‘Yeah.’
Doyle straightens up and slaps Gonzo on the shoulder. ‘Go home, kid. Give that brain of yours a rest.’
For a few moments, Doyle isn’t sure he’s been heard. Gonzo stands rooted to the spot. Eventually he turns and shuffles away, still studying the ground.
Watching him go, Doyle shakes his head and wonders how somebody like that manages to get around in this city without being devoured by it.
‘Why do dogs walk so fast?’
Doyle stops stroking his daughter’s hair.
‘What?’
‘Why do dogs walk so fast? When I see dogs on the street or in the park, they always walk really, really fast. They’re always in a hurry. They never walk at the same speed as people. Even when they’re on a leash they try to pull the person along.’
Doyle tucks in Amy’s bed covers while he mulls over his reply. It’s not a question that’s ever crossed his mind before, but he can tell from the earnestness on Amy’s face that a considered answer is required.
‘Well, what you have to remember, hon, is that dogs have twice as many legs as people.’
‘Oh,’ says Amy. ‘Yes.’
Doyle stands up. ‘Shall I put the light out now?’
‘Well, what about cats then? They have the same amount of legs as dogs, but they don’t walk very fast. They only go fast when they’re chasing something. And tortoises. They have four legs too, and they go really, really slow. So it can’t just be the number of legs, can it?’
You got me there, Doyle thinks. Then he wonders how the hell he’s going to worm his way out of her seemingly inescapable logic.
‘No. Obviously it’s not just the number of legs. But the other thing about dogs is that they have a very good sense of smell.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
Doyle doesn’t know. It was the first thing that came into his head.
‘Well, they can smell things we can’t. So they’re always rushing toward those smells. Just like you might come running if I said I had some chocolate.’
‘Yes, and dogs like chocolate too, don’t they?’
‘Yes they do. So that must be the answer. And now I think you need to get some sleep.’
‘All right, Daddy.’
He wishes her goodnight and beats a hasty retreat before she can bombard him with more baffling questions.
In the living room, Rachel is working on her photographs again. Deciding to leave her in peace, Doyle picks up a newspaper and flops onto an armchair. He skim-reads it for all of five minutes before breaking the silence.
‘I have to go out later.’
Rachel continues to peer at her computer screen. ‘Out?’ she says distractedly. ‘Where?’
‘A stakeout. I’ll only be gone a coupla hours.’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Stay safe.’
Another minute’s silence. Then Rachel turns in her chair.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, fine,’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘I dunno. You’ve been acting a little distracted lately. You sure you’re okay?’
He thinks about telling her then. Telling her that somebody is due to die in a few hours, and that only he can prevent it. Telling her that he’s the only person who knows there’s a serial killer out there. Telling her that only he knows of the link between Cindy Mellish and Lorna Bonnow.
Telling her that, in effect, he’s been withholding the truth from his wife, as well as his colleagues.
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Really.’
He leaves the apartment shortly after ten o’clock. He kisses Rachel, tells her not to wait up.
There is a heaviness in his step as he descends the building staircase. Halfway down, he pauses. He takes out his Glock, checks that the magazine is fully loaded and that there’s a round in the chamber, then re-holsters it.
Outside, he breathes deeply of the night air. There’s a sweet aroma to it that he can’t quite place. He moves to his car, unlocks it, and climbs behind the wheel. He inserts his key in the ignition, goes to turn it.
His cellphone rings.
He takes it from his pocket and thumbs the call answer button.
‘Doyle.’
‘Hey, Cal. Tonight’s the night. Are you getting excited?’
It’s him. Of course it is. That deep, mellow voice has become unmistakable. And if it were not, that Irish jig in the background would give it away. The bastard is calling because he wants to squeeze every ounce of self-gratification out of this.
Doyle says, ‘So you know my cellphone number too.’
‘There are a million things I know about you, Cal. Don’t get complacent. Don’t start thinking you can say or do things without me finding out.’
