The chorus of the song breaks through, and Doyle realizes it’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Ha, ha, very funny again.
There is a knock on the door. It opens, and Rachel pops her head round.
‘Cal, this food’s going cold again.’
He waves her away too brusquely, and he doesn’t blame her when she closes the door much harder than she needs to.
‘So you’re willing to act as an anonymous informant. For nothing in return except your own spiritual improvement. No financial considerations. No trade-off on legal charges. Nothing.’
‘That’s correct. Although there are certain . . . conditions I will have to impose.’
‘Uh-huh. Why did I think it wasn’t as simple as you laid it out?’
‘I have to protect myself, Cal. You can’t blame me for that. So here’s the deal. I will help you, but in return for my help you must tell no one. Not your boss, not your friends, not even your wife. No one. Do you understand? The minute you reveal to anybody what I’m doing for you, my assistance will cease. Permanently. You must also promise not to attempt to trace my calls to you. And believe me when I tell you that I will know about it if you try to cheat on me.’
‘Forget it. No way can I agree to that. I’m a cop. We have rules. If I keep information like that to myself, I’m breaking the law. I could get prison time for that. Is that what this is about? Are you trying to jam me up?’
‘My, my, Cal. What a suspicious mind you have. No, this is not about setting you up. With what I know about you, I could have done that a long time ago. By the way, Cal, how are the nightmares these days? About you and . . . oh, what’s her name? Lorna? No, Laura.’
Doyle goes cold. Laura Marino. She was his partner in his previous precinct. She took a blast from a shotgun when Doyle sent her the wrong way in an apartment bust. It was an honest mistake, but some people suggested there was more to it. There were rumors of an affair that Doyle wanted to end and she didn’t. And there were rumors that Doyle did terminate it when the opportunity presented itself in that apartment.
It was a mistake, and he paid for it. With the subsequent investigation and scandal that almost wrecked his career and his marriage. And with the nightmares that still plague him.
The death of Laura became public knowledge. Anyone could read about that in the papers. But the nightmares? Who knows about them? Rachel, of course – she’s had to put up with her sweat-soaked husband jumping out of bed in the middle of the night – but even then he has given her only the scantest of details. How the hell does this guy know about the nightmares?
But maybe it’s just a bluff. Any cop who went through what Doyle experienced would have nightmares about it. Maybe it’s not such a hard jump to make. Maybe that’s this guy’s skill. Throw in some facts that are easy to discover, mix in a few educated guesses, and you end up with someone who appears to know you intimately. Is that what this guy is doing? If so, he’d make an excellent poker player.
Or is this someone I really have met before?
‘I sleep fine. And I’ll sleep even better when we catch you, you sick son of a bitch. Now take your assistance and shove it up your ass, because you don’t have long before I come over there and do it for you.’
There’s a pause, and then a faint sigh, and then a note of disappointment in the caller’s voice. ‘That’s a pity, Cal. A real shame. I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Someone I could really think of as one of New York’s finest. Just think of what you’re throwing away here. The chance to bring Cindy Mellish’s killer to justice. The chance to save all those lives.’
He leaves the final words hanging there. All those lives. They drip with the terror of promised carnage.
‘What do you mean? What lives?’
The disappointment turns to amusement. He’s proud of his little twist. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? Cindy is merely the first. The first of many. In fact, you may be interested to know that the second life will be taken tonight.’
Doyle feels his grip tighten on the phone. He had been on the point of hanging up, but now he knows that’s impossible. Refusing information on a past crime is one thing, but how can he reject the opportunity to save someone’s life?
The caller presses home his advantage. ‘Still there, Cal? Interested now, are we? Perhaps just a little bit? I can help you, Cal. I can help you solve the murder of Cindy Mellish, and I can help you to prevent another murder that is scheduled to take place tonight. What’s it to be? Do we have a deal?’
Doyle considers it, but not for long. He needs to hear what this man has to offer, but whether it turns out to be bogus or not, he has no intention of sticking to any agreement with this douche bag.
‘All right. Deal.’
‘So you won’t tell anyone about me, or try to trace my calls?’
‘I said deal, didn’t I?’
There is a slight pause, and when the man comes back on there is an excited energy in his voice. It’s as though he can’t quite believe his luck at getting this far, and is not quite sure what to say next.
‘Good. Excellent. Then listen carefully, Cal. On the Cindy Mellish case, you need to find her diary. There will be clues in there.’
‘Her diary. Are you sure?’
‘Certain. Find the girl’s diary, and you’ll know what to do next.’
‘Okay. And what about the other victim? The one who’s supposed to die tonight?’
‘That’s up to you, Cal. What actions you take will determine whether the second person dies or just ends up somewhere like Bellevue.’
‘What do you mean, the actions I take? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’
‘That’s all I can tell you. Take it from here.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me? The next one dies or ends up in hospital, and I’m supposed to affect that somehow? What kind of help is that?’
‘Follow my advice, Cal. Think about what you’ve heard. Forget about what your heart tells you to do. It’s the brain that’s important here. You don’t need anything more than that.’
