David Jackson - The Helper

He hears the music before the phone even reaches his ear. It’s purely instrumental. An Irish jig.

‘Hello, Cal,’ says the smooth-talking sonofabitch.

Doyle climbs out of bed and staggers out of the bedroom, the phone clamped to his ear.

‘What do you want?’

‘I was just wondering how your day went. Did you find the diary?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘You’re too slow, Cal. You’re wasting time.’

‘Time for what?’

‘For saving lives. Speaking of which, it’s a shame about poor nurse Bonnow, don’t you think? You didn’t save her. Despite all the help I gave you, you didn’t do anything about it.’

Now in the living room, Doyle listens again to the song. He doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know what it’s called.

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘I enjoy helping people, if that’s what you mean. That’s why I’m calling now. To offer my assistance again.’

‘Why me? Of all the cops in this city, why pick me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Why does anyone donate to certain charities and not others? Let’s just say I think you’re a particularly worthy cause. I like to give where it’s most needed.’

‘Thanks, but I think you’ve done enough. I’m already overwhelmed by your benevolence. I’m sure they’ll put up a statue in your memory once you’re dead. Which I hope won’t be much longer.’

A low chuckle. ‘Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?’

‘Not really. This time of night, I’m more of a milk and cookies kinda guy.’

‘Really? Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink. Like it’s passed down in the genes or something. Your father wasn’t a drunk, was he, Cal? You have other reasons for detesting him.’

Doyle decides he’s not getting into this. He’s not giving this guy the pleasure of screwing with his mind.

‘Get to the point, asshole. I got a warm bed waiting for me.’

‘Okay, Cal. Get back to your bed. But I don’t think you’ll get much sleep. You’ve got work to do. And you’ve got less than twenty-four hours to do it in. Midnight precisely. That’s when it will happen. That’s when somebody else will die.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?’

‘I’ve told you all you need to know, Cal. Like I said before. Use your brain. Use your senses. Use what you’ve heard. Show me what a brilliant detective you are. Oh, and one other thing about the person who has just started their last day on this earth.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s somebody you know, Cal. Somebody you know pretty well.’

The caller was right about one thing. Doyle doesn’t get much sleep that night. He spends most of his time replaying the conversation in his mind. Over and over. Desperately trying to pick it apart for meaning. Looking for clues. Anything that will help him prevent another death.

Not for the first time he wishes he had asked for a trace on his phone, despite the warnings to the contrary he was given. But the only way he can do that is by making an official request to the Police Department, which is a sure way of alerting them to the cozy chats he’s been having with the killer.

He gets into work for six-thirty — an hour and a half before his shift is officially due to start. The desk sergeant tosses a joke at him about his wife throwing him out of bed. Doyle laughs it off and trudges upstairs to the squadroom. He spends the next hour reading through the DD5 reports — the fives — and all the other notes that have been made on the Cindy Mellish case.

And gets nowhere.

Interviews with dozens of people, but not a whiff of a solid lead. Doyle realizes he’s not going to find the killer this way. Not in the short time he’s got left.

People say goodbye and leave. New faces arrive and say hello. Doyle is largely unaware of the transitions taking place around him. His midnight chat is back on his mind. He flips to a fresh page on his notepad and starts making notes on all he can remember of the conversation. Trying to decide what’s relevant and what’s just filler. Looking for hidden meanings and subtle hints. Making connections, most of which he crosses out again as being absurd. But he has to consider all the possibilities, no matter how ludicrous they might seem. He can’t afford to get this wrong.

When he’s done that, he thinks about the only other possible pointer to the killer. The diary. If in fact it exists. And if Gonzo the wonder boy can find it. And if it does indeed contain some useful information, instead of being a pile of crap that’s going to be used to jerk him around some more.

All big ifs.

And time is ticking away, my friend.

The address has been used by many wishing to mock the New York accent. Toidy-toid and Toid. Meaning: Thirty-third and Third.

The premises are situated above a nail salon. It has never entered Doyle’s head to consider getting a manicure, and he is surprised at how many people are not of like mind. He imagines that they do pedicures there too, then quickly blots out the thought. He’s seen quite a few corpses in his time, in various states of putrefaction, but the one thing guaranteed to turn his stomach is the idea of working on other people’s feet.

Upstairs, he knocks on a glass-paneled door and enters. The room’s sole occupant — a young girl hiding her beauty beneath too much make-up — sits behind a desk uncluttered with any signs of work. She slides a metal file along her own highly polished fingernails. Doyle wonders if she’s getting in some practice to apply for a job downstairs, because this place is dead.

Alongside her desk, another door leads to an inner office. It’s half open, and Doyle can hear a man’s voice, presumably in the middle of a telephone conversation. He’s saying, ‘What the fuck, Marty? You can’t twist their arms a little? I’m offering them bottom-dollar here. Where else they gonna get peace of mind for a price like that? Jesus.’

Doyle approaches the girl’s desk. She presents him with a bright smile but nothing more.

‘I’d like to speak with Mr Repp.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

Doyle displays his gold shield, and the girl responds by arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Through the door, the voice is saying, ‘Let me speak to him, Marty. . No, just put him on the goddamned phone, will ya?’

The girl tilts her nail file toward the door and states the obvious: ‘He’s on the phone just now.’

‘No problem,’ says Doyle, and heads into Repp’s office.

Travis Repp is lounging back in his executive chair, trying to look executive. Sharp blue suit and skinny tie. Gold rings on his fingers. Big flashy wristwatch. Blond hair flopping low over his forehead. He gives Doyle the once-over, but seems uninterested. He raises a finger, instructing Doyle to wait while he continues his phone call. Doesn’t even offer him a seat.

‘Mr Uterus. . I’m sorry, Mr Yurtis. I misheard my colleague. . Yes, I know what you told him, but I assure you that we can offer a better service than any of our competitors. .’

Doyle sighs and flashes the tin again. Repp glances at it, gives Doyle a look that says, So what? Then resumes his conversation.

‘Yes, Mr Yurtis. . Manpower? Of course we do. I have a whole team of investigators here that I can call on if necessary. .’

Doyle looks around the empty office and wonders where they’re all hiding. He decides he’s had enough of this, and that Mr Yurtis could probably do with a break too. He leans forward and announces his presence like he’s about to raid the joint.