The Helper (13 page)

‘Just some routine questions,’ says Holden. ‘Your name came up in a case we’re investigating, so we have to check it out.’

Vasey glances at Doyle, who gives him nothing, then back to Holden.

‘May I ask what the case is?’

‘Do you know the name Cindy Mellish?’

Vasey thinks for a moment. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. Should it

‘She was the girl murdered in the East Village bookstore on Saturday.’

‘Her? God! Then this is serious.’

‘It’s serious, all right.’

‘And my name came up? How?’

‘Miss Mellish kept a diary. Your name was in it. She said she came to see you. Here, at your office.’

‘Really? Just a minute.’ Vasey’s fingers fly over his keyboard.

‘No. I’ve never had a client by that name. Are you sure about this?’

Holden looks across to Doyle, who takes the reins. ‘It’s possible she was never an official client. According to the diary, Cindy’s appointment with you was made by a student
friend of hers. Apparently, you’re a close buddy of the friend’s father.’

‘What’s the man’s name?’

‘We don’t know. The student friend is only referred to in the diary by the letter M.’

‘M? And I’m a friend of her father’s? And a consultation was arranged with me because of this relationship? I’m sorry, fellas, but I have no idea what you’re
talking about. When was this session with me supposed to have taken place?’

‘At the beginning of last October.’

Vasey thinks some more. ‘No. I don’t recall anything like that. Not in October or any other month last year for that matter.’

‘Do you ever do consultations for friends and people they pass on to you?’

‘Sometimes. But I prefer not to work that way.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because it can be difficult to remain detached. Sometimes it’s hard to reveal painful truths to friends. They might not remain friends very long.’

Holden speaks up again. ‘Dr Vasey, how did you hear about the murder of Cindy Mellish?’

‘I can’t remember. I think it was on the radio.’

‘So you haven’t seen a picture of her?’

‘No. At least I don’t think so. Maybe there was something in the newspaper, but I don’t recall it.’

Holden reaches into his pocket and takes out a photograph.

‘Take a look, please, Dr Vasey. Do you recognize her?’

Vasey picks up the photograph, studies it for several seconds, then slides it back across the desk.

‘I’ve never seen this girl in my life.’

‘Are you sure? Take another look.’

‘I don’t need another look. I have never seen this girl before, and certainly not as a client. Now, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but—’

‘Why would she lie?’ says Doyle.

Vasey turns on him. ‘What?’

‘This is a young woman’s private diary. Nobody else is likely to see it except her. Why would she make something up like that?’

‘And why would
I
lie, Detective? What possible reason could I have for lying about something as inconsequential as a therapy session?’

‘Who says it was inconsequential?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to Cindy Mellish, her session with you wasn’t all that innocent. She says you came on to her.’

Vasey’s eyes are blazing now. ‘I did
what
? Are you serious? Are you actually accusing me—’

‘She says you asked her inappropriate questions. Questions of a sexual nature.’

Vasey shakes his head, an expression of disbelief and revulsion on his face.

‘This is too much. Now you have really gone too far. I don’t know what—’ He stops himself in mid-sentence. Something has dawned on him. His mouth twists into a humorless
smile. ‘Oh, no. No you don’t. You’re trying to make me a suspect, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. You’re getting nowhere with your murder case, and so
you’re frantically trying to find someone to pin it on. Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it’s not going to work. Not with me.’

Doyle presses on. ‘Dr Vasey, did you go to see Cindy Mellish at the bookstore where she worked? Did you make sexual advances to her, and did she slap you in the face?’

Vasey just sits there shaking his head slowly, as if in pity for his poor desperate interrogator.

‘Give it up, Detective. It’s not working. I don’t know what really brought you here, and frankly I don’t care. My guess is that you came across my name in some totally
innocent context, drew some very tenuous and fanciful conclusions, and then concocted this whole charade to see if you could get me to blab. Well, tough. It was a nice attempt, but I’m afraid
it was always doomed to fail. To be frank, even if I’d been guilty I would have seen that pathetic ruse for what it was. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to realize what
you’re doing. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have clients to see. Genuine ones.’

