The Helper

SIX

The first thing Doyle does on Sunday morning is break his promise.

What was that he said to Rachel last night? Something about making it up to Amy, wasn’t it? And is he making it up to Amy? No. Because while Amy is trying to tell him all about what life is like in her small world, mixing with all kinds of small people doing small things that seem oh so immense to her, her father is just grunting at her while he tries to concentrate on the local news stories on the television. Grunting so often, in fact, that she eventually gets the message and gives up and requests the cartoon channel for its greater intellectual challenge.

The news programs continue to demand his attention on the journey to work too. Early Sunday morning is the one time of the week when driving to the precinct station house is a comparative breeze, and so he knows when he finally gets there that he has listened closely to every local story deemed noteworthy enough to be broadcast without listeners wondering what the fuck they are being told this for. And guess what? A murder in Manhattan did not figure among them. A councilman fracturing his toe — that made it in. A woman suing her cosmetic surgeon for botching an enhancement job on her buttocks — that made it in too. But homicide? Uh-uh. Not in this city, buddy.

At his desk he reflects on this. What does it mean? Either butt-jobs have leaped ahead of homicides on the scale of what matters most to people these days, or else there was no killing last night. The caller got it wrong. And if he got that wrong, then the stuff about the diary is probably bullshit too. In fact, Doyle thinks he can probably disregard everything that was said by that cuckoo and get back to worrying about poor old Mrs Sachs.

There is, of course, one other possibility. .

The call comes through at ten-forty.

‘Detective Doyle. Eighth Precinct.’

‘Hey, Doyle. This is Lopez up at the Two-Seven. Sorry to bother you, but we caught a weird one here, and your name came up.’

Doyle feels his insides drop into his shoes. Even without the details, he knows this is his worst fears coming true.

‘My name? Why? What’s the case?’

‘Homicide. A woman crushed between two cars on West 107th Street.’

‘You sure? That it’s a homicide, I mean? Not some kind of freaky accident?’

‘Nah, it was deliberate all right. According to the ME, she was rammed twice.’

‘Jesus, what a way to go. You got any wits?’

He’s thinking there has to be a witness. Surely you can’t make a vehicle sandwich on the streets of New York like that without somebody seeing something?

‘Nope. Nobody that’s come forward so far, anyhow. There are no occupied buildings near where it happened, and it was four o’clock in the morning.’

‘Four a.m.? There was nothing on the news about it.’

‘Body wasn’t discovered until seven-thirty. A woman jogging back from Central Park stopped for a rest and saw a foot underneath one of the vehicles. Then she took a closer look and found the foot-bone was connected to the leg-bone, and she heard the word of the Lord. Thing is, she’d already passed it on her way to the park and thought nothing of it. Just two mashed-up cars, looked like. My guess is other people walked past it too and thought the same thing. Who’s gonna call the cops for something like that, right?’

Doyle finds himself nodding in agreement. He knows that many people wouldn’t have called the cops even after they’d discovered the body.

‘I still don’t get how it went down. What was this woman doing out on the street at four in the morning?’

‘Yeah, that got us too. Especially when we find the woman’s wallet and learn she lives over in Brooklyn and works on the East Side. We contact the husband, deliver the bad news, wait for the crying to stop, then ask him the same question. Only he has absolutely no idea what she was doing there either. So we start knocking on doors, and eventually we find a guy in one of the apartment buildings farther along the street. Turns out she’s having an affair with him. A regular thing, apparently. She tells her husband she’s pulling a double shift, then goes and pulls something else over at this younger dude’s place.’

‘Still doesn’t explain how she ended up getting squashed.’

‘No. That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? How?’

‘Reason we know she was killed at four was that she got a call on her cellphone when she was in the apartment. She told the boyfriend about it. He says it was a cop, or someone pretending to be a cop, telling her that her husband had been locked up for drunkenness, and could she come take him home. The boyfriend thinks the cop called himself Boyle, or maybe Doyle, at the Eighth Precinct.’

Doyle finds himself shaking his head. The sheer deviousness of that bastard.

‘Shit, Lopez. I don’t know what I can tell you.’

‘That’s okay. I didn’t expect nothing. Whoever did this probably just picked your name at random off a list. I just needed to check it out, okay? You know, tick the boxes.’

‘Sure, no problem. You look at the husband for this?’

He asks because it’s an obvious question. Cuckolded husband doing away with his cheating bitch of a wife — it’s one of the oldest reasons under the sun. But deep in his gut, Doyle knows it’s not the story here.

‘Natch. The boyfriend too. Both of them look safe right now, but we’re digging. CSU are checking out the SUV used in the hit. It’s stolen, but maybe we’ll get some useful forensics. Anyways, Doyle, thanks for the input. Now I’ve crossed you off I can get on with something useful.’

