David Jackson - The Helper

He sends her toward the kitchen with a smack on the ass, then watches the wiggle in her walk.

Without turning round, she calls back to him, ‘And I should also add that only women know how to make them and break them. So watch your step, mister.’

When she’s out of sight, he looks again at the image of the old man on the stoop. He’s tempted to use the software to draw a mustache on the man, or maybe something pornographic. Only he knows next to nothing about computers, and is afraid he might do something irreversible. Now that would cause a real fight.

He met Rachel when she was working for her father as a realtor. She was showing him an apartment in Washington Heights. He knew as soon as he walked into it that he hated it, but he pretended to like it just so he could spend longer in her company.

She could read him way back then too. When she asked him what he thought of the apartment and he said it was okay, she said ‘Bullshit.’ In the next few minutes she managed to discover a multitude of facts about him, from where he was born to his current status as a single man, all apparently without asking him about those things directly. And later, when she told him he could do a lot better than his current situation, it wasn’t just a place to live she was talking about.

She gave up the realty business after they got married. She wanted to follow her real passion: photography. Her parents blame Doyle for that too.

Sometimes Doyle wonders what he would have to do to get in the good books of his in-laws. He believes that even becoming President wouldn’t cut it.

Sighing, he shucks off his coat, slings it onto the back of the sofa, then collapses into the cushions. Rachel walks back in a minute later.

‘Lasagna okay? It just needs reheating.’

‘Sure.’

She curls up next to him on the sofa and studies his face. ‘So are you going to tell me what the big case is?’

The question doesn’t surprise him. For months now he’s been coming home directly after his shift. Tonight he was hours late.

‘A homicide.’

She smiles, then punches him on the bicep. ‘Hoo hoo. Way to go, Detective! They letting you play with the big boys again?’

‘Don’t you start. I get enough of that at work.’

‘But still — a real honest-to-goodness homicide. Somebody must think you deserve another chance. Is it a juicy case?’

Doyle narrows his eyes at her. Juicy isn’t a word he would normally use for something like this.

‘A girl working in a used bookstore on Tenth. Someone came in and cut her up.’

‘My God. You got any leads?’

‘Nothing much. No motive we can find. Nothing in the girl’s personal life. Who knows? Could be some psycho who wanted a book they didn’t have in stock.’

Doyle doesn’t mention the phone number. Why should he? It’s not important. It’s totally irrelevant.

‘What else?’

Rachel reading him yet again.

‘Huh? Nothing. It’s just been a weird day.’

‘Weird how?’

She’s not letting this drop. But let’s not bring the number into this. Let’s not freak her out. Not that it should freak her out, of course, it being one of those funny coincidences that happens to all of us from time to time.

‘A different case,’ he lies, and hopes it sneaks past his wife’s bullshit detector. ‘A sweet little old lady called Mrs Sachs. She lost her daughter in 9/11. She got a phone call from her in the South Tower, just before it came down. Mrs Sachs said something to me. She said that she would have given anything at that moment to swap places with her daughter. She would have walked straight into the wall of flames in front of her if it meant her girl could live.’

He can see the tears already building in Rachel’s eyes. He knows she’s a sucker for human interest stories like this, and now he feels guilty as hell for using such diversionary tactics.

‘Tell me about it,’ she says. So he does. And once he gets into it, he’s glad of the distraction himself.

When the phone rings and Rachel gets up to answer it, still sniffing and talking about how unfair life can be, Doyle offers silent thanks to Mrs Sachs.

‘It’s for you,’ Rachel says, handing him the phone. ‘I’ll go fix you a side-salad.’

He takes the phone and she walks away.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Doyle. No, let me start that again. Hello, Cal. It’s okay to call you Cal, isn’t it? A little more friendly that way.’

Doyle doesn’t recognize the male voice. It’s deep, quiet and well-spoken. Loud music is playing in the background, almost drowning him out.

‘Who is this?’

‘Forgive me. We haven’t met, although I hope we will one day. I know a lot about you, though. About you and Rachel and Amy. About your apartment on West 87th Street. About your work as a detective in the Eighth Precinct. You’re a fascinating man, Cal. That’s why I picked you.’

‘Picked me for what? Who the hell is this?’

‘Picked you to receive my help. Didn’t you get the message I left for you?’

‘Message? No. What message?’

‘Your phone number, of course. On the girl’s arm.’

The world vanishes. There is no Rachel, no living room, no apartment. There is only this man’s voice, this man’s words.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Did you like the little twist I gave it? The Irish touch? Your birthplace, I believe. To be more exact, County Kerry, wasn’t it?’

For a moment Doyle cannot speak. The music blares in his ear. U2. An Irish band. Ha, ha, very funny.

But there is no humor in Doyle’s thoughts. Only anger. And, yes, fear. If this man knows so much about him, about his family. .

‘You want any dressing on this salad?’

It’s Rachel, calling from the kitchen. Doyle gets off the sofa and moves to the kitchen doorway. He makes some hand signals to indicate that he doesn’t want dressing, and that he needs to continue this call. When she nods that she understands, he walks into the bedroom and closes the door.

‘Hey, Cal, are you still there, buddy?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Was that Rachel I heard just then? Nice find, Cal. I saw her picking up Amy from her friend Ellie’s house today. Those tight black slacks really show off her curves, don’t you think?’

He’s been watching me and my family, thinks Doyle. Stalking us. Finding out everything he can about us.

He heads for the window, looks down onto the street below. The traffic is light. Plenty of cars parked up, but no sign of anyone monitoring the building. Nothing that he can see in the windows of the buildings across the street, either.

‘Listen to me, you son of a bitch. If you’re thinking about making some kind of threat to me or my family, then you better think again. I don’t respond lightly to threats.’

‘Whoa, steady there, Cal. I said I wanted to help you, didn’t I? I’m not threatening you. That’s the last thing on my mind.’

Doyle concentrates on the voice again. There’s a slight inflection to his accent that makes it sound mid-Atlantic. Doyle tries to match it with any of the faces he’s encountered before, but fails.

‘Help me how?’

‘With the investigation. The bookstore girl.’

‘That’s not my case.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Cal. I saw you there. At the bookstore.’

He was watching me? Where was he? Did I see him?

‘I mean I didn’t catch the case. I was just helping out.’

‘Well now I’m helping you out too. Let’s all help each other. Make the world a friendlier place, huh, Cal?’

‘You wanna be friends, you should give me your name.’

‘I’m just a good Samaritan, Cal. You know what the good Samaritan’s name was? No, neither do I. Doesn’t make him less good though, does it?’