David Jackson - The Helper

‘The DVDs,’ he explains. ‘She has lots of DVDs but no player, no TV. Underneath the counter where she sat and worked there’s a power socket and cables.’

She stares some more. Finally gives the faintest of nods.

‘A laptop. I bought it for her two years ago. For her birthday, and to help in her studies. It’s usually in her bedroom, but I asked her if I could borrow it for a while. I’ve been on the Web, looking for new jobs.’

‘Do you think it’s possible Cindy might have kept her diary on that computer?’

‘I. . I guess it’s possible. Maybe.’

‘Mrs Mellish, do you think I could borrow that computer? Just for a day or two, so I can get it looked at?’

He watches her body language. Sees the defenses going up.

‘I don’t know. Is this. . normal? I mean, do the police usually do things like this?’

‘There’s no such thing as normal. Every situation is different. In this case, it’s just possible there may be something useful on Cindy’s computer. I just want the experts to take a look. They won’t damage it, and I’ll get it straight back to you, I promise.’

‘But you can’t say why you think there’s a diary?’

He thinks, I want to tell her. I want to let her know there’s a psycho running around out there who has already killed two people and may be about to kill again, and the reason I know about the diary is that he’s been phoning me up and taunting me, and when I catch this cocksucker I’m gonna make him wish he’d never been born. I’m gonna do that for you, Mrs Mellish. For you and for Cindy.

‘It’s a possibility, that’s all,’ he says, not really answering her question. ‘But if we find anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

She looks into his eyes, and he hopes that his determination to get justice for her shines more brightly than his lack of candor. Eventually she turns and walks through one of the open doors into her own bedroom. She comes back a minute later with a laptop in her hands.

‘Please, be careful with it. I know it’s just a lump of metal and plastic, but, well. . it was Cindy’s.’

Doyle takes the computer and smiles his gratitude. As he leaves the apartment, he makes a promise to himself that the laptop is not the only thing he will bring back to this woman.

Sometimes they have to be called in.

It’s nice to know they’re there. Sitting in the background, acting as insurance. For when you really need help. You don’t want to use them frivolously — that would be a waste. They are far too valuable.

But sometimes cashing them in is the right thing to do.

This particular favor is owed to Doyle by a man called Lonnie Adelman. Detective Lonnie Adelman. Doyle was at the Police Academy with him, and although they don’t see as much of each other as they used to, they still get together socially now and then. It’s a relationship which, in itself, could probably act as enough of a basis for Doyle to approach him for help. But Doyle has additional leverage. Four years ago, he was involved in the arrest of a group of teenagers for possession of cocaine. One of those teenagers turned out to be Adelman’s son. Following Adelman’s representation and a promise that he would keep the boy on the straight and narrow, Doyle kicked the kid out and kept his name out of the paperwork.

Now it’s payback time. Because what makes Adelman especially valuable to Doyle is that he is a member of CCS, which used to be called CITU, cops loving abbreviations the way they do. CCS is the Computer Crimes Squad, while CITU stood for Computer Investigation and Technology Unit. Whatever the hell it’s called, the key thing to Doyle about both of those titles is the word computer . It means that Adelman knows all about that technology stuff, whereas to Doyle computers are little more than glorified typewriters that never want to do what he asks of them. It’s the reason Doyle called on Adelman when he wanted to buy a new computer system for Rachel, and it’s the reason he calls upon him whenever that system goes wrong.

It’s also the reason why Doyle now finds himself in the NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza, the building known fondly to cops as the Puzzle Palace, the Big House, or — to use yet another abbreviation — simply 1PP.

Adelman looks delighted to see Doyle when he enters his office, but he also looks like a man who is late for an appointment. To Doyle he always looks that way, even when he’s supposed to be relaxing. His flushed face says that there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Doyle figures he’s an ideal candidate for an early heart attack.

‘Hey, Cal,’ says Adelman. He grabs Doyle’s hand, slaps his shoulder. He’s a big man, a couple of inches taller and broader than Doyle, and Doyle is no waif himself. ‘How’s it going, man?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘Still sliding down the razor blade of life.’

Adelman laughs. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I read about you in the papers. You been busy, dude.’

‘Life’s never dull. What about you and those cyber-crooks? You arrested that Super Mario guy yet? Mustache like that, he’s gotta be on the wanted lists, right?’

Another hearty laugh. ‘Can’t catch him. Boy drives like a motherfucker. ’

They chat for another few minutes, catching up. So as not to seem too pointed, Doyle waits until the topic of family crops up in the conversation before he asks about Luke, the son he arrested.

‘Still straight,’ Adelman says. ‘No doubt about that. He’s a man now. Even got himself a girl. Subject of drugs comes up, he just talks about how stupid he was back then.’

Doyle nods. ‘Good to hear. He’s a great kid.’

In the silence which follows, Doyle catches Adelman sliding his eyes toward his wristwatch.

‘Listen, Cal, it’s been great seeing you and all, and we should definitely get together properly soon, but I gotta shoot to a meeting in five minutes. Are you gonna ask me about that computer under your arm, or have you forgotten it’s there?’

Doyle looks down. ‘Hey, whaddya know? There is a computer here. And since you’re asking. .’

‘Go ahead. You wanna hide that trail of porn sites you been visiting?’

‘This doesn’t belong to me. I need you to search it for me.’

‘Search it? For what?’

‘A diary. I just been sitting in Starbucks for the last hour, looking through this thing, and I can’t find it. But then I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I don’t want to screw up the system. You think you could-’

‘Whoa, buddy. What diary? Whose computer is this?’

Doyle senses this isn’t going as smoothly as he hoped.

‘It’s connected with a case I’m working. My information says there’s a diary on here. If that’s so, I’d like to know what’s in it.’

Adelman looks at him. ‘A case, huh?’

It’s no surprise to Doyle that Adelman knows something is fishy. This isn’t how it works. It should go through official channels. The precinct detective squad investigating the case makes a formal approach for assistance to the CCS, which in turn allocates whatever resources it deems appropriate. Sometimes that may mean getting held up in a queue. What it certainly means is that there’s an official record of the request. A lowly detective strolling in here without an appointment and with a computer tucked under his arm is making such a blatant attempt to circumvent NYPD red tape it’s laughable. It’s so suspicious it stinks. Even given their friendship, even given the fact that he saved the ass of Adelman’s son, Doyle fully expects to be thrown out of here in the next five seconds. Put him in Adelman’s shoes and he’s not sure he would do any different, especially given the rep he has now after all the media coverage.