A thought occurs to Doyle. A question. He’s not sure he wants the answer, but it tumbles out of his mouth nevertheless.

‘Anything you can give me on the DOA?’ Then, so as not to seem as though he has a pressing need for this, he adds, ‘Just so I can make sure I don’t have a connection to her.’

There’s a pause, during which Doyle thinks he’s been rumbled. But then Lopez comes back at him.

‘Her name is Lorna Bonnow. She’s a nurse at Bellevue. That strum any chords with you?’

And now Doyle really is wishing he hadn’t asked that question. Because yes, there is a huge fucking orchestra in his skull right now. His mind is pouncing on Lopez’s words, tearing at them for meaning, and they’re telling him what a complete fucking idiot he has been.

‘Doyle? You still there, man?’

‘Uh, yeah, sorry — there’s somebody else trying to talk to me here. No, I never heard of her.’

‘Okay. For a minute there I thought you were going to tell me it was you who aced her. Catch you later, Doyle.’

He hangs up. Doyle puts the phone down without knowing he’s doing it.

Shit.

Shit!

What was it his anonymous little helper said to him?

What actions you take will determine whether the second person dies or just ends up somewhere like Bellevue.

Doyle had taken that to mean the victim would end up either dead or severely hurt. But it didn’t mean that. Not at all. It meant: if you act on this information in time, the target will make it back into Bellevue.

Because that’s where she works, you dick!

It was all there in the phone conversation, wasn’t it?

By the way, Cal, how are the nightmares these days? About you and. . oh, what’s her name? Lorna? No, Laura.

That was no slip of the tongue. He’s too clever for that. No, he was giving out her first name. Lorna.

And the surname? That was the cleverest thing of all, you sneaky bastard.

Bonnow. Sounds like Bono. Lead singer of U2. Playing loud and clear in the background during the call.

Lorna Bonnow who works in Bellevue. I had all the information I needed to save her, thinks Doyle. I just didn’t know it. And so she died.

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.

Shit!

And it gets worse. Because now I’m the only person other than the killer who knows there’s a link between these two deaths. And I can’t say anything. It’s too late for that.

What, do I go to the boss and say, ‘Hey, Lou, you know that homicide up in the Two-Seven? Well, that was done by the same guy who whacked the bookstore girl. How do I know this? He told me he was going to do it. Practically gave me her name and everything. Thought you might want to know that. How about you put me in for that promotion now?’

Sure, that’ll work.

And if I say nothing? If other detectives don’t figure out the link?

Can I stand by and let that happen?

Shit and double shit.

This all feels a little underhand. Coming here like this without telling Holden or anyone else involved in the case. But he has to know. He has to find out.

Cindy Mellish’s mother lives in a three-story walk-up above a women’s clothing store on Thompson Street. What they call a mixed-use building. When she opens the door she looks like she has cried several years’ worth of tears. The life has gone from her — from her bloodshot eyes, her body, and even her hair. She’s an empty shell. When Doyle flashes the tin, she doesn’t even bother to look at it. She just pushes the door open wide, then turns and walks back into the apartment.

When Doyle follows her into the living room, he notices how clean and tidy the place is. He bets there isn’t a speck of dirt or dust left in here. He pictures her moving from room to room, cloth in hand, trying to distract herself with work while the tears run down her face.

‘Mrs Mellish,’ he begins. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. This won’t take long. There’s just a coupla questions-’

‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she says.

Doyle wonders if she’s heard any of his words.

‘No. You haven’t. I’m just helping out on the case. Do you mind if-’

‘What was your name again?’

He had given it at the door, but he obliges nonetheless.

‘Doyle. Detective Callum Doyle. I just need a little information from you. Would that be okay?’

Silence. For what seems to Doyle like a full minute. He is beginning to think it was a mistake coming here, intruding into her grief. It’s too early. She needs more time.

But he needs to know.

‘Will you catch them?’ she says finally. ‘Whoever did this to my daughter. Will you catch them?’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Doyle answers. ‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise you.’

She gives a slight nod, then stares at the carpet. Doyle waits what he thinks is a decent length of time before he tries again.

‘Mrs Mellish, do you know-’

‘Why?’

For a second, Doyle is flummoxed.

‘Excuse me?’ he says.

‘Why do you think he did it? Killing her in the way he did. So savagely, I mean. Why would he do that to her? I keep asking myself that question. What sort of bad thing could Cindy have done to anyone that would make them think she deserved this in return?’

