The Helper cd-2

by David Jackson

  Repp puts his finger in his mouth to suck away the blood, then takes it out again and stares fearfully at it like it’s a fatal wound.

  ‘You’re talking outta your ass. I never made any guarantees to her about her daughter. The only thing I did was put some doubt in her mind. If she doesn’t want me to follow it up, she’s free to tell me so.’

  ‘Just a little doubt, huh? What about the photos?’

  ‘What about them? They were sent over by a guy who does occasional jobs for me. We think it could be the daughter. Again, no guarantees.’

  ‘So you won’t mind if I talk to this wonderful guy you can afford to employ in this economic recession you keep reminding me about? Get his side of the story?’

  ‘Sure. If you can find him. Last I heard he’d decided to vacation in Honolulu while he’s in that neck of the woods.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And what about Pinter?’

  Repp tears his gaze away from his gashed finger and furrows his brow. ‘Who?’

  ‘Now who’s the one with the memory of a goldfish? Pinter. Works for Invar Insurance? Said he saw Patricia Sachs at the Port Authority Terminal?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, him, yeah. That was two years ago. I haven’t heard from him since then. I don’t think he even works for Invar anymore.’

  ‘That’s real convenient, Travis. So what this all amounts to is a couple of crappy photographs and your word, with anyone who can back it up currently unavailable for comment. That’s what you have, right? That’s what you think is good enough for Mrs Sachs to send you on a holiday to Hawaii?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. That’s for Mrs Sachs to decide. Like I say, if she wants out, that’s fine with me.’ He sucks his finger again. ‘You know, I think this is gonna need stitches. I’ll probably need a tetanus jab too. I should sue your ass.’

  Doyle shakes his head in disgust. ‘How many others are there, Travis?’

  Repp smiles. ‘Nine. I got nine other fingers.’

  Doyle slams the paperweight down on the desk, causing Repp to jump in his chair. ‘Not for much longer, Travis. I’ll ask you again. How many others are there like Mrs Sachs? How many schemes like this you got going?’

  ‘All right, you got me. Thirty-seven. Last week I sold the Brooklyn Bridge to a Texan billionaire who’s looking for a new water feature in his backyard. I mean, Jesus, what kind of answer do you expect from me? I’m legit, get it? Maybe I’m not rich or successful, but at least I can sleep at night. Can you? Is everything you do so lily-white that you don’t hate yourself sometimes?’

  Doyle doesn’t want to answer that. Doesn’t even want to think about it. He tells himself that this isn’t about him. It’s about Repp. And everything about Repp and his setup tells Doyle that this is a con. Mrs Sachs is being given false hope, with the added indignity of having to pay handsomely for the privilege.

  But he can’t prove it. Not without an extensive and costly investigation into Repp’s background and practices. His squad isn’t going to be interested, not when a bunch of serial murders has just landed on its lap, thank you very much, Detective Doyle. And the District Attorney’s office and the judges he would need to approach for warrants are just going to tell him to act his age. All he can do for the moment is hope that his strong-arm tactics are enough to make Repp think twice about continuing with his foolhardy scheme.

  Doyle gets up from the desk. ‘Don’t pack that grass skirt just yet, Travis. Think about what you’re doing to that poor lady. Try imagining she’s your own grandmother.’

  ‘My grandmother is dead. And when she was alive she was a bitch.’

  ‘Okay, so picture her coming back to haunt you. Either way, I want you out of Mrs Sachs’s life, and especially out of her wallet.’

  Doyle moves to the door. ‘Next time, it won’t be your finger in that drawer. It’ll be a much smaller part of your anatomy. Take it easy, Travis.’

  As he walks through the outer office, he winks at Hayley and she goes all coy and giggly.

  What I take from one I give to another, thinks Doyle. It’s nice to keep things in balance.

  ‘Which would you rather be — a clown or a fish?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A clown or a fish? Which one would you rather be? If you could only be one.’

