now.

‘Dr Vasey, would you like to reconsider your previous answer?’

All eyes are on Doyle now, and he knows they’re all wondering what’s gotten into him. He figures that Holden in particular will think he’s flipped.

‘I, uhm . . . I went out. For a short while.’

Gotcha, thinks Doyle. But now he knows the others are all trying to work out what made him push it.

‘You went out. At what time?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Eleven-fifteen. Eleven-thirty. In there somewhere.’

‘And what time did you get back to the apartment?’

‘About two.’

‘Two o’clock in the morning. You were out of your apartment from eleven-fifteen or thereabouts until two o’clock.’

‘I think so. Yes.’

‘Did you go out in your car?’

‘No. I walked.’

‘You don’t mind me saying, that’s a strange time to be going for a stroll. Where did you go?’

‘Park Avenue.’

‘Where on Park Avenue?’

‘Corner of Sixty-second Street.’

Exactly where Gonzo lost him, thinks Doyle.

‘And what was so fascinating about that location that made you schlep all the way over there so late in the day?’

‘It’s not so far. Just a couple of blocks.’

‘Dr Vasey, I don’t care if you only went as far as your closet.

What I want to know is why you felt the sudden urge to go there at that time of night.’

He looks to Friedrich again. She gives him the green light.

‘I, uhm, I got a call.’

‘A call? You mean on the telephone? Who from?’

‘Well, the thing is, I’m not sure any longer. It was kind of weird.’

Doyle feels something inside his abdomen do a back-flip. Oh shit, he thinks. I know what’s coming.

For the first time in the interview, Holden puts a question. Because he’s intrigued, whereas Doyle’s interest has suddenly waned.

‘Weird how?’

‘The guy on the phone said his name was Waxman, and that he was a neighbor of my ex-wife’s. She’s the one who lives at the Park Avenue address, by the way. Now, I happen to
know that her neighbor
is
called Waxman, so I had no reason to doubt him. He told me that he’d heard some weird noises and then a scream coming from her apartment, and that
he’d been ringing her doorbell for the past fifteen minutes and couldn’t get an answer. He also told me he couldn’t get hold of the building superintendent to open her door, so
that’s why he was calling me, to see if I had a key.’

Doyle nods along with Holden. Trying to pretend that this is a weird one, all right. Preparing himself to look suitably surprised when the punchline gets delivered.

Holden says, ‘So you went over there. What happened next?’

‘Nothing. I mean, it was business as usual. The doorman had no idea what I was talking about, and when I got upstairs there was no sign of Waxman. The hallway was empty. No signs of any
problems whatsoever. So I rang my ex’s doorbell. A minute later she opened the door. She was fine. Said she also had no idea what was going on.’

Doyle sees how puzzled Holden looks, and he can imagine the thought processes going on in his mind. The story is too crazy not to be believed. And yet why would anyone choose to pull a stunt
like that? If they were trying to set Vasey up, why not just leave him in bed, with no alibi for the time Hanrahan was being murdered, instead of moving him somewhere where presumably his location
could be verified?

Because, my dear Watson, Doyle wants to say, the caller somehow knew that Vasey was being watched, and saw his opportunity to add a little more fun to his game. He was playing me. Again.

Holden says, ‘Do you know anyone who would make a prank call like that?’

‘No. I’d never heard this voice before. It sounded almost British. A little like that actor, whatshisname . . .’

Cary Grant, thinks Doyle.

‘Cary Grant,’ says Vasey.

Holden rubs his hand across his chin. ‘With all due respect, Doctor, don’t you think this sounds too convenient? My guess is that the doorman at your apartment building saw you leave
at around eleven-fifteen. You don’t come back until two. Between those times, Mr Hanrahan, a previous client of yours, is murdered. And then you come up with this story about a mystery phone
call that caused you to go over to your ex-wife’s place. Can you see how that might sound to us, Dr Vasey?’

Vasey leans across the table. Doyle thinks he’s starting to look a little flustered now.

‘Yes, I can see that. But it’s exactly what happened, I swear to you. My ex-wife will confirm it.’

‘She might confirm you came knocking on her door at about eleven-thirty, maybe a few minutes earlier. That says nothing about what you did after that. Doesn’t say why you
didn’t get home until two.’

‘I . . . I . . . Look, if you must know, she invited me in. She was touched that I seemed so concerned for her welfare. She . . . she was
grateful
.’

There is a huge nod and a wink contained in that emphasis, and everybody understands it for what it is. Even Anna Friedrich is looking up at the ceiling for distractions.

‘You mean you had sex?’

‘Uhm, yes.’