Doyle checks in his mirrors, then twists in his seat to get a good look around him. Am I being watched right now? he wonders.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just a courtesy call. You have less than two hours now. You do know that, don’t you? I hope you followed my advice and that you’re doing something about it.’
‘Your advice ain’t worth shit.’
‘That’s a bit unfair, Cal. I told you about the diary, didn’t I?’
‘Like I said, your advice is worthless.’
‘Or perhaps it’s just that you don’t know how to interpret things correctly. I’m helping you, Cal. Showing you how to be a better detective. Training you to use your mind like a good investigator should.’
‘Yeah? Well, here’s me using my mouth in a more productive way: Get out of my fucking life, you sick fuck!’
He ends the call. Stares at the phone for several seconds. As he goes to replace it in his pocket, it rings again. He stabs the answer button so hard his finger almost pokes a hole in the casing.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said, jerkoff? I ain’t playing this game no more. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but you’re probably doing that already. That’s if you can find that tiny dick of yours.’
‘Uhm, Detective?’
Doyle groans inwardly.
‘Gonzo? Is that you?’
‘Uhm, yeah. Is this a bad time?’
‘How the fuck did you get my cellphone number?’
‘You gave it to me. You wrote it on your card. Remember?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Gonzo. I thought you were somebody else. Ignore what I said. I don’t really think you’re playing with yourself. What do you want?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
‘Gonzo, you called me. Why would you call me to let me know you don’t want to tell me what you’re calling about?’
‘Promise you won’t get mad?’
‘I am getting madder by the second. Now what the fuck is it?’
‘I’m doing surveillance. On Vasey. I thought you should know.’
Doyle wonders if his ears are playing tricks on him.
‘Surveillance? What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been watching Vasey for you. I’m outside his apartment building now.’
‘Gonzo, you’re not making any sense. How do you know where he lives? How do you even know what he looks like?’
‘I told you. I looked him up. He’s in the phone book. He lives in a fancy apartment building here on Sixty-first and Third. And he has a website with his photo on it. I watched him go into his building two hours ago. I made notes and everything. “8:04: Vasey enters apartment building.” Did I do right? What should I do now?’
Doyle sighs. The kid’s a tryer, he thinks. You have to give him that.
‘Go home, is what you should do. Isn’t there something on TV you could be watching?’
‘Nah. They’re all re-runs. This is much more exciting.’
‘Believe me, it gets stale pretty fast. When you’ve been sitting there for five hours or whatever, you’ll wish you hadn’t bothered. Now go home, Gonzo.’
‘But—’
‘Gonzo, were you listening to anything I said to you before about wha
t cops do and what lab technicians do, and about them being totally different things?’
‘Sure, but . . . well, Vasey’s a suspect, isn’t he? And I bet you don’t have the time to watch him constantly. Even if you do have a partner.’
Doyle smiles at the emphasis on the final word, intended to show him how hurt Gonzo feels. Gonzo is right, of course. The squad doesn’t have the resources to watch Vasey around the clock, and Doyle isn’t sure how profitable it would be anyhow. But tonight . . . well, maybe Gonzo could be of some use after all.
Doyle checks his watch. ‘All right, Gonzo. Here’s what we’ll do. Are you prepared to sit on Vasey until midnight?’
‘You mean it? Absolutely. I’ll stay here all night if you—’
‘No, midnight’s fine. If Vasey leaves his apartment before then, I want you to call me, okay? Don’t do anything. Don’t approach him, don’t go in the building, don’t do anything except watch the place. Is that understood?’
‘Perfectly. I will monitor and report. Don’t worry, Detective, I won’t let you down. I’ve got a flask of coffee here to keep me awake.’
He needs caffeine to keep him awake until midnight, thinks Doyle. Jesus.
‘Nice to hear you’re fully equipped. Speak to you later.’
