The Helper (17 page)

‘Cal,’ she says. ‘Why did you come here?’

Just when he thought he’d gotten away with it.

‘I . . . I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Sean and I were married to each other for thirty-one years. In all that time I hardly ever asked him about his police work. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I was
frightened. I didn’t want to hear about the drug addicts and the murderers and the rapists he had to clean off our streets. I didn’t want to know that Sean was putting himself in
dangerous situations each day, that he was putting his life on the line. Closing myself off to those things somehow helped me not to worry that he might not come home one day. But I still managed
to learn a few things. I know, for example, that investigations are usually carried out by the squad controlling the precinct in which the crime takes place. You’re in the Eighth Precinct,
Cal. That’s east side. It’s not here in the Village. Now a minute ago you told me that you’re not working Sean’s case. Fine. Except that you’re asking some damn
strange questions for someone who’s not officially involved. What’s going on, Cal?’

Go ahead, he thinks. Worm your way out of that one.

‘I don’t know if you read about it – maybe Sean told you about it – but just before Christmas I was involved in a big case. Some cops died. People thought I had something
to do with it. Some still do. Anyway, after it was all over, the Department wanted to make sure the fire didn’t start up again, so they made sure I went nowhere near the matches. They started
giving me the cases nobody else wanted. If there was a dumpster to be searched, I was your man.’

‘That must have been tough on you.’

‘It was okay at first. But now I’m starting to get kinda sick of it. So I’m looking for a way out, a way to redeem myself in the eyes of the Department. If it means working
cases in my spare time, then that’s what I’ll do. You’re right, I’m not officially on Sean’s case, and the PD would go nuts if they found out I was working it. But the
answer I have to give you is that I
am
looking for Sean’s killer, and some of the reasons for doing that are selfish ones.’

He waits for her to yell, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ After the plate of horseshit he just served to her, it’s the least he deserves. But instead she lets it ride. It seems to
Doyle that she senses it’s wise not to pursue this too closely. She is giving him her trust, on the assumption that he will repay it when he is able. And although he is grateful, he
doesn’t feel too bad about himself. Because his real reasons are not at all selfish. He wants to get to this killer so that he can stop him. That’s it, pure and simple. Nothing to do
with improving his image. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what others might think of him. Lies or no lies, he feels he can hold his head high, and he guesses that Mrs Hanrahan
detects that too.

Her smile is a knowing one. ‘All right, Cal. Then I wish you well. Whatever your reasons, I hope you get whoever did this. Perhaps even my daughter would find some forgiveness in her heart
if the NYPD could catch her father’s killer.’

‘Forgiveness?’

She pauses, but only briefly. ‘As I said before, Sean was a troubled man. I’m sure you already know that he was a drunk. He was probably drunk last night. If he hadn’t been,
maybe his guard wouldn’t have been down. But that’s beside the point. Sean turned to drink after his partner was killed. He blamed himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. I
believe that’s a very common reaction in your job.’

Oh yeah, thinks Doyle. Been there, done that, still wearing the scars.

She says, ‘His whole character changed. I’m not saying he became violent or anything, but he wasn’t the same man. Fiona in particular couldn’t come to terms with it. Even
though she was a grown woman when this happened, one minute Sean was her daddy, and the next he wasn’t. She took it hard, and she blamed Sean’s job. Not for the shooting itself, but for
the lack of support which followed. She felt that the NYPD were never really there for him. And when it just got worse, we started to worry that Sean might . . . well, that he might harm himself.
To be honest, when I heard the news that Sean had been shot in our apartment, my first thought was that he’d done it himself.’

‘The job has counselors for this kind of thing. Didn’t Sean go to see any of them?’

She shakes her head. ‘I think he was afraid that word would get around, and that it would be seen as a sign of weakness. It took me long enough to get him to see a private counselor, but
Sean couldn’t stick with that either, even though Fiona and Brett were willing to keep paying. He only went to two sessions with Dr Vasey before he gave up, and then—’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Doyle. ‘Who did you say he went to see?’

‘Dr Vasey,’ she answers. ‘Dr Andrew Vasey.’

Bingo!