Doyle doesn’t want to leave. He thinks that Vasey is too smug, too smart. But Doyle also knows that, for the moment at least, he doesn’t have enough ammunition to continue this
battle.

Before he departs, he warns Vasey not to leave the city.

Says Vasey, ‘I don’t plan to go anywhere, Detective. I’m innocent of any crime. Why would I need to abscond?’

In the corridor outside the office, Doyle says nothing. He remains mute as they wait for the elevator. Continues with the silent act as he pounds the button to descend.

‘He could be lying,’ says Holden. ‘He’s a shrink. He knows about lying, body language, all that shit. Right now, though, it’s just a he-said-she-said. We need
more.’

Doyle is thinking the same thing. He needs more. And that need is making him furious. The diary was supposed to provide answers. It was supposed to lead him to the killer.

Did it do that? Could Vasey possibly be their man?

Maybe.

But
maybe
isn’t good enough.

Not when someone’s life is about to run out.

Doyle’s shift officially finishes at four o’clock, but it’s after five before he gets out of the station house. He walks along Seventh Street, his mind
buzzing. Less than seven hours to go now, and he’s not convinced he can stop what’s coming.

He arrives at his car, takes out his keys. He is so preoccupied he doesn’t hear the footsteps until the figure is within striking distance. Doyle whirls, his hand reaching for his gun.

‘Hey, Detective!’

Doyle blows air. ‘Jesus Christ, Gonzo. What are you trying to do, get yourself shot? Don’t sneak up on me like that.’

Gonzo puts on the sad puppy-dog eyes. ‘You said not to come into the station house. So I didn’t. I waited for you outside. You know, to keep our little secret.’

‘All right, Gonzo, all right. What are you doing here, anyhow?’

‘I thought maybe I could catch up on the case. Find out what happened. Shall we get a coffee?’

‘No, Gonzo. No coffee.’

‘Well, then . . . How about the park? It’s a nice evening. We could sit in the park while we chat.’

‘Gonzo, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. I need to go home.’

‘Oh, okay. But what about Vasey? Did you speak with him? What did he say about the girl? Did he own up to it? Did you have to get a little rough with him? I bet you did. I bet he refused
to say anything, so you had to roll up your sleeves and swear at him. Did you hit him? Because that’s okay with me. I mean, not that generally I think violence is the answer, because I
don’t, but when—’

Doyle feels like employing a little violence right now, but makes do with a hand clamped over Gonzo’s mouth.

‘Kid, listen to me for a minute, okay?’

Gonzo nods, his eyes wide. Doyle takes his hand away slowly.

‘Let’s get something straight. I’m a cop, and you’re a lab technician. Those two things, they’re not the same. I’m sure you’re a very clever guy, and
you do all kinds of valuable things for the PD. You must have helped put a lot of bad guys behind bars. You should be proud of that. I couldn’t do what you do. I don’t have the brains.
Most of what I do is fill out forms and answer phones and talk to people. So don’t go thinking it’s glamorous, because it ain’t. Stick with what you’re doing, and
don’t go looking to mess with the shit I have to deal with. Believe me, you’re better off.’

Gonzo appears unconvinced. ‘Yeah, but . . . You said it was a secret. Just me and you. How can you handle a case like this all by yourself? I thought maybe I could—’

‘No! You hear me? No!’ Doyle feels like he’s talking to a young child who wants to help out in the kitchen. Like he has to be told in no uncertain terms that while it’s
okay to fill a kettle, the sharp knives and the stove are definitely out of bounds. ‘It’s not safe. And anyway, things have changed. I got somebody else working with me now.’

Gonzo blinks at him. He looks as though he’s just been jilted at the altar.

‘Somebody else?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you can’t have. You said it was complicated, and you couldn’t tell anybody except me.’

‘I think I also made it clear it was a temporary situation. It’s different now. When I went to see Vasey, it was with a partner.’

‘A partner.’

‘Yeah. Another detective.’

Gonzo looks down at his worn-out sneakers. ‘So you don’t need me anymore?’

‘Not at the moment. But the next time I get a case involving computers, you’re the first guy I’ll come looking for.’

Gonzo scrapes one of his feet on the sidewalk. ‘Okay.’