He ends the call. He is almost surprised to realize there is a smile on his face. Gonzo’s childish enthusiasm has just brightened his night.
But it quickly fades when the enormity of what may happen next reasserts itself in his thoughts.
ELEVEN
When the cops from the Eighth Precinct say they’re heading over to the Island, they don’t always mean Staten Island. Or Long Island. Or Roosevelt Island, Governors Island, Liberty Island, Randall’s Island, or even Riker’s Island, for that matter. Quite often, what they are referring to is a drinking den more properly known as Gilligan’s. Which isn’t an island at all, except in the poetic sense of being a place to escape from life’s hustle, bustle and trouble. Television has a lot to answer for.
Gilligan’s is situated on Avenue A, and has been for a long time, even back in the days before all the other bars and restaurants sprang up in this area – back when Alphabet City was not as friendly an area as its preschool-sounding name might suggest (although it was certainly capable of giving visitors an education they would never forget). What has always made the Island a safe watering hole is the fact that, on an average night, you probably have more chance of finding a cop here than in the Eighth Precinct station house.
Doyle guesses the place hasn’t changed much since those fun-filled days of yore. It has always been styled as an Irish pub, but unlike more recent pretenders to that title it manages to pull it off. As soon as Doyle opens the door, the Irish music draws him inside. Admittedly, it’s emanating from a music system rather than a live ceilidh band, but he always knows that as soon as he knocks back some of that smooth Guinness and tunes in to the Irish lilt of the garrulous bartender, he is able to transport himself back to the land of his childhood. Or at least to a censored and somewhat romanticized version of what he recalls of those bygone days.
Except that tonight he cannot drink alcohol. He must remain as sober as a judge on antibiotics. Someone’s life may depend on it.
For the hundredth time, he thinks back on what he was told over the phone.
Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?
Irish music – check. Drink – check. Guinness – check.
He approaches the bar, more alert than he has ever been before in this place. He tries to perceive and absorb every detail. As he walks, he notices for the first time how loud his footsteps seem on the wood-planked floor. He scans faces. Many are familiar. He receives smiles, nods, a couple of handshakes, one or two slaps on the shoulder. He is aware that his responses are muted to the point of being rude, but he knows he cannot afford to narrow his focus. His eyes search every corner of the room, on the lookout for anything unusual, anything suspicious, anything warranting further scrutiny.
‘A late start for you tonight, Cal.’
This from the bartender. He is also the owner of this bar, and his name is Patrick Gilligan, although most know him as Paddy. The previous owner was Paddy’s father, another Patrick Gilligan. He died of cirrhosis of the liver, but before he succumbed to the devil that is drink, before he took ownership of the pub, he was a cop. Paddy here never became a cop, but he should have been, in Doyle’s opinion. Doyle has seen him defuse many a potentially explosive situation simply by walking up to the offenders and telling them how things are going to be. He is one of those people whose mere presence demands respect, even among those who wear a badge.
Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink.
Not a cop – check. Son of a cop who drank – check. In the company of drink now – check.
It all fits.
Doyle looks into the eyes of the big man behind the counter – eyes as blue as his own are green – and thinks, If I get this wrong, Paddy, if I fuck this up, then you are a dead man.
‘Cal?’ says Paddy. He already has a glass in one hand and the other on the Guinness pump-handle.
‘Yeah, sure,’ says Doyle, nodding for Paddy to pour him one out. He has no plans to drink it, but he also knows that he can’t sit there with an orange juice in front of him unless he wants to draw attention to himself.
Says Paddy, ‘You come straight from the House?’
Even talks like a cop, thinks Doyle.
‘Yeah,’ says Doyle. ‘There was some OT on offer. And with my daughter’s birthday coming up . . .’
‘I know what you mean. Grab it while you can. You never know what’s around the corner.’
Well, you certainly don’t, thinks Doyle.
