David Jackson - The Helper

‘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 amp;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.’