‘No. I don’t know. Why are you-’
‘What about Indian doctors at Mount Sinai?’
‘Enough! Detective Doyle, what the hell are you doing here? I am on the edge of picking up my phone and calling your superiors. What the fuck is this?’
Doyle thinks he should go now. This is getting him nowhere. What’s stopping him is that he has more questions in his pocket. The problem is, Anna Friedrich isn’t going to supply him with answers. Not as things stand. She’s a lawyer. She knows how cops work. With most people, Doyle could get away with claiming that he’s merely pursuing something that cropped up during the investigation. But that won’t wash with this lady. She’s too smart and too savvy for that.
‘I. . I’m trying to make a connection.’
‘Well you’re going the wrong way about it, Detective. You really think this is the way to establish a rapport with me?’
Doyle almost cracks a smile. ‘Uh, no. I don’t mean a connection between us. I mean between the victims.’
Friedrich waves a hand as if to say, Whatever. But Doyle can tell she is faintly embarrassed by her misunderstanding.
‘I thought we already discussed your fanciful connection. In your interrogation room. Back when Andrew was still alive and you still had someone you could harass.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. But. . but I still think there’s something.’
‘We’ve been through this. The only concrete thing you had was that the murdered ex-cop was once a client of Andrew’s for a very brief time. And before you say anything, I still don’t believe that the Mellish girl ever even met Andrew, let alone had some kind of secret liaisons with him. He told me he didn’t know her, and I believe him. So that’s it. That’s all you have. And what it doesn’t do is get you any closer to finding my ex-husband’s murderer. So now, if you wouldn’t mind. .’
She uncrosses her legs, starts to rise. She’s about to show him the door.
‘That’s not all,’ he says, and he surprises himself by how loudly and firmly he says it.
‘What?’
‘It’s not all I have. I think there’s more to it.’
She lowers herself onto the sofa again. ‘What do you mean?’
Doyle says nothing.
‘Detective? What do you mean, there’s more to it?’
Go now, Doyle tells himself. Get out of here. Before you say something that will land you in deep shit. This woman’s a lawyer. A good lawyer. One false move with her and she’ll have you licking her shoes.
But he finds himself unable to get up from his chair.
He says, ‘I think it goes wider than most people think. Beyond the three victims you’ve just mentioned.’
She shakes her head, clearly mystified. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘There have been other murders recently. You may have read about them or heard about them on the news. All over the city. Totally different MOs. Nothing to tie them together. Nothing obvious, anyhow.’
‘Okay, so all the more reason for you to get one off the books by finding my husband’s killer, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That’s not what I mean. I think there’s someone. . someone out there.’
‘Someone out. . Who? Detective, you’re making absolutely no-’
And then the lightning bolt strikes. He sees it in her face, the way her mouth drops open.
‘You’ve got to be shitting me. A serial killer? You’re talking about a serial killer?’
Doyle’s nod is a subtle one. He almost can’t believe it himself when it’s stated so clearly, so baldly.
She says, ‘Let me be clear about this. The NYPD is now of the opinion that a number of murders recently committed in this city were the work of one person, and my ex-husband was one of his victims. Have I got that right?’
‘Uhm, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly? How not exactly?’
‘It’s not the official line of the NYPD that these murders are the work of a serial killer.’
‘Okay, I get the picture. They don’t want to panic the city. But unofficially. That’s what the police now believe.’
In response, Doyle puts out his hand and waggles it from side to side, a pained look on his face.
She says, ‘Jesus Christ, Detective. This is like talking to Lassie. A little help here, if you please. You want a crayon so that you can draw me a picture?’
‘It’s not what the NYPD believes. It’s what I believe.’
‘You. Just you?’
‘Just me.’
The room goes silent. Doyle is not sure which way this will go. He suspects she is probably wishing for her ex-husband to be back in the room. Someone who knows about people who are one sandwich short of a picnic.
She says, ‘Why? Why do you believe that?’
He shrugs. ‘A hunch. A feeling.’
‘Uh-huh. Tell me, do you hear voices in your head at night? Can you tell what dogs are saying when they bark? What do your police buddies think about this hunch of yours?’
Doyle casts his mind back to when Cesario slapped him on the arm and said it was worth a shot.
‘Not a lot.’
Friedrich smacks her lips. ‘Great. So you’re flying solo. You’re ignoring the advice of your Department, refusing to follow their example, and instead you’re following up your own half-baked theories. Actually, scratch that. Theory is too grand a term for this. You’re relying on intuition. You’re clutching at straws, scrabbling for a connection that isn’t there. Hence all the bizarre questions about Indian psychologists and hospitals. You want there to be a link so that you can tell yourself you’re right. It doesn’t matter how insignificant that common thread is, as long as it exists. It doesn’t matter that it won’t help you solve any of these murders. You just want to prove something. Isn’t that right, Detective?’
‘No. That’s not right.’ But she has wounded his confidence. Of course there’s a link. The victims were all killed by the same man. But what if that’s all there is to it? What if there’s no rhyme or reason? What if the victims were selected purely on the basis of a pin stuck in a telephone directory?