A connection.

Cindy Mellish and Sean Hanrahan were clients of the same therapist. Dr Andrew Vasey. Vasey is the missing link.

Okay, Lorna Bonnow hasn’t been tied into this yet, but maybe that’ll come. Maybe she too was a client of Vasey’s.

To Doyle, spring seems instantly sunnier and warmer. He almost feels like singing as he races back to the station house. Finally he has something to work with.

All he has to do now is convince the squad to go with him on this.

Yeah, sure. That’ll be easy. It’ll be just what they’ve been waiting for. Doyle coming in and saying, ‘Hey guys. Drop what you’re doing. Forget everything you did
for the last few days. Here’s what we need to do next. Yes, I know that these are not my cases, but that’s okay. There’s no need to thank me.’

Should be a breeze.

When he gets to the House, he decides to start small. From little acorns and all that. No point in getting everybody excited all at once. So he takes Jay Holden aside and invites him once again
into the interview room crowded with too many file cabinets.

Holden says, ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me something I don’t wanna hear?’

‘Maybe it’s because I’m about to tell you something you don’t wanna hear.’

Holden looks up at the ceiling. ‘Shit.’

There’s nothing Doyle can do now but spit it out. ‘I just came back from seeing Sean Hanrahan’s wife.’

Holden looks at him. ‘Please tell me it was a personal visit. Please tell me you weren’t looking to work that case.’

‘She told me something.’

Holden raises his arms and lets them drop back to his sides with a slap. ‘Shit. I knew it. Why did I even agree to come in here and listen to this? I think it’s time for me to leave
now.’

‘No. Listen. It’s important. You know how Hanrahan went to pieces after his partner bought it? Well, his wife made him seek professional help. Psychological help. Given to him by a
shrink called Andrew Vasey.’

For a few seconds Holden doesn’t move. He just stares at

Doyle in stunned silence.

‘Okay, now I am definitely outta here.’

He turns and heads for the door. Stops when he’s within an arm’s length of the door handle.

‘All right, now why would you have to go and do that? Why’d you have to go and ruin a perfectly good day? What the fuck is it with you that you can never leave things nice and
simple?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘I can’t help it. I was born like this. When I was a kid I tied my shoelaces with such a complicated knot that my mother had to cut them off with scissors.’

Holden marches back toward Doyle. ‘What the fuck were you thinking, going to see Hanrahan’s wife like that? It’s not your case, Cal. Watch my lips: Not. Your. Case. Not my case
neither. Not even this fucking precinct’s case. Jesus!’

‘Good job I went, though, huh?’

Holden wags a finger in front of his face. ‘Uh-uh. No. Not good. Simple is good. Straightforward is good. This is complicated. This piece of information that you had no right uncovering
connects my DOA with a completely different DOA, whereas what I would prefer is if the two DOAs were completely unrelated. That’s what I would like ’stead of this heart-attack item of
news you feel you have to land on me.’

Doyle waits patiently. Then: ‘So what do you want to do about Vasey?’

Holden looks back at him.

‘Let’s haul that motherfucker’s ass in here.’

Vasey doesn’t take kindly to having his ass hauled anywhere. He doesn’t like having to cancel his afternoon consultations at such short notice. He objects to being
marched past his secretary and out of his office building like a common criminal. And he especially resents being cooped up for ages in a cramped uncomfortable room with only file cabinets for
company.

In retaliation, he lawyers up.

It has to be said that cops don’t like it when suspects bring in their lawyers, even though the participants on both sides are, ostensibly, engaged in the search for truth insofar as it
can be established in law. The problem is not so much that it prevents the boys in blue from judicious employment of the rubber hose or the nightstick, although there are some who still lament the
passing of those more robust techniques of yesteryear. It’s more that experienced lawyers know every trick in the book when it comes to eliciting, cajoling and conning information out of
interviewees. They will leap on every question that smacks of an attempt to smear their client with the perfume of guilt, and will advise the client to claim the Fifth in response to any question
for which the answer has not already been rehearsed. A good lawyer can cause an interview to degenerate into little more than a mud-slinging match between the lawyer and the cops, with the suspect
silently twiddling his thumbs and waiting to go home.

