David Jackson - The Helper

‘Something else,’ Doyle says.

Cesario raises his eyes just as Holden lowers himself back onto his seat, like they’re on opposite ends of a see-saw.

Doyle says, ‘If we’re right, and this is a serial killer, what if it’s not just these three?’

Both Cesario and Holden stare at him. ‘You got somebody else in mind?’ Cesario asks.

Doyle hesitates. He wonders, Is this a step too far? Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.

‘Lorna Bonnow,’ he says.

‘Who?’

‘Lorna Bonnow. A DOA up in the Two-Seven. She was rammed by a car.’

‘Uh-huh. And you single her out because. .’

Because the same guy wasted her too. Because he told me so.

‘She was also targeted. A guy called her up, told her that her husband needed her. When she got to the street, he took her out. It was clever, it was planned. Just like the others.’

‘Anything that connects her with Vasey?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Anything that connects her with Vasey’s patients?’

Clients , thinks Doyle. He shakes his head.

‘Has the Two-Seven been in touch to say they think this might be the work of a monster terrorizing New York?’

No, not that, although they did wonder why my name cropped up in their investigation.

‘No.’

Cesario breathes out heavily through his nose. ‘Cal, this is already bigger and badder than I would like. Please don’t go roping in every unsolved DOA simply because it doesn’t smell right. Work on what you got already. When you’ve tidied those away, I’ll think about letting you loose on the rest of the city’s problems. Dinner first, dessert later. Now get out of here.’

They step out of Cesario’s office. Holden says, ‘Lorna Bonnow? How did she get into this?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘I heard about the case. It sounded like it might be the work of our man.’

Holden looks as though he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘ It sounded like . . Man, you are one seriously fucked-up individual. I am truly starting to regret agreeing to work with you.’

‘I could be right, though.’

‘Yeah, and maybe he shot JFK too. Maybe he sabotaged Apollo 13. Hey, maybe he’s got green hair and a permanent smile and he’s about to blow up Gotham City.’

As Holden walks away, Doyle calls after him, ‘Did I ever tell you I was thinking about changing my name to Bruce Wayne?’

When Doyle gets back to his desk, he finds he has a visitor. As he approaches, she affixes a welcoming smile. He could fall for a smile like that. If he were fifty years older.

‘Hello, Mrs Sachs. How are you?’

‘How am I? I’m alive. At my age, I don’t have much else to be grateful for. If this body were a building, it would be condemned as unsafe. Not fit for human habitation. The aches and pains I have, you don’t want to know. A young man like you wouldn’t understand the purgatory I go through every day. And why should you? You have your whole life before you. Enjoy. Don’t worry yourself about poor schmucks like me.’

Doyle smiles. ‘The way I see it, you got a lot of mileage to get through yet.’

‘Mileage? What I got left you can’t measure in feet, let alone miles.’

Doyle laughs. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I saw Mr Repp again yesterday.’

Good, thinks Doyle. That clown finally saw the error of his ways.

‘Did he put your mind at rest?’

‘Well. . not exactly.’

Uh-oh, Doyle thinks. What’s the idiot done now?

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He told me that. . that my Patricia isn’t in Chicago.’

Oh. Okay, Travis. So maybe I misjudged you. Maybe you did the decent thing after all.

‘No?’

‘No. Apparently she’s moved to Hawaii.’

I take that back, Travis. You’re an asshole.

‘Hawaii?’

‘Yes. Waikiki.’

‘He offer any proof?’

Mrs Sachs reaches for her purse. The same one she brought to their first meeting. The leather one with the silver clasp. Click, it’s open. She dips a leathery hand inside. Takes out a photo, just as she did last time.

Doyle looks at the picture. A beach that could be any beach. A woman that could be any woman. But she has a face that presumably belonged to Patricia Sachs.

Doyle asks, ‘Do you think it’s her?’

‘I want it to be her. It looks like her.’

‘What does Repp say?’

‘He’s pretty sure it’s Patricia. He says the man who traced her there is good at his job. But he wants to be sure, so he’s offered to go out there himself.’

‘Which he’ll bill you for, I suppose.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Detective. But as I said to you before, this isn’t about money. It’s about my daughter. If he’s right, and Patricia is alive. .’

Mentally, Doyle groans. He wants to take this old woman by her bony shoulders, look her in the eye and say, Mrs Sachs, your daughter is dead. It’s tragic, it’s upsetting, but it’s true. Now cut your ties with Repp and get on with your life.

But that’s the problem. Because he’s not sure how much life she will have in her once she learns the truth. It’s as though there’s a current running from daughter to mother: switch off one and maybe the other’s lights go out too. Doyle isn’t sure he wants that responsibility. And if he’s wrong about Repp. . If, by some slim chance, Repp is not scamming her. .

‘What do you believe, Mrs Sachs? Deep down, what do you think? Do you believe your daughter is alive or not?’

‘What I think is that I’m getting too old. My mind, it doesn’t function like it used to. It’s like it’s given up thinking about things that are too hard or too upsetting. Now, it’s just willing to believe whatever comes its way. I rely on other people now to tell me what is true and what is false. Tell me, did you go to see Mr Repp?’

‘Yes, I met with him.’

‘And what did you think? Does he seem reputable to you?’

Doyle’s thoughts are that he wouldn’t put it past Repp to take the last dime from a blind beggar, but he doesn’t say so. He had hoped his little visit to Repp would have been sufficient to scare him back onto the path of the righteous, at least as far as his relationship with Mrs Sachs was concerned.

‘I didn’t get to know him real well. Tell you what, why don’t I go see him again, see if I can offer him a little police help to track down Patricia?’

She smiles again, and this time it looks to Doyle as though her watery eyes are ready to overflow.

‘Thank you, Detective. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

Doyle wonders how much it will mean to her to discover that her daughter really did suffer a terrible fiery fate in the Twin Towers. He makes a mental note to advise Repp in the strongest terms that he will need to let her down gently — so gently she doesn’t shatter.

He helps the old lady out of her chair and sees her out of the squadroom. Before he can retake his seat, his cellphone rings. He looks at the screen. No caller ID. He presses the button to kill the call. Fuck you, he thinks. I ain’t playing. This game is over.

It reminds him that there’s work to be done on the homicides. Now that he’s got the lieutenant’s consent to push ahead, he can investigate properly, unfettered by a need to keep things to himself.

You’re mine, you sonofabitch, he thinks. It’s only a matter of time.

Not again.

This is starting to get annoying.

Doyle gets to his car, reaches for the door handle, and — surprise! — he’s there again. At his side like a faithful dog welcoming home its master.

Just don’t start humping my leg, he thinks.

‘Gonzo, what the hell are you doing here? Did you spend your whole lunch hour just waiting out here in case I should show?’