David Jackson - The Helper

Cary Grant, thinks Doyle.

‘Cary Grant,’ says Vasey.

Holden rubs his hand across his chin. ‘With all due respect, Doctor, don’t you think this sounds too convenient? My guess is that the doorman at your apartment building saw you leave at around eleven-fifteen. You don’t come back until two. Between those times, Mr Hanrahan, a previous client of yours, is murdered. And then you come up with this story about a mystery phone call that caused you to go over to your ex-wife’s place. Can you see how that might sound to us, Dr Vasey?’

Vasey leans across the table. Doyle thinks he’s starting to look a little flustered now.

‘Yes, I can see that. But it’s exactly what happened, I swear to you. My ex-wife will confirm it.’

‘She might confirm you came knocking on her door at about eleven-thirty, maybe a few minutes earlier. That says nothing about what you did after that. Doesn’t say why you didn’t get home until two.’

‘I. . I. . Look, if you must know, she invited me in. She was touched that I seemed so concerned for her welfare. She. . she was grateful .’

There is a huge nod and a wink contained in that emphasis, and everybody understands it for what it is. Even Anna Friedrich is looking up at the ceiling for distractions.

‘You mean you had sex?’

‘Uhm, yes.’

‘Until what time?’ Holden asks. Then, seeing the expression on Vasey’s face, he says, ‘Scratch that. What time did you leave your ex-wife’s apartment?’

‘Just before two. Then I went straight home.’

Holden sighs. ‘If that’s so, why didn’t you just give it up a coupla minutes ago? Why did you lie when Detective Doyle asked you where you were around midnight?’

‘Because. . because for one thing I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought you were trying to pin the murder of Mr Hanrahan on me, and I didn’t see the point in giving you extra ammunition to do just that.’

‘But you just said that your ex-wife could give you an alibi. Why not say that from the start and save yourself all this trouble?’

‘Because. . she has a boyfriend now. A very rich and very powerful boyfriend. I was trying to protect her.’

Holden sighs again. ‘All right, Dr Vasey. We’ll still have to talk to her. Don’t worry, we’ll be discreet.’ He flips open a notepad. ‘What’s her name and full address?’

Vasey checks in with his lawyer again. This time she doesn’t nod. Doesn’t give him a word or a gesture.

‘Dr Vasey?’

The lawyer turns her beautiful dark eyes on the detectives.

‘Her name is Anna Friedrich,’ she says. ‘I reverted to my maiden name.’

Bitch.

Is what Doyle thinks.

His view is that she was planning to spring this on them all along. That story about covering up her infidelity was a crock of shit. She wanted to watch the detectives dig themselves into a hole and then, at the last possible moment, she would bury them under a truckload of dirt.

And now she’s the one who’s acting as the injured party. Unfucking-believable.

‘Where did that come from?’ she demands of the detectives when Vasey is out of earshot. They have left the interview room, and Vasey has walked ahead of them.

‘What?’ says Doyle.

‘That question about where Andrew was at midnight.’ Doyle shrugs. ‘It was routine.’

‘Oh no. Not the way you asked it. Not the way you kept pressing him to alter his answer. You knew something.’

‘I know a lot of things. Most of all, I know when someone is lying to me or holding back. My spidey sense told me your hubby was holding back.’

‘Uh-uh. You were too confident. You were in no doubt he left his apartment last night. That tells me you had him under surveillance. I know better than anybody that Andrew can be an asshole — that’s why I’m no longer a Vasey. But I also know that basically he’s a stand-up guy. He’s not the man you’re looking for. So call off the dogs or I’ll fire a harassment suit at you so fast you won’t have time to duck.’

She turns on her heel and click-clacks down the hallway, leaving the detectives with an indelible memory of her rear view.

‘Is she right?’ Holden asks Doyle.

‘Right about what?’

‘That your intuition couldn’t be that good. That you had more to go on than a hunch.’

‘You really wanna know?’

Holden stands there for a moment while he weighs up the pros and cons.

‘Maybe it’s better if I don’t.’

He starts to walk away. Doyle trails after him.

‘Because if you’re really interested, I’d be happy to tell you.’

Holden speeds up his pace to get away.

‘All right,’ says Doyle, ‘if you’re gonna drag it out of me, it was like this. .’

But by now Holden has his fingers in his ears and is singing loudly.

The call comes just as Doyle pulls up outside his apartment. He knows from the absence of any caller ID who this is going to be, and he’s ready for him. He presses the answer button, but says nothing.

‘Cal?’

‘Don’t say another word,’ Doyle tells him. ‘Not one fucking word. No stupid clues. No music. Nothing. I don’t just mean now, either. I mean forever. I don’t need your help no more, get me? That man you killed last night was a cop and a friend. That makes you my enemy. That puts you top of my list of people I need to take off the streets. And if it was my decision, I’d reinstate the death penalty just for you. In fact, I would stick the fucking spike in your arm myself and watch you die, you sick fuck. Do you understand?’

‘Ten-four, Detective. Message received loud and clear. No clues. I get it. But to be honest, I wasn’t calling to give you clues. You know why? Because you already have them.’

And then he ends the call.

Just like that.

Leaving Doyle staring at his phone and wondering how it could have gone so awry. This wasn’t how it was meant to happen. He was supposed to deliver his rant and then come away feeling good about himself, satisfied that he’d put both himself and the caller in neat little labeled boxes. The hunter and the hunted. The investigator and the criminal. But yet again he has been left with blurred vision, unable to make out the boundaries between right and wrong. Feeling somehow sullied by that simple brief reply.

You already have them.

What do I have?

What the fuck do I have?

It bothers him the whole evening.

For one thing he is furious with himself. He should have said what he had to say and then ended the call. Goodbye. So long. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.

But you had to hang on for those extra few seconds, didn’t you, Doyle? You had to go and let yourself hear those words. The words that now seem to be the only things in your stupid brainless head, you dumb prick.

Because now it’s too late. The words won’t go. They won’t be ignored. They insist on flashing themselves in front of his eyes like they’re written in neon, or tapping on his skull like his own personal woodpecker from hell.

You already have them.

The clues.

And that’s the other thing. Because he really has no idea what that means. What clues does he have? There was the U2 song and the Irish jig. So does that mean the next victim will be Irish? Or is he not meant to look at the clues that have already been used to point to victims? Is there something else that has been said? Something he’s overlooked?

He is tempted to sit down with a notepad and pen and do what he did before: jotting down everything he remembers of the phone calls and trying to read something into them. But that didn’t help Hanrahan, did it?

At the dinner table, Amy asks him something he doesn’t even hear. When he doesn’t answer, Rachel has to prod him.