David Jackson - The Helper

Yeah, but. . seven digits? Seven?

A couple of times he’s picked up the phone. Actually started to dial the number. Then he’s put it down again. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Be careful what you wish for.

The squadroom door opens, and the two lead detectives on the case walk in. The youngest is a blond-haired cop named Tommy LeBlanc. His gold shield is still fresh in his pocket, and Doyle hasn’t yet made his mind up whether or not he likes the guy. For one thing, thinks Doyle, he’s too fashion-conscious. Cops should look like slobs. Even when they’re wearing smart suits they should look like slobs. At the very least, they should dress traditionally and soberly. Lieutenant Cesario just about gets away with that. But junior here — well, look at him. Shoes so pointy you could pick a lock with them, and garish designer spectacles that seem to change with the weather. Probably doesn’t even have a problem with his eyesight.

The other detective is called Jay Holden. A truck-sized black man with a shaven head that reveals a puckered circular scar above his left ear. Rumor has it that the scar is the result of a gunshot wound inflicted when he ran with gangs in his teenage years. What Doyle likes about Holden is that he is his own man, with his own thoughts and opinions, most of which he keeps to himself. When he occasionally does come down on one side of a debate, you can be sure that he has given it considerable deliberation beforehand.

Doyle waits for the detectives to settle themselves in, then wanders over to Holden’s desk.

‘Hey, Jay.’

Holden looks up. His expression remains fixed.

‘Cal.’

‘You anywhere with the girl?’

Holden shrugs his linebacker shoulders. ‘We talked to the mother. She didn’t really know nothing. No enemies, no fights, no jealous boyfriends, no stalkers. Nothing useful.’

‘No boyfriends at all?’

‘Last one finished with her a year ago. The mother says she was devastated. Wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t eat — all the usual teenage angst stuff.’

‘You talk to the guy?’

‘Yeah. He’s just a kid too. Shacked up with another girl now. He seemed shocked enough when I told him about Cindy. Says he dumped her when she got too possessive, but there was no way he wanted anything bad to happen to her. My opinion, he’s telling the truth.’

‘You think this is just a nut-job?’

Holden leans back in his chair while he ponders. The chair groans in complaint.

‘Too early to say. It looks like it, the way he cut her up like that. On the other hand, he’s been real careful. Crime Scene haven’t come up with anything yet, and I’m not convinced they will.’

‘What about that number on her arm? Who does that belong to?’

Doyle tries to make it sound like a natural follow-on question, and hopes his anxiety doesn’t show.

Holden shakes his head. ‘Garbage. That area code ain’t in use. Looks like the ME was right. Killer offers to give his number, writes down some crap, then does his thing while he’s holding her arm.’

So they’re dismissing the number, thinks Doyle. Which means that nobody has looked at what you get if you ignore the area code and treat the remainder as a local number. If they had, they’d be all over him now.

He decides he’s not going to be the one to suggest it.

‘So what’s next?’ he asks.

‘I was hoping you could tell me . Maybe find something in that customer list you got. A name like Jack T Ripper, something like that.’

‘I’ll keep looking.’

He moves back to his own desk, relieved that the issue of the telephone number has been pushed into the background, at least as far as the squad is concerned. Maybe he should do the same. Maybe it’s okay for him to forget about it now.

Maybe.

It’s always the same. Delight and resentment, intermingled. Every time he enters this building.

It’s a beautiful brownstone on West 87th Street. It has history and character and solidity. It has stone lions above the entrance. It has real wood floors. It has a tree-lined sidewalk that takes you to Central Park at one end, and Riverside Drive and the Hudson at the other. But best of all, it has his apartment. The place where he lives. His home.

Except — and this is where the resentment creeps in — it’s not his home, is it? Not really. He didn’t buy it with his own money. Because he is only a New York City detective, and second grade at that. He can’t afford this. He should be living in a crappy tenement, or a place in the outer boroughs.

But we know who can afford this, don’t we? That’s right: Rachel’s parents. They have the money to buy this many times over with whatever’s currently in their wallets. And they’ll never let you forget it, either. And they’ll especially never let you forget that they only bought this for their daughter’s sake rather than yours. And they’ll also never let you forget that they don’t like cops, and they don’t like the fact that their daughter married a cop, and they don’t like you in particular.

As always, Doyle’s unease dissolves once he enters the apartment and shuts himself off from the world outside. The family photographs on the walls welcome him in. And in the living room, the real thing. His wife, Rachel, twisting away from the computer, sending him a smile that explains to him why life is worth living. There is music playing in the background that makes this feel like he’s in a scene from a movie.

He goes over to Rachel, puts his arms around her neck, kisses her, breathes in her perfume and shampoo. Squeezes her until she squeaks.

‘What’s the music?’ he asks.

‘Coldplay.’

‘I should have known. You ever play anything that’s not Britpop?’

‘I thought you’d like it, you being a Brit and all.’

He shows her a fist that’s backed up by a smile. It’s a running joke between them: Rachel referring to him as a Brit just to get a rise out of him. His father, wherever he is now, would have become apoplectic at the very mention of the word.

‘How’s Amy?’ he asks.

Rachel shuts off the music. ‘Exhausted. I took her over to Ellie’s house this afternoon. You know what those two are like together — thick as thieves. God knows what they find to talk about, considering they see each other at school every day. And you know what? Soon as I got her home she was on Skype, talking to Ellie again.’

‘She in bed now?’

‘Yeah. She wanted to stay up to see you, but she couldn’t make it. Fell asleep on the couch in the end.’

‘I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.’ He nods toward the computer screen. It’s displaying an image of a wrinkled old black guy sitting on a stoop. ‘What you working on?’

‘Just some touching up. I’ve got some gallery space at that exhibition in the Rennie Building next month.’

‘Yeah? That’s fantastic. You need a model to pose for you?’ He puts the tips of his fingers to his chin, adopts a wistful expression and flutters his eyelashes at her.

Rachel grimaces. ‘Uhm, no, that’s okay. I don’t think the world is ready for that just yet.’

He chin-points at the screen. ‘You got much more to do?’

‘Plenty, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? What you really want to know is when your dinner’s ready.’

Doyle smiles. ‘How come you can always see through me?’

‘You’re a man, and men are transparent to us women. You like to think you’re impenetrable and enigmatic. What you don’t know is you’re all glass vases. Big, round, see-through and empty.’

‘The only thing empty about me is my stomach. Now get in that kitchen, wench, and rustle me up some food.’

She gets off her chair and slides past him. ‘About this vase. Did I mention that it was antiquated yet worthless?’