  Doyle considers the question with the seriousness it surely deserves. Such matters cannot be regarded lightly.

  ‘Okay, well I think probably a clown. Because then I could take off my outfit and make-up and become a normal person.’

  Amy shakes her head vigorously. ‘No. You can’t do that. Whatever one you choose, you have to stay like that, for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s different. A clown or a fish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about a clownfish?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A clownfish. You know, like Nemo.’

  ‘Oh, okay. But that’s still just a fish. Is that what you want to be?’

  ‘Yes. A fish. Because clowns are scary, and I wouldn’t want to scare you.’

  Amy beams at him. ‘That’s a very good answer, and so you can have a prize.’

  ‘A prize? For me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She reaches for a tin box on her nightstand. She calls it her Shiny Box. Anything shiny, glittery or of perceived worth in a child-centered value scheme goes in here. The hinges creak as she lifts the lid and takes something out. She hands it to Doyle. A button. It has ‘Captain Awesome’ written on it in lightning-yellow letters on a pale-blue background.

  ‘Why, thank you, Amy.’ He pins it onto his shirt. ‘Now I really feel important.’

  ‘Good. You can borrow it for one week.’

  A whole week. Doyle feels supremely honored.

  He tucks Amy into her bed, kisses her goodnight, then goes into the living room. Rachel is there, languishing on the sofa and watching an old movie. Black and white, with lots of clipped British accents. Brief Encounter, maybe.

  Rachel glances up at him as he enters. ‘What’s that?’ she asks, gesturing to the same point on her own chest.

  ‘I got a promotion. I made captain.’

  ‘Does that mean I have to salute you now?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you have to do everything I say, at all times.’

  ‘Pah! In your dreams, mister.’

  She turns back to the television. Doyle stands behind the sofa, watching it with her.

  ‘Is this gonna make you cry?’

  ‘Probably.’ She points down to a cardboard box on the rug. ‘I have tissues at the ready, just in case. You want to join me?’

  ‘Does it have any car chases?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any gunfights? Explosions? Martial arts? Babes in bikinis?’

  ‘No to all the above. Stop trying to be so stereotypically male. You know you like a good cry as much as the next woman.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘No? What about ET?’

  ‘That’s an exception.’

  ‘Uh-huh? And I suppose Free Willy is an exception too. And that movie where all the people come out of comas.’

  ‘Awakenings. All right, enough already. I admit I’m in touch with my feminine side. There, I’ve said it.’

  He regrets it when he sees the look of amusement on her face.

  ‘My God, Cal. Next you’ll be telling me you like musicals too. Is this just the tip of the iceberg? Are you wearing my underwear?’

  ‘Hey, I can still be tough too. You should’ve seen me today.’

  ‘Why? What’d you do? Claw someone’s eyes out? Pull their hair?’

  ‘Ha! Very funny. You mind stopping with the insults now? I went to see that private investigator. You know, the one who’s conning old Mrs Sachs?’

  ‘Is he still doing that to that poor woman? I hope you smashed his kneecaps, that bastard.’

  Doyle stares at her. He was about to tell her how he got his message across to Repp, but saying that he made the man’s finger bleed doesn’t seem to
match the level of vengeance that Rachel expects.

  Their conversation is interrupted by the chirrup of Doyle’s cellphone. He checks the screen, sees that there is no caller ID. Kills the call.

  ‘Who was that?’ asks Rachel.

  ‘Nobody.’

  She gives him a searching look that feels to him as though it’s penetrating his skull and tearing its way through his mental database.

  ‘By nobody I guess you mean somebody, but somebody you don’t want me to know about.’

  ‘I. . no. That is, it’s not that I’m keeping it from you, it’s just that it’s not a call I want to take. And I don’t just mean now, because you’re here. I mean ever.’

  He can see the questions scrolling across her eyes. Like a Las

  Vegas slot machine. Which one will come to rest there first?

  She says, ‘That has to be one of the biggest loads of garbage I’ve ever heard you speak.’ She pats the seat next to her on the sofa. ‘Come here, Cal. Sit down.’

