The Helper (6 page)

‘Well now I’m helping you out too. Let’s all help each other. Make the world a friendlier place, huh, Cal?’

‘You wanna be friends, you should give me your name.’

‘I’m just a good Samaritan, Cal. You know what the good Samaritan’s name was? No, neither do I. Doesn’t make him less good though, does it?’

‘You feeling so charitable, go give some money to a dogs’ home.’

‘Now, now, Cal. That’s hardly the spirit. I know how they’ve been treating you at the precinct. The way you’ve been sidelined. Wouldn’t you like the chance to prove
to them what you can really do when given the chance?’

‘I don’t need you or anybody else to help me do that. Now say what you gotta say, then get the fuck off my phone.’

‘Oh but I think you do need me, Cal. So here’s what I’m offering. The chance to solve the case. The opportunity to catch the killer. Single-handed. Don’t you think the
NYPD would be impressed with that?’

‘Why would you do that? Why would you want me to catch you? This is bullshit.’

‘No, Cal, it’s genuine. You’ll find that out for yourself. If you’re willing to hear me out, you’ll discover that everything I tell you is true. Of course,
I’m not going to come right out and give you names. That would be too easy. But I’ll give you clues. All you have to do is use your brain and follow the leads I give you.’

‘What’s the catch? What do you get out of this?’

‘Satisfaction. Helping people is all I live for, Cal. Those other clowns in your squad don’t have a chance in hell of solving this. They got any leads yet? Okay, I know you
can’t answer that, but you and I both know the answer.’

The chorus of the song breaks through, and Doyle realizes it’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Ha, ha, very funny again.

There is a knock on the door. It opens, and Rachel pops her head round.

‘Cal, this food’s going cold again.’

He waves her away too brusquely, and he doesn’t blame her when she closes the door much harder than she needs to.

‘So you’re willing to act as an anonymous informant. For nothing in return except your own spiritual improvement. No financial considerations. No trade-off on legal charges.
Nothing.’

‘That’s correct. Although there are certain . . . conditions I will have to impose.’

‘Uh-huh. Why did I think it wasn’t as simple as you laid it out?’

‘I have to protect myself, Cal. You can’t blame me for that. So here’s the deal. I will help you, but in return for my help you must tell no one. Not your boss, not your
friends, not even your wife. No one. Do you understand? The minute you reveal to anybody what I’m doing for you, my assistance will cease. Permanently. You must also promise not to attempt to
trace my calls to you. And believe me when I tell you that I will know about it if you try to cheat on me.’

‘Forget it. No way can I agree to that. I’m a cop. We have rules. If I keep information like that to myself, I’m breaking the law. I could get prison time for that. Is that
what this is about? Are you trying to jam me up?’

‘My, my, Cal. What a suspicious mind you have. No, this is not about setting you up. With what I know about you, I could have done that a long time ago. By the way, Cal, how are the
nightmares these days? About you and . . . oh, what’s her name? Lorna? No, Laura.’

Doyle goes cold. Laura Marino. She was his partner in his previous precinct. She took a blast from a shotgun when Doyle sent her the wrong way in an apartment bust. It was an honest mistake, but
some people suggested there was more to it. There were rumors of an affair that Doyle wanted to end and she didn’t. And there were rumors that Doyle did terminate it when the opportunity
presented itself in that apartment.

It was a mistake, and he paid for it. With the subsequent investigation and scandal that almost wrecked his career and his marriage. And with the nightmares that still plague him.

The death of Laura became public knowledge. Anyone could read about that in the papers. But the nightmares? Who knows about them? Rachel, of course – she’s had to put up with her
sweat-soaked husband jumping out of bed in the middle of the night – but even then he has given her only the scantest of details. How the hell does this guy know about the nightmares?

But maybe it’s just a bluff. Any cop who went through what Doyle experienced would have nightmares about it. Maybe it’s not such a hard jump to make. Maybe that’s this
guy’s skill. Throw in some facts that are easy to discover, mix in a few educated guesses, and you end up with someone who appears to know you intimately. Is that what this guy is doing? If
so, he’d make an excellent poker player.