Anna Friedrich is a good lawyer.

At least, that’s Doyle’s impression of her, even before the interview has properly begun. There is an air of professionalism, efficiency and punctiliousness about her. From her
perfectly sculpted bob of black hair to her Jimmy Choo high-heeled shoes, she exudes confidence and authority. Doyle knows she will accept no nonsense, brook no challenge to her legal standing. She
is going to be one tough bitch.

Doyle finds Anna Friedrich sexy as hell.

At least he would if he wasn’t happily married. But since he is, such thoughts would never enter his head. He is certain that Holden is attracted to her, though. Holden is a single,
red-blooded male. He will be imagining that beneath that clinging red sweater and that tight, short skirt, Anna Friedrich is wearing a brassiere-and-garter matched set. In black. With decorative
flame-red stitching. Holden will be picturing her in the bedroom, still in those heels, and with all manner of instruments of discipline hidden in her closet. He will be guessing that any man who
enters her boudoir leaves as a quivering shadow of his former self, but wearing the biggest fucking smile he’s ever had.

Holden’s mind will be working like this because he is unattached. Whereas Doyle is married. Happily. Yes-sireee.

A curse on Holden for not keeping his mind on the job. Doesn’t he realize there’s important work to be done here? To wit, getting Vasey to admit his guilt.

It occurs to Doyle that asking a doctor to cough is a nice reversal of the usual run of things.

They get the preliminaries over with, and then Doyle kicks off the Q&A.

‘Dr Vasey, the last time we met, we asked you about a patient of yours named—’

He stops because Anna Friedrich has raised a finger. Already. Before Doyle has even finished his first question. She has erected a slim index finger with a perfectly manicured nail painted in
red.

‘Client,’ she says.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Client. Dr Vasey would prefer it if you would refer to them as clients, not patients.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘It’s a nuance. In the same way you prefer to call this an interview rather than an interrogation.’

Doyle glares at her. She reflects it right back at him.

‘All right, then. Dr Vasey, we asked you about a
client
of yours named Cindy Mellish. Do you—’

There it is again. The finger. At this rate, Vasey will die of old age before they finish the fucking interview. Doyle is tempted to show a finger of his own, and it’s not the index
finger.

‘No,’ says Friedrich, ‘you did not ask Dr Vasey about a client of his. You asked him about a woman named Cindy Mellish. She was never his client.’

‘We have information to the contrary.’

‘And my horoscope this morning told me I was going to meet a highly intelligent man today. Go figure.’

Doyle shuffles in his seat and tries again. ‘All right, let me give you another name. Sean Hanrahan. Does that ring any bells?’

Vasey looks to his lawyer before answering, and only opens his mouth once she gives him the nod.

Great, thinks Doyle. A ventriloquist act.

‘I don’t recall that name,’ says Vasey.

‘No? Before he retired, Sean Hanrahan was a sergeant with the NYPD. When he was on patrol his partner was killed in a liquor store holdup that went wrong. Still not remember
him?’

Vasey hesitates and clears his throat. ‘Now that you have supplied the additional details, he does sound familiar.’

‘So was he a client of yours?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Possibly? What does that mean, Doctor? Was Sean Hanrahan a client of yours, yes or no?’

‘If it’s the man I’m thinking of, then yes, he was a client. For a short while.’

‘How short?’

‘I’d have to check. One or two sessions at the most.’

‘And when’s the last time you saw him?’

‘The consultations? I believe they were over a year ago.’

‘And since the consultations?’

‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean.’

‘When was the last time you saw Sean Hanrahan
after
the consultations?’

‘I don’t understand. I’ve never seen him since then. What is this?’

‘Yes, Detective,’ says Friedrich. ‘Where exactly are you going with this?’

Doyle looks at her. Sees her half-open mouth with its glossy lipstick. Flame-red again.

‘Sean Hanrahan was killed last night in his apartment. Someone took his face off with a shotgun.’

She blinks. Once. Twice. Then, without further breaks in her eye contact with Doyle she says, ‘All right, Andrew, let’s go. This meeting is over.’