No, he thinks. I refuse to believe that. There has to be something, and maybe Anna Friedrich is the only person who can tell me what it is.
‘I think you should go now,’ she says, and once more she gets to her feet.
‘Just give me a few more minutes of your time. Please. I just have one or two more questions.’
‘What about?’
‘About your marriage to Dr Vasey. About why you split up.’
‘Are you serious? You really expect me to start talking about highly personal stuff like my marriage breakdown on the basis of your gut feeling? Forget it, Detective. You’re asking too much. I can’t help you. Now if you don’t mind. .’
She puts her arm out, gesturing to the door, requesting him to leave.
He gets up, but instead of heading for the door he moves directly to Friedrich and looks her in the eye.
‘I am not wrong. He is out there. He has killed several times already and he will kill again. Look at what’s happened. Ask yourself why the city has recently seen a number of unsolved, apparently motiveless murders. Ask yourself why the police don’t seem to have made any progress on catching your husband’s killer. Could it be because they’re looking in the wrong places? Could it be because maybe I’m right about this? And if I have it ass backwards, so what? What harm could it do to answer a couple of lousy questions? Indulge me. Lunatic that I seem, let me have what I want so that you can get me out of your hair. Please.’
She maintains the eye contact, reading him. He lets her in. Lets her see that this isn’t some bullshit game he’s playing.
She glides away and sits down.
‘Take a seat, Detective. What do you want to know?’
He accepts the invitation without hesitation, in case she changes her mind.
‘Your marriage to Dr Vasey didn’t work out. I’m not asking for all the details, but can you
give me a rough idea of what went wrong?’
‘Nothing dramatic, if that’s what you’re wondering. No third party or anything like that. We were just too wrapped up in our careers. Both ambitious. Both wanting to succeed. Neither of us had any time for the other. It wasn’t really a marriage.’
‘So you dissolved it. Was that by mutual consent?’
‘Not really.’
‘So whose idea was it? Yours?’
‘One of us had to do it. We couldn’t have carried on as we were.’
‘How did Andrew take it?’
‘Hard.’
‘He was devastated?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. He was upset. But he was still in control. It didn’t stand in the way of his work.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, could he have been worse than he seemed?’
‘No. If anything, he seemed worse than he was.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Andrew had a flair for melodrama. He liked to throw tantrums. He turned on emotions like a tap when it suited him. I knew him well enough to tell when it was real and when it was phony.’
‘So you don’t think he was as badly affected by your split-up as he claimed?’
‘No, I don’t believe he was. I think he had already accepted we were doomed as a couple. I just don’t think he liked the idea of me calling the shots.’
Shit, thinks Doyle. This doesn’t fit. Square pegs and round holes.
‘Then you don’t think he would have needed to seek counseling?’
Her eyebrows shoot up. A pair of arrowheads aimed at the sky. ‘Detective, have you forgotten what Andrew did for a living?’
‘Yeah, I know, but don’t shrinks see other shrinks when their heads are messed up? Or do they just do it themselves?’
She laughs. ‘You know, I’m not sure about that one. What I do know is that Andrew would never have consulted another therapist. He was too concerned about his reputation ever to consider such a thing.’
Damn.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.’
He stands up, ready to leave now.
‘You didn’t get what you wanted to hear, did you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m sorry. Maybe. . well, maybe it’s telling you something.’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
He takes the long walk to the door.
She catches up with him. Says, ‘This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’
‘You don’t know how much.’
‘Then I wish you luck.’
He nods. And then he leaves, wishing he could rely a little less on luck and a lot more on certainty.
TWENTY-NINE
A song by the Black Eyed Peas comes on the car radio. Doyle turns it up and hums along.
He’s parked on West 13th Street. Travis Repp lives on the first floor of a three-story apartment building. The stoop of the building is separated from the sidewalk by a gated fence that encloses a small, well-kept garden containing lots of shrubs. Doyle got the address from a copy of Repp’s application for a private investigator’s license.
He checks the clock on the dash. Six-thirty. An hour and a half before the killer is due to strike, but Doyle is taking no chances. He wants to see everyone who enters and leaves that building from now on. Hell, he wants to check out anyone who so much as glances at that building. He’s gonna catch this son of a bitch.
He’s going to catch him here because Repp is the next victim.
We know that, don’t we, Doyle?
Don’t we?
The name of the band is Travis. The killer talked about people who are distractions or irritants. Well, there’s no bigger irritant than Travis Repp. Who else could it be?
But on the other hand. .
Doesn’t it seem just a little bit too easy?
The caller knew that Doyle would check out the song. He knew that Doyle had failed to do so properly before, and that it had cost a life, so there was no doubt that he would check it out fully this time.
So why would he make it so easy?
And this idea of psychologists linking all the victims together. Isn’t it just a little bit tenuous? They all saw a shrink. All except Vasey, who, it seems, didn’t consult a shrink. But he is one, so that’s okay. That ties it all up in a nice pink bow.
Yeah, like hell it does. For one thing, what about Repp? Did he ever have a need for therapy?