Or is this someone I really have met before?

‘I sleep fine. And I’ll sleep even better when we catch you, you sick son of a bitch. Now take your assistance and shove it up your ass, because you don’t have long before I
come over there and do it for you.’

There’s a pause, and then a faint sigh, and then a note of disappointment in the caller’s voice. ‘That’s a pity, Cal. A real shame. I thought you were made of sterner
stuff. Someone I could really think of as one of New York’s finest. Just think of what you’re throwing away here. The chance to bring Cindy Mellish’s killer to justice. The chance
to save all those lives.’

He leaves the final words hanging there.
All those lives
. They drip with the terror of promised carnage.

‘What do you mean? What lives?’

The disappointment turns to amusement. He’s proud of his little twist. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? Cindy is merely the first. The first of many. In fact, you may be interested to know
that the second life will be taken tonight.’

Doyle feels his grip tighten on the phone. He had been on the point of hanging up, but now he knows that’s impossible. Refusing information on a past crime is one thing, but how can he
reject the opportunity to save someone’s life?

The caller presses home his advantage. ‘Still there, Cal? Interested now, are we? Perhaps just a little bit? I can help you, Cal. I can help you solve the murder of Cindy Mellish, and I
can help you to prevent another murder that is scheduled to take place tonight. What’s it to be? Do we have a deal?’

Doyle considers it, but not for long. He needs to hear what this man has to offer, but whether it turns out to be bogus or not, he has no intention of sticking to any agreement with this douche
bag.

‘All right. Deal.’

‘So you won’t tell anyone about me, or try to trace my calls?’

‘I said deal, didn’t I?’

There is a slight pause, and when the man comes back on there is an excited energy in his voice. It’s as though he can’t quite believe his luck at getting this far, and is not quite
sure what to say next.

‘Good. Excellent. Then listen carefully, Cal. On the Cindy Mellish case, you need to find her diary. There will be clues in there.’

‘Her diary. Are you sure?’

‘Certain. Find the girl’s diary, and you’ll know what to do next.’

‘Okay. And what about the other victim? The one who’s supposed to die tonight?’

‘That’s up to you, Cal. What actions you take will determine whether the second person dies or just ends up somewhere like Bellevue.’

‘What do you mean, the actions I take? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

‘That’s all I can tell you. Take it from here.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me? The next one dies or ends up in hospital, and I’m supposed to affect that somehow? What kind of help is that?’

‘Follow my advice, Cal. Think about what you’ve heard. Forget about what your heart tells you to do. It’s the brain that’s important here. You don’t need anything
more than that.’

Doyle is ready to unleash a torrent of abuse, but before the first expletive escapes his lips, there is a click and the phone goes dead.

He stares at the handset. What the fuck was that? Did I just dream that conversation?

He tosses the phone onto the bed as though he’s just noticed that it’s crawling with insects. He continues to stare at it.

Someone is going to get hurt tonight, maybe even killed. And I can make it go one way or the other. I don’t know who the intended victim is. I don’t know their name, where they live,
what they look like, where they work, nothing.

And yet I have the power to save them.

So what do I do now?

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I should call it in, he thinks.

I should call the station house, let them know I just had this phone conversation. Let them decide what to do about it. Then I’m in the clear. I don’t have to worry about it. I can
go back to thinking about what to do for poor old Mrs Sachs. They can go look for the stupid diary and solve the case and get all the glory.

But on the other hand . . .

What can I tell them? I know nothing about the person who is supposed to get whacked tonight, so telling them that isn’t going to make any difference. I suppose I can mention the diary. If
there
is
a diary. And if it contains any clues. Which it probably won’t, because this guy is probably just a complete flake who gets off by getting cops to dance for him. And anyway
I can check out for myself whether this diary exists.

Shit! Why does my life have to be one huge fucking dilemma?