They pass a few more pleasantries back and forth while the ancient art of Guinness-pouring is carried out in the proper leisurely fashion. Then Doyle says, ‘You got a newspaper back there, Paddy? I need some downtime.’
Paddy finds a New York Post and hands it across. ‘You find any good news in there, let me know.’
‘You’ll be the first,’ says Doyle, hoping that tomorrow’s edition won’t have Paddy’s face splashed all over it. Hoping even more that Paddy’s face doesn’t get splashed all over anything tonight.
Doyle carries his drink and his newspaper to a quiet spot at the end of the bar. Somewhere he can get a good view of anyone who comes near Paddy. He opens the newspaper, puts his hand up to the side of his face so that nobody can see what his eyes are really doing, and waits.
It’s the most awkward he has ever felt in a bar. Not drinking, but with a beautiful tall glass of black and white just demanding to be poured down his gullet. Not reading, but with an expanse of images and headlines tugging at his eyeballs for attention. And all this while trying to appear to be just another harmless customer winding down after a hard day at the office.
When Paddy looks across and catches his eye, Doyle hastily picks up his glass, raises it in a salute, and pushes his lips into the creamy foam. He takes the tiniest of sips, and when Paddy looks away, he puts the glass down again. The taste of the beverage on his tongue is sheer torture. He’s starting to think he should have ordered an OJ after all.
He is also thinking that maybe he should just let Paddy know what’s going on. Tell him to leave the bar now, go upstairs, and lock himself away in a room until midnight has come and gone. Until another day is here and Paddy is free to enjoy it and all the other days that will follow.
Except that he knows it won’t solve a thing. Because, despite what the caller said about midnight being the deadline, the killer could just try again later. Or maybe another night entirely. And Doyle can’t spend the rest of his midnights coming to Gilligan’s, even if he could permit himself to drink the beer. His only chance to catch the perp is to let him think he has a chance of completing his m
ission tonight. Which means that Paddy has to be kept out of the picture. He has to be unaware that his hours – or rather his minutes now – may be numbered.
It’s not an easy choice for Doyle. And he’s not sure that Paddy will ever forgive him.
He checks his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Only forty-five minutes to go.
Doyle allows his attention to wander from the bar. His gaze skips from table to table, from booth to booth. Everyone chilling. Alcohol-emboldened guys eyeing up girls. Girls discreetly flicking their own eyes toward their admirers. Cops exchanging stories about the job. Dirty jokes. Laughter. Nobody alone. Nobody looking like they have an appointment with death tonight. It’s all good.
It occurs to Doyle that this is a weird choice of location for a hit. Most of the cops he knows carry guns when they are off-duty. Even those who don’t take their service sidearms usually carry a smaller, lighter weapon. That’s potentially a lot of muzzles pointing at anyone who starts trouble in here.
Doyle slips a hand under his jacket. His fingers find the reassuring cold metal of his own Glock 19.
How the hell is he going to get away with it? he wonders. Does he even expect to survive?
But then this killer is one clever son of a bitch. He’s already proved that.
‘You sick or something?’
Doyle realizes that Paddy is talking to him. He doesn’t understand the question until he sees Paddy nod his head toward Doyle’s full glass.
‘It’s my second,’ says Doyle. ‘Terry just poured me one.’
Paddy stands there looking unconvinced. ‘Still not up to your usual standard. How am I going to turn a profit with you drinking at that rate?’
Doyle laughs, but when Paddy doesn’t turn away, he’s glad for the ring of his cellphone. He answers it and gives his name.
‘It’s me, Detective.’
‘Gonzo?’
‘Yeah. I’m still outside the apartment building, like you asked. Only I thought you should know: Dr Vasey has just come out the front door.’
Doyle glances at his watch again. Eleven-twenty.
‘He’s leaving? Which way’s he going?’
‘Heading west on Sixty-first.’
That’s not toward here, Doyle thinks. Where the hell’s he going?
The Helper (Callum Doyle 2) Page 11