  He doesn’t want this discussion, and it’s like he’s walking through treacle as he comes around the sofa and then lowers himself onto it. He feels like a kid who knows he’s about to get that birds and bees lecture.

  She grasps his hand in hers, but it’s some time before she speaks. The earlier levity has become a fading memory.

  ‘Cal, what’s going on? You haven’t been yourself for days. All these phone calls you don’t want me to hear, it’s driving me crazy.’ He stares into her eyes, not knowing what to say. Feeling that he wants to tell her everything, but not wanting to put her in that uncomfortable position. And the longer he sits there in silence, the more he senses her distress building.

  It is left to her to break into that silence, and when she does there is a tremor to her voice and a pooling of water in her eyes that threatens to overflow and cascade down her face.

  ‘I just want you to tell me that. . I need to know that. .’

  He studies her face, trying to read her. Trying to finish her sentence for her.

  And then it hits him. He understands. And he hates the fact that he can understand. It shouldn’t be able to enter his mind. Shouldn’t be able to sneak into Rachel’s head either. Their relationship should be stable enough to fend it off.

  But there it is, and all because of what happened with Laura Marino, his ex-partner. Or rather, the thing that didn’t happen with Laura Marino but which seems to have established its own poisonous existence in their past.

  He clasps Rachel’s face in his hands. ‘Rachel, listen to me. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. This has nothing to do with another woman.’

  She sniffs. ‘I. . I wasn’t trying to say. .’

  ‘It’s okay, really. I understand. I’ve been acting kinda weird and you’ve been looking for explanations. But it’s not a woman, okay? You’ve been watching too many of these old movies.’

  She nods. ‘All right. So what then?’

  He chews on the inside of his cheek. What to tell her? He should just come clean, he thinks. Let her know exactly what’s been going on. She’s his wife. The woman he loves. She’ll understand.

  ‘There’s stuff I haven’t been able to tell you. Something going on. Nobody knows. If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else.’

  He watches her as she mulls it over. He can tell she’s not certain she wants to hear it.

  ‘I promise. What is it?’

  ‘You know that murder they brought me in on the other day?’

  ‘The bookstore girl? What about it?’

  ‘Turns out she’s not the only one. Did you hear about the cop shot in his apartment the other night? And then the psychologist being thrown out of his apartment window? They’re connected. We got a serial killer on our hands, Rach.’

  ‘Oh my God. A serial killer? How do you know? No, wait, don’t answer that. I’m asking too many questions, I know. But, well, Jesus. A serial killer?’

  ‘Uh-huh. This isn’t common knowledge, Rach. You mustn’t tell anyone. It could hurt our chances of catching this guy.’

  ‘No, I swear.’ She wipes her eyes, drying them off. ‘And there was me thinking it was another woman. Christ, was I way off the mark. I’m sorry, Cal.’

  She pulls him into her embrace. And while he hugs her he tells himself, You don’t deserve this hug. You don’t deserve this woman. So, okay, you told her about the killer. But the phone calls? Your little helper friend? When did that creep into the conversation? Where was all that in your little confession?

  Shame on you, Callum Doyle.

  His ears should be burning.

  The man who has just been the subject of discussion in the Doyle household is troubled.

  He is in his living room, sitting bolt upright on a wooden chair, staring at the staircase. He does this each night, building himself up to the task ahead. It’s the reason he chooses a straight-backed wooden chair. Because it’s not very comfortable and he can’t sit here too long. His lower back will begin to ache, even though he was told that such chairs are supposed to be good for his posture. The pain will gnaw at him and it will gradually build and then he will have to stand up, and that will prompt him to carry out his task.

  He hates having to do this, but he knows it’s necessary. It can’t be left. Not even a day. It wouldn’t be right.

  So do it, goddamnit!

  He pushes himself off the chair. Orders himself not to think about things as he marches upstairs, toward the bedroom door. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s fine. You’ve done this a million times. Just do it and get it over with.