Doyle opens the bedroom door and re-enters the living room. Rachel is watching the television with the volume turned up – something she often does when she’s annoyed and she wants to
shut out everything and everyone else.

First things first, he thinks. So he goes over to her and sits next to her on the sofa and asks her what she’s watching and waits for her gruff reply and then tells her he’s
sorry.

‘I was just trying to let you know . . .’ she begins.

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was just one of those calls.’

‘I don’t know what “one of those calls” is. We don’t have calls like that. We don’t have secrets that have to be whispered to other people in other rooms. Do
we?’

‘Uhm, not usually, no. This one was different. Sensitive. You know? Sometimes there are things happening that I can’t even tell you about. Sometimes it’s better for you and Amy
if you don’t know what’s going on.’

She searches his face with worried eyes. ‘Are you in danger?’

‘No. But sometimes there are things connected with the job that I can’t discuss in front of you. I know it hasn’t happened very often in the past, but occasionally something
crops up.’

‘What, does Mrs Sachs actually work for the CIA or something?’

‘Something like that.’ He gives her a chance to mull it over. ‘We still friends?’

She answers him with a kiss. ‘Now go eat your freezing cold lasagna. You’ll have to pick out the broken glass yourself.’

He returns the kiss, then moves to the table.

Why didn’t I tell her? he wonders. What was it about that particular call which made me unable even to tell my own wife about it? Okay, the guy knows a lot of things, but surely even he
can’t find out if I talked to Rachel.

Deep down, he knows the answer, and it tears him apart. He’s kept things from her before. About the things he’s had to do. About the actions he’s had to take in order to keep
his life together. It wasn’t difficult for another little lie like this to trip off the tongue.

And he hates himself for it.

He pushes his food around the plate and stares at the back of Rachel’s head, and he tells himself that if she turns around now he will burst into tears and he will open up his soul to her
and she will be able to decide for herself whether he is a monster or just a frail human being, just like everybody else on this planet.

But she doesn’t turn and he doesn’t speak. He just pushes the food around and tries to convince himself that he is doing the right thing. That maybe, just maybe, his silence will
save lives.

All is confusion.

She thinks at first that she is in her own bedroom. Which would mean that there wasn’t this stupid oversized nightstand on which she’s just smacked her skull. And it would mean she
wouldn’t have wasted time fumbling around for the damned light switch so that she could see where she was going instead of slamming into other items of cumbersome furniture. Why does a single
guy need so much storage space, anyhow? Especially a guy who seems to have only about three changes of clothing?

She gets to her cellphone just before it cuts to voicemail. Stabs at the receive button as she tries to blink away the blurriness from her vision.

She attempts a hello, but it gets choked away. She clears her throat, tries again. A voice she doesn’t recognize says her name.

‘Yes, that’s me. Who is this?’

‘This is Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct. I’m sorry to call you so late like this . . .’

‘What? What is it?’ She’s wide awake now. A call from the police at – what time is it? Four o’clock on a Sunday morning – has that effect.

The figure in the bed stirs. A groggy face squints at her. ‘Whassamatter? Whoozaonphone?’

She raises a finger to silence Alex while she listens to the caller.

‘It’s nothing to get alarmed about, Miss. It’s about your husband.’

‘Gary? What about him?’

‘Like I say, it’s nothing to get too worried about. Your husband was brought into the precinct station house a couple of hours ago. He was drunk and he’d been in a
fight.’

‘A fight? Oh, Jesus!’

‘He’s not badly hurt. A few cuts and bruises is all, although he seems to have lost his keys and his phone. We normally let people like this sleep it off in the cells, but it being a
Saturday night they’re all full. At the moment he’s asleep in one of our interview rooms, but he can’t stay there. So we were wondering if you could come over and take him off our
hands. We couldn’t get much sense out of your husband, but he did manage to tell us where you work, so I know you’re only a few minutes away. We found your phone numbers in his address
book. I tried your work number but they said you’d gone out on a break, so I hope you don’t mind me calling you on this number.’

‘No, that’s fine. I’ll come right over.’