David Jackson - The Helper

‘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.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a courtesy call. You have less than two hours now. You do know that, don’t you? I hope you followed my advice and that you’re doing something about it.’

‘Your advice ain’t worth shit.’

‘That’s a bit unfair, Cal. I told you about the diary, didn’t I?’

‘Like I said, your advice is worthless.’

‘Or perhaps it’s just that you don’t know how to interpret things correctly. I’m helping you, Cal. Showing you how to be a better detective. Training you to use your mind like a good investigator should.’

‘Yeah? Well, here’s me using my mouth in a more productive way: Get out of my fucking life, you sick fuck!’

He ends the call. Stares at the phone for several seconds. As he goes to replace it in his pocket, it rings again. He stabs the answer button so hard his finger almost pokes a hole in the casing.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said, jerkoff? I ain’t playing this game no more. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but you’re probably doing that already. That’s if you can find that tiny dick of yours.’

‘Uhm, Detective?’

Doyle groans inwardly.

‘Gonzo? Is that you?’

‘Uhm, yeah. Is this a bad time?’

‘How the fuck did you get my cellphone number?’

‘You gave it to me. You wrote it on your card. Remember?’

‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Gonzo. I thought you were somebody else. Ignore what I said. I don’t really think you’re playing with yourself. What do you want?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’

‘Gonzo, you called me. Why would you call me to let me know you don’t want to tell me what you’re calling about?’

‘Promise you won’t get mad?’

‘I am getting madder by the second. Now what the fuck is it?’

‘I’m doing surveillance. On Vasey. I thought you should know.’

Doyle wonders if his ears are playing tricks on him.

‘Surveillance? What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve been watching Vasey for you. I’m outside his apartment building now.’

‘Gonzo, you’re not making any sense. How do you know where he lives? How do you even know what he looks like?’

‘I told you. I looked him up. He’s in the phone book. He lives in a fancy apartment building here on Sixty-first and Third. And he has a website with his photo on it. I watched him go into his building two hours ago. I made notes and everything. “8:04: Vasey enters apartment building.” Did I do right? What should I do now?’