Doyle is ready to unleash a torrent of abuse, but before the first expletive escapes his lips, there is a click and the phone goes dead.
He stares at the handset. What the fuck was that? Did I just dream that conversation?
He tosses the phone onto the bed as though he’s just noticed that it’s crawling with insects. He continues to stare at it.
Someone is going to get hurt tonight, maybe even killed. And I can make it go one way or the other. I don’t know who the intended victim is. I don’t know their name, where they live, what they look like, where they work, nothing.
And yet I have the power to save them.
So what do I do now?
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
FIVE
I should call it in, he thinks.
I should call the station house, let them know I just had this phone conversation. Let them decide what to do about it. Then I’m in the clear. I don’t have to worry about it. I can go back to thinking about what to do for poor old Mrs Sachs. They can go look for the stupid diary and solve the case and get all the glory.
But on the other hand . . .
What can I tell them? I know nothing about the person who is supposed to get whacked tonight, so telling them that isn’t going to make any difference. I suppose I can mention the diary. If there is a diary. And if it contains any clues. Which it probably won’t, because this guy is probably just a complete flake who gets off by getting cops to dance for him. And anyway I can check out for myself whether this diary exists.
Shit! Why does my life have to be one huge fucking dilemma?
Doyle opens the bedroom door and re-enters the living room. Rachel is watching the television with the volume turned up – something she often does when she’s annoyed and she wants to shut out everything and everyone else.
First things first, he thinks. So he goes over to her and sits next to her on the sofa and asks h
er what she’s watching and waits for her gruff reply and then tells her he’s sorry.
‘I was just trying to let you know . . .’ she begins.
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was just one of those calls.’
‘I don’t know what “one of those calls” is. We don’t have calls like that. We don’t have secrets that have to be whispered to other people in other rooms. Do we?’
‘Uhm, not usually, no. This one was different. Sensitive. You know? Sometimes there are things happening that I can’t even tell you about. Sometimes it’s better for you and Amy if you don’t know what’s going on.’
She searches his face with worried eyes. ‘Are you in danger?’
‘No. But sometimes there are things connected with the job that I can’t discuss in front of you. I know it hasn’t happened very often in the past, but occasionally something crops up.’
‘What, does Mrs Sachs actually work for the CIA or something?’
‘Something like that.’ He gives her a chance to mull it over. ‘We still friends?’
She answers him with a kiss. ‘Now go eat your freezing cold lasagna. You’ll have to pick out the broken glass yourself.’
He returns the kiss, then moves to the table.
Why didn’t I tell her? he wonders. What was it about that particular call which made me unable even to tell my own wife about it? Okay, the guy knows a lot of things, but surely even he can’t find out if I talked to Rachel.
Deep down, he knows the answer, and it tears him apart. He’s kept things from her before. About the things he’s had to do. About the actions he’s had to take in order to keep his life together. It wasn’t difficult for another little lie like this to trip off the tongue.
And he hates himself for it.
He pushes his food around the plate and stares at the back of Rachel’s head, and he tells himself that if she turns around now he will burst into tears and he will open up his soul to her and she will be able to decide for herself whether he is a monster or just a frail human being, just like everybody else on this planet.
But she doesn’t turn and he doesn’t speak. He just pushes the food around and tries to convince himself that he is doing the right thing. That maybe, just maybe, his silence will save lives.
All is confusion.
She thinks at first that she is in her own bedroom. Which would mean that there wasn’t this stupid oversized nightstand on which she’s just smacked her skull. And it would mean she wouldn’t have wasted time fumbling around for the damned light switch so that she could see where she was going instead of slamming into other items of cumbersome furniture. Why does a single guy need so much storage space, anyhow? Especially a guy who seems to have only about three changes of clothing?
She gets to her cellphone just before it cuts to voicemail. Stabs at the receive button as she tries to blink away the blurriness from her vision.
She attempts a hello, but it gets choked away. She clears her throat, tries again. A voice she doesn’t recognize says her name.
‘Yes, that’s me. Who is this?’
‘This is Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct. I’m sorry to call you so late like this . . .’
‘What? What is it?’ She’s wide awake now. A call from the police at – what time is it? Four o’clock on a Sunday morning – has that effect.
The figure in the bed stirs. A groggy face squints at her. ‘Whassamatter? Whoozaonphone?’
She raises a finger to silence Alex while she listens to the caller.
‘It’s nothing to get alarmed about, Miss. It’s about your husband.’
‘Gary? What about him?’
‘Like I say, it’s nothing to get too worried about. Your husband was brought into the precinct station house a couple of hours ago. He was drunk and he’d been in a fight.’
‘A fight? Oh, Jesus!’
‘He’s not badly hurt. A few cuts and bruises is all, although he seems to have lost his keys and his phone. We normally let people like this sleep it off in the cells, but it being a Saturday night they’re all full. At the moment he’s asleep in one of our interview rooms, but he can’t stay there. So we were wondering if you could come over and take him off our hands. We couldn’t get much sense out of your husband, but he did manage to tell us where you work, so I know you’re only a few minutes away. We found your phone numbers in his address book. I tried your work number but they said you’d gone out on a break, so I hope you don’t mind me calling you on this number.’
