The Helper (26 page)

‘Don’t underestimate me. I’m still gonna put your ass in jail. Meantime, I’ll think about your offer.’

‘You do that. But like I said, don’t put it on hold too long. I’ll be calling you again for an answer soon.’

The line goes dead. Doyle drops the phone on his desk and exhales heavily. He tries to absorb what’s just hit him.

He’s made a mistake.

The man who seems to plan his murders to perfection has finally made a mistake.

He wasn’t being rash when he killed Helena Colquitt. He wasn’t being blasé about the possible return of Tabitha while he carried out a calculated murder. He didn’t even
know that two people were staying in the apartment. As far as he was concerned, there was nobody else likely to come through that door while he was there.

And because of all that, the wrong person died.

Doyle leaps to his feet, almost knocking over his chair. He grabs his leather jacket and dashes out of the squadroom.

Sooner or later, the killer is going to realize his mistake. Even if it’s only through hearing the victim’s name on the news, he’s going to learn that he screwed up in a big
way. And when that happens, he may just want to put it right.

Doyle prays that he can get to Tabitha before the killer does.

He’s thumbing the buzzer of Apartment 2B, hoping that it’s the right one, praying that he’s not too late. 2B is the only one without a name against the
buzzer. It has to be the vacant one that Mrs Serafinowicz was talking about.

A voice breaks in eventually. It’s croaky with tiredness and all that crying.

‘Quit buzzing! Who the hell is this?’

Doyle puts his mouth close to the intercom. ‘It’s Detective Doyle. We spoke a few hours ago? I need to see you again. Can you let me in, please?’

‘Now? Do you know what time it is? Can’t this wait till the morning?’

‘No. Please. It’s urgent. It won’t take long.’

Hiss over the intercom. Then: ‘All right. Keep it brief, okay?’

She admits him, and he runs up the stairs to the second floor. The door to 2B is already open. Tabitha standing there, belting up her robe. Her eyelids looking like they want to slide down to
her mouth.

‘Get inside,’ he says.

The command seems to shock her awake. ‘What? Who do you think—’

‘Inside. Now!’

He pushes her into the living room and follows her.

He says, ‘Get dressed. Pack a few things. You’re leaving.’

‘No. What are you talking about? You can’t just come in here like this—’

‘Tabitha, listen to me. Your life is in danger. We’ve had some information. The guy who killed Helena, we think he’s gonna try to kill you too. You have to leave
here.’

She blinks. Confused. Scared.

‘No. I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t understand. Who wants to kill me? How do you know all this?’

Inside, Doyle twists and turns about what he can tell her. Without at least some honesty she’s not going to believe him. And that means she won’t save herself.

‘All right, I’m gonna tell you something. Nobody else knows this. Not the press. Not the families of the other victims. Nobody.’ He pauses to let this sink in. ‘He calls
us. The murderer. When he’s killed somebody, he calls the cops to taunt us for not catching him. Tonight I took the call. He did his usual thing, making fun of us. Calling us clowns. Only
this time he said we were idiots for not preventing the death of Tabitha Peyton.’

Her face seems to drain of blood. She shakes her head. ‘No. What do you mean? Are you saying he made a mistake? That Helena was a
mistake
?’

Put like that, it makes Helena’s death sound even more of a waste than it was already. All that Doyle can say is, ‘I’m sorry.’

She pushes her hands through her hair and looks around the room, as if searching for an escape route from this bad dream she must be having.

‘I can’t do this. I can’t take any more. Why would somebody want to kill me? I haven’t done anything.’

‘Please, Tabitha. We can talk about it in the car. Right now, I just have to get you somewhere safe. Go into your bedroom and get dressed. I’ll be waiting right here.
Hurry!’

As she walks away he wants to weep for her. She’s been through enough. First her parents get ripped from her, then her best friend, and now she’s in danger of losing her own life.
How much disastrous luck can be crammed into such a youthful existence?

He steps to the window and parts the curtains slightly. Peers down onto the street below, even though he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Then he goes over and sits on the sofa.
He finds himself tapping his feet in impatience and constantly checking his watch.