Doyle bends at the knees to get a look at Gonzo’s downturned face. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah.’

Doyle straightens up and slaps Gonzo on the shoulder. ‘Go home, kid. Give that brain of yours a rest.’

For a few moments, Doyle isn’t sure he’s been heard. Gonzo stands rooted to the spot. Eventually he turns and shuffles away, still studying the ground.

Watching him go, Doyle shakes his head and wonders how somebody like that manages to get around in this city without being devoured by it.

‘Why do dogs walk so fast?’

Doyle stops stroking his daughter’s hair.

‘What?’

‘Why do dogs walk so fast? When I see dogs on the street or in the park, they always walk really, really fast. They’re always in a hurry. They never walk at the same speed as people.
Even when they’re on a leash they try to pull the person along.’

Doyle tucks in Amy’s bed covers while he mulls over his reply. It’s not a question that’s ever crossed his mind before, but he can tell from the earnestness on Amy’s face
that a considered answer is required.

‘Well, what you have to remember, hon, is that dogs have twice as many legs as people.’

‘Oh,’ says Amy. ‘Yes.’

Doyle stands up. ‘Shall I put the light out now?’

‘Well, what about cats then? They have the same amount of legs as dogs, but they don’t walk very fast. They only go fast when they’re chasing something. And tortoises. They
have four legs too, and they go really, really slow. So it can’t just be the number of legs, can it?’

You got me there, Doyle thinks. Then he wonders how the hell he’s going to worm his way out of her seemingly inescapable logic.

‘No. Obviously it’s not
just
the number of legs. But the other thing about dogs is that they have a very good sense of smell.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

Doyle doesn’t know. It was the first thing that came into his head.

‘Well, they can smell things we can’t. So they’re always rushing toward those smells. Just like you might come running if I said I had some chocolate.’

‘Yes, and dogs like chocolate too, don’t they?’

‘Yes they do. So that must be the answer. And now I think you need to get some sleep.’

‘All right, Daddy.’

He wishes her goodnight and beats a hasty retreat before she can bombard him with more baffling questions.

In the living room, Rachel is working on her photographs again. Deciding to leave her in peace, Doyle picks up a newspaper and flops onto an armchair. He skim-reads it for all of five minutes
before breaking the silence.

‘I have to go out later.’

Rachel continues to peer at her computer screen. ‘Out?’ she says distractedly. ‘Where?’

‘A stakeout. I’ll only be gone a coupla hours.’

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Stay safe.’

Another minute’s silence. Then Rachel turns in her chair.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, fine,’ he says. ‘Why?’

‘I dunno. You’ve been acting a little distracted lately. You sure you’re okay?’

He thinks about telling her then. Telling her that somebody is due to die in a few hours, and that only he can prevent it. Telling her that he’s the only person who knows there’s a
serial killer out there. Telling her that only he knows of the link between Cindy Mellish and Lorna Bonnow.

Telling her that, in effect, he’s been withholding the truth from his wife, as well as his colleagues.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Really.’

He leaves the apartment shortly after ten o’clock. He kisses Rachel, tells her not to wait up.

There is a heaviness in his step as he descends the building staircase. Halfway down, he pauses. He takes out his Glock, checks that the magazine is fully loaded and that there’s a round
in the chamber, then re-holsters it.

Outside, he breathes deeply of the night air. There’s a sweet aroma to it that he can’t quite place. He moves to his car, unlocks it, and climbs behind the wheel. He inserts his key
in the ignition, goes to turn it.

His cellphone rings.

He takes it from his pocket and thumbs the call answer button.

‘Doyle.’

‘Hey, Cal. Tonight’s the night. Are you getting excited?’

It’s him. Of course it is. That deep, mellow voice has become unmistakable. And if it were not, that Irish jig in the background would give it away. The bastard is calling because he wants
to squeeze every ounce of self-gratification out of this.

Doyle says, ‘So you know my cellphone number too.’

‘There are a million things I know about you, Cal. Don’t get complacent. Don’t start thinking you can say or do things without me finding out.’

Doyle checks in his mirrors, then twists in his seat to get a good look around him. Am I being watched right now? he wonders.