Doyle doesn’t know the answer. He knows next to nothing about Repp, let alone why he’s been selected as the killer’s next target.
A car slows as it passes Doyle, then pulls into the curb just outside Repp’s building. Doyle sinks down low in his seat and watches as the driver gets out. It’s Travis Repp. He doesn’t even glance in Doyle’s direction. Just goes straight into his building and closes the door.
‘It’s okay, man,’ Doyle mutters. ‘I’m watching your back. Scumbag that you are, I’m gonna keep you alive.’
A song from the cast of Glee comes on the radio. Doyle turns it right down again.
Almost seven-forty. Doyle is getting antsy. The only sign of anything possibly happening was half an hour ago when another car pulled up in front of Repp’s, and a suited guy got out and pushed through the iron gate. But he was quickly joined by the car’s passenger — a woman who was yelling after her partner — and it became clear to Doyle that they were just a bickering couple who lived in the same building. Since that brief flurry of excitement, nobody has ventured anywhere near Repp’s place. Nobody has given it the once-over. Nobody has pulled up in a car and sat there waiting. Other than Doyle himself, that is — a fact which is starting to make him distinctly uncomfortable.
He has given himself a deadline. Five minutes to eight. At that time, he will march up to Repp’s building and sound his buzzer and demand to come in. He will enter on the pretext of wanting to talk about the scam that Repp is running. In reality, he will be there to save Repp’s life. Even if it means revealing his presence to the killer, Doyle knows he can’t stay out here on the street when there’s a man in there who is about to die.
And if the killer shows, great. Who knows? Maybe he’s already inside the place. He could have been waiting in there all day, just waiting to pounce as the clock strikes eight. Go for it, thinks Doyle. Give me the chance to plug you, you piece of shit.
There’s a complication, of course. It has nagged at Doyle several times, but so far he has refused to think about it too hard. What if the killer decides to go quietly? What if he puts his hands up and surrenders and invites Doyle to take him in, giving him the opportunity to spill everything he knows about Doyle? How prepared is Doyle to let that happen?
Because if he’s not, his only other option might be to take the life of a man who is no longer a threat. Sure, he deserves to die. No doubt about it. For Tabitha and all the others, he should take a bullet. Doyle could repeat that to himself any number of times after he fired his gun. But would that be enough to make it right?
Doyle shakes his head. He can’t worry about such things. He has to just let it play out, and worry about the consequences later.
But he would so like to take that man off this earth. He has never felt so strongly about eliminating someone before now. With him gone, the whole city would breathe a sigh of relief. There would be one less cause of misery in the world.
As if the victims hadn’t suffered enough already. Tabitha, especially, when she lost her parents. But also Hanrahan, with his partner being killed in that shoot-out. Look what that did to him. And then there was. .
Wait a minute!
Doyle tenses up so much he feels as though all his ligaments should snap. Ants crawl along his scalp. His mind has already worked something out, but he’s not sure what it is yet.
Okay, start with Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. She was dumped by her boyfriend, and it really messed up her head. Ditto Lorna Bonnow when she lost her baby. And Vasey. .
Yes! It fits.
Vasey w
as kicked to the curb by the delectable Anna Friedrich. She revealed as much to Doyle only hours ago.
Loss. Could this be about loss?
Could it be that it’s not about the fact that these people were connected with psychologists, but about what drove them to seek help in the first place? Is that what this is?
Doyle runs the notion through his head again and again. It feels right. Only. .
Repp. What’s his loss? His failing business? Some girlfriend or wife in his past?
Doyle once more curses the fact that he knows zilch about Repp. Doesn’t know whether there’s a Repp-shaped hole in this puzzle or not.
Slow it down, Doyle. Think it through some more.
They all suffered some kind of loss. A deep loss that affected them profoundly. At least in most cases. According to his wife, Vasey claimed to be devastated, but probably wasn’t. But maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s what the killer believed that matters.
So what did they do because of this loss? They went to see a shrink. Yeah, but. .
Maybe that’s not it.
They were suffering, or claimed to be suffering. Tabitha was hurting so badly she even decided to commit suicide. Pretty ironic when you think about it, the way she was planning to end it all.
Oh sweet Jesus.
Surely not?
Doyle’s heart hammers against his chest. His brain feels as though it could burst with the blood that is surging through it.
He takes out his cellphone and selects a number from his contact list.
‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Holden.’
‘Jay? It’s Cal. Can you do something for me?’
‘No, is the answer that jumps to my lips. And that’s even before I’ve heard what it is you want. That’s what you’ve done to our relationship, man. I hope you’re satisfied.’
Doyle ignores the sarcasm. ‘I need some numbers.’
‘Yeah? How about six-six-six? There’s something not totally right about you lately, like you’re possessed or something.’
‘Seriously, man. Some phone numbers. Can you get them for me?’
‘Whose numbers?’
Doyle reels off the list.
‘Uh-huh,’ says Holden. ‘Pardon me for asking, but why can’t this wait till tomorrow, when you can come in and get them your own self?’
The Helper cd-2 Page 27