He thinks, Jesus, how long is she gonna take in there? I coulda had a three course meal by now.

When she reappears she is wearing jeans, leather boots and a gray coat, belted at the waist. She carries a heavy-looking overnight bag.

‘Let me get that,’ says Doyle.

‘Are you sure about this?’ she asks. ‘About the killer, I mean. That he’s coming back? That he wants to hurt me?’

Doyle takes the bag from her hand, but knows that what she really wants is for him to take away her fear.

‘It’s a precaution, okay? Maybe he won’t come back. Maybe he’ll realize he made a mistake and just move on. But we can’t take that chance. We have to be sure
you’re safe.’

She nods, but still she seems unsure. He waits while she locks up the apartment, and then they head down the staircase.

When they get to the first floor she says, ‘I can’t just leave like this. I need to talk to Bridget – Mrs Serafinowicz.’

‘Not now. You can call her tomorrow. Right now we just need to get you outta here.’

Doyle is the first onto the front stoop. He scans the street, his hand within snatching distance of his firearm, then leads her toward his car. He continues to watch all around him while she
climbs into the passenger seat, and then he throws the bag into the trunk. He gets in behind the wheel, fires up the engine and takes off, exhaling his relief to get away from this place.

And only then does he think, Where the hell am I going?

Doyle has been so preoccupied with the task of getting her out of danger that he’s not given any thought as to where he’s going to take her next.

His own apartment is the first location that springs to mind. It’s also the first to be jettisoned with extreme force.

Hi, Rachel. Look what I brought home. No, let me explain. She’s a potential victim. Yes, victims
can
look like this. A victim of whom? Well, that serial killer who’s
been talking to me in those phone calls I never explained to you.

But Rachel’s objections aren’t the only problem. It just wouldn’t be safe. The killer knows too much about Doyle, including what he does and where he goes. Inviting Tabitha
into his home would be the same as inviting the killer. And that is something he cannot bring to his family.

So where? A hotel? No. Too public. And she can’t be left alone. She needs to be with someone. Someone who can keep an eye on her.

But who? He can’t ask another cop – not without revealing why he’s got this girl with him in the first place.

‘This is crazy,’ she says. ‘I feel like I’m dreaming. Where are we going, anyway? Some kind of safe house?’

‘Uh, yeah. Something like that.’ He sees a coffee shop ahead on the right. ‘Listen, you want a coffee?’

‘A coffee? Now?’

‘Yeah. Come on.’

Without waiting for an answer, he pulls the car over and climbs out. He goes around the car and opens the door for Tabitha. While she gets out, he scans the street again.

He thinks, What are you doing? She’s safe now. He can’t get to her here. Relax.

But still he finds himself standing close to her as they move toward the coffee shop, his body shielding hers, his fingers edging under his jacket.

Inside, she starts to move to a booth in the window, but Doyle takes her arm and guides her over to a table in a shadowy alcove. He sits facing the door, so that he can see anybody who might
enter.

You’re acting like a spy, he thinks. Stop it. The sonofabitch is good, but he’s not that good. He’s human. He makes mistakes. Remember that.

A waitress comes across. When she smiles, Doyle gets the impression that she thinks they’re a couple. For some reason he gets the urge to tell her they’re not together, before he
realizes how stupid and unnecessary that would be.

Tabitha orders a skinny latte, while Doyle opts for a decaf cappuccino. He’s wired enough as it is without pumping caffeine into his system.

Tabitha says, ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

‘It’s just coffee,’ says Doyle. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘I don’t mean the coffee. I mean for coming to my aid like this. For being the white knight.’

He looks into her eyes, then wishes he hadn’t. ‘I . . . I’m just doing my job.’

‘
To protect and serve
, huh?’

‘Actually, that’s the LAPD. But yeah, same principle.’

‘Will you be staying with me?’

‘What?’

‘Wherever it is we’re going. Will you be staying there with me?’

‘Uhm, no.’

‘Pity. You make a good bodyguard. You make people trust you.’

‘You’ll be safe. I promise. I need to get out there and catch the bad guy.’

‘Will you? Catch him, I mean?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I hope so.’