‘No, that’s fine. I’ll come right over.’
‘You know where we are?’
‘I think so. By Tompkins, right?’
‘That’s it. Just ask for Detective Doyle at the desk.’
She ends the call. ‘Shit!’
In the bed, Alex is sitting up. ‘Who was that?’
She starts searching for her clothes. They got thrown in all different directions not long after she got here.
‘Some detective called Doyle at the Eighth Precinct. Gary’s there. Drunk and beat-up. They want me to go get him.’
Alex lets out a snort of laughter. She picks up one of his socks and throws it at him.
‘It’s not funny. You know, one of these days we’re going to get caught doing this. The cops even tried calling me at work tonight. I think Bella must have covered for me. But what if Gary calls one night when I’m supposed to be working? What if it’s not Bella who answers, but someone who doesn’t know I’m supposed to be at work when really I’m over here getting my brains banged out?’
‘Yeah, well if Gary did a little more brain-banging himself, maybe you wouldn’t have to put yourself through all this.’
‘Shut up, Alex. You’re really not helping.’
She’s cheating on Gary. She accepts this. Mostly she tries not to think about it. When she can’t avoid it, she tries to justify it to herself. Unreasonable behavior on his part. Lack of attentiveness to her womanly needs. Her conjugal rights. Whatever. But when others attack him, as Alex just did and frequently does, she feels compelled to leap to his defense. Gary has issues. After what they went through they both had issues, but she got over it and he didn’t. It’s sad, but there it is. He’s not a bad man, she thinks, and he doesn’t really deserve what I’m doing to him.
As she starts to dress, Alex relaxes back into the pillows and watches her.
‘Couldn’t you spend just another few minutes here?’
‘No, I couldn’t. The cops believe I’m practically on their doorstep. They don’t know I have to drive all the way downtown to get there.’
‘This time of night, it shouldn’t take too long.’
She ignores him, continues dressing. When she passes the bed on her way to the door, he lunges forward and grabs her by the arm.
‘Come on. Just a little longer. I’ll be quick, I promise.’
‘No change there, then.’
He pulls her closer to the bed. ‘Well, if that’s what you think, I’ll just have to prove how wrong you are.’
She yanks herself free. ‘No, Alex. No. Okay?’
She picks up her bag from a chair by the door, then gives him one last look. In response, Alex pulls back the sheets and shows her what he’s got.
You don’t have a clue, Alex, she thinks. Not a clue.
Shaking her head, she opens the door and leaves.
The apartment is way up on West 107th Street, near Amsterdam Avenue. She knows that what Alex likes about it is its proximity to Columbia University, where he works as a lab technician, and the karate school where he gets paid as an instructor. The only thing she likes about it is that she can usually get a parking spot on this block. She’s not so sure she would bother to drive all the way here if she had to leave the car a couple of blocks away and come traipsing along these streets at the unearthly hours she often arrives.
Actually, she’s not so sure how much longer she will continue this anyway. Alex is fun, he’s got a great body, the sex is terrific. But there’s
a staleness to it now. The novelty has gone. What’s worse, the guilt hasn’t gone. She thought it might after a while. She thought she would become so accustomed to doing this that she would eventually become deaf to the admonishments of that little angel on her shoulder. But it hasn’t worked out that way. If anything, the angel has taken to using a loudhailer. Tonight’s little episode has just made things worse. Gary’s a mess. He needs her help. Maybe she should try harder.
She steps out onto the dark street, glancing both ways before closing the door behind her. Directly opposite is a Jehovah’s Witness building – another reminder of her sinful ways. She sometimes expects that she will step out of Alex’s apartment building one night and the young men in dark suits will all be grouped there, pushing the Watchtower into her hands as they castigate her for her adulterous behavior.
She hurries along the sidewalk to where her Toyota is parked next to a school soccer field. Hearing a noise coming from beyond the graffiti-adorned wall across the street, she hurriedly unlocks the car door, throws her bag onto the passenger seat, and climbs in.
Only then does she see the note tucked under her windshield wiper.
She opens the door again and reaches round to retrieve the note. She unfolds it and reads the hastily scribbled words.
Sorry about the damage to the rear of your car. I accidentally clipped it when I drove off. Sorry!
What the . . . ?
She reads it again, to make sure she fully comprehends it. He smashed into my car? And he didn’t even have the decency to leave a name or contact number? What a bastard! And what’s the fucking point of leaving a fucking note just to say how fucking sorry you are?
She clambers out again, thinking what a shitty night this is turning out to be. Thinking that maybe she’s getting what she deserves, that her shoulder-borne angel has really gone hardcore now.
She steps around to the rear of her car, her fear replaced by indignation. Wondering how much this is going to cost her.
The car looks fine.
I mean, it’s really dark here, but even so . . .
She squats. Stands up again. Runs her hand over the bodywork. What the hell is the writer of this note talking about?
The Helper (Callum Doyle 2) Page 5