‘Until what time?’ Holden asks. Then, seeing the expression on Vasey’s face, he says, ‘Scratch that. What time did you leave your ex-wife’s apartment?’

‘Just before two. Then I went straight home.’

Holden sighs. ‘If that’s so, why didn’t you just give it up a coupla minutes ago? Why did you lie when Detective Doyle asked you where you were around midnight?’

‘Because . . . because for one thing I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought you were trying to pin the murder of Mr Hanrahan on me, and I didn’t see the point in giving you
extra ammunition to do just that.’

‘But you just said that your ex-wife could give you an alibi. Why not say that from the start and save yourself all this trouble?’

‘Because . . . she has a boyfriend now. A very rich and very powerful boyfriend. I was trying to protect her.’

Holden sighs again. ‘All right, Dr Vasey. We’ll still have to talk to her. Don’t worry, we’ll be discreet.’ He flips open a notepad. ‘What’s her name
and full address?’

Vasey checks in with his lawyer again. This time she doesn’t nod. Doesn’t give him a word or a gesture.

‘Dr Vasey?’

The lawyer turns her beautiful dark eyes on the detectives.

‘Her name is Anna Friedrich,’ she says. ‘I reverted to my maiden name.’

Bitch.

Is what Doyle thinks.

His view is that she was planning to spring this on them all along. That story about covering up her infidelity was a crock of shit. She wanted to watch the detectives dig themselves into a hole
and then, at the last possible moment, she would bury them under a truckload of dirt.

And now she’s the one who’s acting as the injured party. Unfucking-believable.

‘Where did that come from?’ she demands of the detectives when Vasey is out of earshot. They have left the interview room, and Vasey has walked ahead of them.

‘What?’ says Doyle.

‘That question about where Andrew was at midnight.’ Doyle shrugs. ‘It was routine.’

‘Oh no. Not the way you asked it. Not the way you kept pressing him to alter his answer. You knew something.’

‘I know a lot of things. Most of all, I know when someone is lying to me or holding back. My spidey sense told me your hubby was holding back.’

‘Uh-uh. You were too confident. You were in no doubt he left his apartment last night. That tells me you had him under surveillance. I know better than anybody that Andrew can be an
asshole – that’s why I’m no longer a Vasey. But I also know that basically he’s a stand-up guy. He’s not the man you’re looking for. So call off the dogs or
I’ll fire a harassment suit at you so fast you won’t have time to duck.’

She turns on her heel and click-clacks down the hallway, leaving the detectives with an indelible memory of her rear view.

‘Is she right?’ Holden asks Doyle.

‘Right about what?’

‘That your intuition couldn’t be that good. That you had more to go on than a hunch.’

‘You really wanna know?’

Holden stands there for a moment while he weighs up the pros and cons.

‘Maybe it’s better if I don’t.’

He starts to walk away. Doyle trails after him.

‘Because if you’re really interested, I’d be happy to tell you.’

Holden speeds up his pace to get away.

‘All right,’ says Doyle, ‘if you’re gonna drag it out of me, it was like this . . .’

But by now Holden has his fingers in his ears and is singing loudly.

The call comes just as Doyle pulls up outside his apartment. He knows from the absence of any caller ID who this is going to be, and he’s ready for him. He presses the
answer button, but says nothing.

‘Cal?’

‘Don’t say another word,’ Doyle tells him. ‘Not one fucking word. No stupid clues. No music. Nothing. I don’t just mean now, either. I mean forever. I don’t
need your help no more, get me? That man you killed last night was a cop and a friend. That makes you my enemy. That puts you top of my list of people I need to take off the streets. And if it was
my decision, I’d reinstate the death penalty just for you. In fact, I would stick the fucking spike in your arm myself and watch you die, you sick fuck. Do you understand?’

‘Ten-four, Detective. Message received loud and clear. No clues. I get it. But to be honest, I wasn’t calling to give you clues. You know why? Because you already have
them.’

And then he ends the call.

Just like that.

Leaving Doyle staring at his phone and wondering how it could have gone so awry. This wasn’t how it was meant to happen. He was supposed to deliver his rant and then come away feeling good
about himself, satisfied that he’d put both himself and the caller in neat little labeled boxes. The hunter and the hunted. The investigator and the criminal. But yet again he has been left
with blurred vision, unable to make out the boundaries between right and wrong. Feeling somehow sullied by that simple brief reply.

You already have them.

What do I have?

What the fuck do I have?

It bothers him the whole evening.

For one thing he is furious with himself. He should have said what he had to say and then ended the call. Goodbye. So long. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.

But you had to hang on for those extra few seconds, didn’t you, Doyle? You had to go and let yourself hear those words. The words that now seem to be the only things in your stupid
brainless head, you dumb prick.