She lapses into silence and looks down at the table. While she is lost in her thoughts he steals the chance to search her face, and wonders why he finds it so hard to meet her gaze. It’s
not attraction. Of that he’s certain. She is young and beautiful and shapely – those things are undeniable. But it’s not attraction.

It’s what she said. It’s the
trust
. When he looks into her eyes it’s like looking into the eyes of Amy, his daughter. There is undiluted trust there. Faith. Belief.
Tabitha believes that he is her guardian angel. The white knight, as she put it. He has rescued the damsel in distress and next he will vanquish the dragon, and they will live happily ever after.
That’s what she believes.

He’s not sure he’s ready for that responsibility. It makes him wish he wasn’t so trustworthy in her eyes.

Because what if he gets it wrong?

What if, despite his constant assertions to himself and his continued reassurances to her that she is out of danger, she still comes to harm?

It’s an unbearable thought. And that’s why he cannot look her in the eye. Loath though he is to admit it, he needs the emotional detachment. Just in case.

But no! Fuck that sick sonofabitch! He’s not going to get Tabitha Peyton. She
is
safe now.

The coffee arrives, and he’s glad of the interruption to his mental wrangling. Neither of them adds sugar to their drinks. Both take careful sips from their cups of steaming liquid.

‘Do you like this city?’ she asks.

The question throws Doyle. Not merely for its random nature, but also because it’s something which for him has a lot more depth than it might appear to possess. To Doyle, this city is far
more than a collection of buildings and people and vehicles crammed into a few square miles of land. He was brought here at the age of eight from a country with vast open spaces and sheep and cows
and an altogether gentler pace of life. The shock of that contrast – the excitement of it – has never left him. Yes, the city can be cruel, can even seem heartless at times, but there
is a soul there which, once you recognize it and connect to it, never lets you go. You reach a point where your heart beats to the city’s rhythm. And then you’re a part of it.

‘I love it,’ he answers, and he is not exaggerating.

She nods, plays with her spoon. ‘I thought I would too. Sometimes I get this close to thinking I’m happy here. And then the city goes and shows me how wrong I can be.’

‘You’ve had a tough time.’

‘Ever since I got here. That fresh start idea of mine never worked out. I pictured friends, dancing, theater, movies. What I got was loneliness and despair. Millions of people all around
me, and still I felt the loneliest woman on the planet. Crazy, huh?’

Doyle says nothing. Just sips his coffee. She needs to talk, to be listened to.

She says, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s my fault, not the city’s. I’ve noticed that about New Yorkers: they’re very loyal. And
maybe you’re right. Maybe me and New York were never going to get along. A clash of personalities. And I can see why you love it here. It has so many wonderful things, so much to offer. But I
think that sometimes, for some people, it takes instead of gives. And when you’re the one it picks on, you don’t have a prayer. ’

Doyle sips. Waits.

‘It beat me, this city. Beat me into the ground. You know how low I got? I was going to finish it all, that’s how low. One night, drunk as a skunk, I actually went out to the
Brooklyn Bridge with the intention of jumping into the East River.’

‘What stopped you?’

She smiles then, the first smile Doyle has seen from her. And on such a serious subject.

‘I picked the wrong bridge. You know how difficult it is to jump off that thing? The walkway goes right through the middle. You have to climb across the bridgework to miss the traffic
below. I was so drunk that night I couldn’t even climb my own front stoop.’

Her smile broadens, and for a second it lights up her face before it dims again.

She says, ‘You’re only the second person I’ve ever told that story too. See what I mean about trusting you?’

‘Who was the first?’

‘Mrs Serafinowicz. I never even told Helena.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . because she was another fresh start. I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her happiness. I wanted her to be the same with me as she was when we were at college. And
that’s what I got. For a short while.’

Doyle tries to work on what he should say. He’s not good with females who cry, and he’s not any better at giving advice on life. But he gives it a try.

‘Tabitha, listen. This is bad. As bad as it gets. There’s no way I can really understand how tough this must be for you. The only thing I do know is this: it’ll get better. Not
right away. It’ll take time. But I know you can be happy again. You’re too young to give up without a fight.’