  He turns the doorknob and urges himself inside, snapping on the light before dark shapes can take on unwanted forms before his eyes.

  He stands in the doorway, panting. His heart batters against his ribcage.

  It’s okay. All okay. You can relax.

  It’s a small room. Not much to see. A desk. A dresser. A closet.

  And the bed, of course.

  He steps across the room and stands at the side of the bed. He looks it up and down and he remembers.

  The bed is empty now, but in his mind it is occupied. He is reminded of why he decided to help others. It’s a calling. There are people suffering out there, and they need him. Who else is going to do it?

  He sets to work. He strips off the covers and the sheets and the pillowcases and piles them on the floor. Then he goes over to the closet and opens it and takes a fresh set of bed linen down from one of the shelves. He returns to the bed and makes it up again. He does this slowly, methodically and with great care. Edges tucked in neatly and tightly. All creases smoothed out. He walks around the bed, checking and rechecking his handiwork. And when he is finally able to tear himself away, he picks up the old bed things and carries them out to the bathroom and dumps them in a laundry hamper.

  Tomorrow he will have to do it all over again. It’s never easy. Sometimes the stress of trying to get it right is unbearable. He can be in there for hours on some nights. It’s the price you pay when you care about people so much.

  But tonight, at least, it’s done.

  And yet his unease continues.

  He goes back downstairs and tries to treat himself to a more comfortable chair in front of the television. It normally does the trick. He gets lost in a program and he feels his tension slowly dissipate to the point where he feels relaxed enough to go to bed. His own bed. Not the one in that room.

  But tonight there is no respite. Something niggles. He can’t concentrate on the television, and that means he won’t sleep and tomorrow he’ll be grouchy as hell. And that’s not right. It’s not fair. Not when you’re doing your best to help people.

  He knows what the problem is. His mind keeps showing him images to remind him. Keeps stabbing a pointy little finger into his consciousness. Look at this, it says. What are you going to do about it?

  It’s the nerdy looking guy. The one with the red hair and the glasses.

  He was there outside Vasey’s apartment
building, staring up at the broken window and talking to someone on his phone.

  It should have meant nothing. The geek should have been just a passer-by. Someone who was just getting in or out of his car who heard a noise and happened to look up.

  He would have been happy with that explanation. It would not have taken a shoehorn to fit an occurrence like that into his picture of what took place.

  Except for one thing. Something that happened on the previous night.

  Before helping out that drunk of a police sergeant, the killer had driven over to Vasey’s place. He wanted to finalize his plans. Work out precisely how he was going to help Vasey.

  He’d parked up on Sixty-first Street and sat there for a while, staring up at the building. All was well until, just yards ahead of him, he noticed the driver of another car was doing exactly the same thing. Craning his neck to look up at the building. At one point the guy got out of his car and stretched his arms.

  He had red hair and glasses.

  It was the same guy.

  And this is what has him worried. What was the geek doing there, not once but twice? Why did he feel it necessary to watch Vasey’s apartment?

  The guy doesn’t look remotely like a cop, but could he be one? Could the police be onto him so soon?

  It’s a thought that makes him shudder. He won’t sleep tonight, and it’s all the fault of that four-eyed fuckwit. Doesn’t the prick know that there are people who are desperate for help out there?

  Perhaps not. But that’s not the point. Nothing must be allowed to obstruct the mission.

  What makes it hard is that such people aren’t in need of his help. But if they’re in the way, they have to be removed. He’s already proved to himself that he’s capable of doing that, with the doorman at Vasey’s building.

  And if he could do it once, he can do it again.

  SEVENTEEN

  It’s Friday evening. Doyle’s last conversation with his helper was on Tuesday evening. Vasey was killed on Tuesday night.

  That’s three whole days. Of nothing.

  Nothing doesn’t just mean lack of progress on the investigation. It also means no murders. Not a single person murdered in this city in the past three days — whether explicable or not.