Doyle shakes his head. ‘Cindy didn’t deserve it. It just. . happened. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Please don’t go thinking this was any fault of Cindy’s. The only person to blame here is her murderer.’

She nods again and returns her gaze to the carpet. Doyle knows she is trying to make sense of something which defies reason. We all do it, he thinks. When something terrible happens in our lives, we want to know why. Sometimes it can be hard to accept that there are no answers.

When he begins his question again, he half expects another interruption, and so he pushes his words out in one fast burst: ‘Mrs Mellish, do you know if Cindy kept a diary?’

She raises her head, and Doyle is convinced he sees a flicker of puzzlement and interest in her eyes.

‘I. . A diary? I don’t think so. No.’

No. So that’s it, then. The caller was wrong. There is no diary. What a fucking waste of time and effort this little trip has turned out to be. And from the looks of her, it hasn’t done Mrs Mellish any favors either.

‘Why?’ she asks.

For a moment Doyle thinks she is continuing her quest for philosophical answers he is not equipped to supply, but then she adds, ‘Why do you ask about a diary?’

He realizes now that he has stirred all kinds of possibilities in her mind. Perhaps even jostled some expectations to the surface. A detective schlepping all the way over here to ask about something as specific as a diary? That has to be important, right? That has to signify a lead of some kind, right?

I should get outta here, thinks Doyle. This is wrong.

‘Girls this age, sometimes they keep journals. Sometimes they put stuff in there they might not tell anybody else about, you know? Thoughts they’ve had, people they’ve met, things that have happened to them. It can help us build a picture.’

And now he can see a light returning to those sad eyes. She is latching onto this. Making it into something more than the nothing it probably is. Perhaps there are answers here, she is thinking. Perhaps there is meaning.

‘You think this was done by somebody she knew?’ she asks.

He catches the incredulity infused into that last word, and he knows he has to move quickly to stop her joining dots which aren’t in sequence.

‘No. I’m not saying that at all. We don’t know if she met her killer before or not. All I want to do right now is learn a little more about Cindy. Maybe it’ll help.’

He hates the fact that he’s hiding things from her, that he’s pretending this is all on his own initiative. Hates it even more that he’s leading this woman down paths she has no reason to navigate.

Can it, Doyle. Shut the fuck up and leave now.

He says, ‘But if you say there’s no diary, then. .’

‘I. .’ she starts, and Doyle catches her glance at one of the doors. Unlike the other doors, this one is firmly shut.

Cindy’s bedroom, he realizes. She probably can’t bear to go back in there. She has cleaned every nook and cranny in this apartment. But not in there. Opening that door breaks the spell. Shatters the illusion that Cindy is still in there, listening to music or reading a book. Or just being alive.

‘She writes,’ says Mrs Mellish. ‘Wrote. A lot. Ever since she was little. Always scribbling in her notebooks. Poetry mostly. Some stories. But a diary. .’

Doyle waits. Part of him wants to ask if he can search the room. Another part insists this is bullshit. This is all a part of the killer’s sick game: sending him here to push this poor woman to her breaking point.

‘If you want to take a look,’ she says, ‘it’d be okay. If you think it’ll help. Just. . don’t mess it up, okay?’

He nods. ‘I’ll be careful.’

When he moves toward the room she doesn’t follow him. When he opens the door, he hears her footsteps moving away. She doesn’t want to look in here. Not yet.

It’s a cozy, welcoming room. Tidy but full. The bed is made, and a baby-pink dressing gown lies along the bottom of it. A white bra hangs from one of the bedposts. There is a table with a mirror and a large array of make-up items. On one side of the room is a line of cheap white storage units. They comprise a tall closet and a row of low-level units interrupted by a recess with a chair pushed into it. The counter running above these units supports a music system and speakers, racks of CDs and DVDs, lots of cuddly toys, a hairdryer, straightening tongs, a stack of magazines, an electric fan. On the wall above are several posters of actors and pop stars. On the other side of the room is a row of bookcases. Cindy Mellish read a lot of books.

Doyle takes a deep breath. He can smell perfume. He wonders why it’s familiar, then realizes it hung on the air in the bookstore too.

He moves closer to the bookcases. Fiction, poetry and biography mostly. Nothing trashy. No bodice-rippers for this girl. On the bottom shelves are Cindy’s notebooks. All different sizes, different colors. Doyle sits cross-legged on the thickly carpeted floor, pulls out the first book, and turns the cover.

What he sees on that first page is a poem entitled ‘Life Without End’. He starts to read it, but gives up after six lines. He turns the page, finds another poem called ‘Nobody Hears Me’. Doesn’t bother to read this one. He flicks through the rest of the book, finds more of the same. Occasionally a doodle leaps out at him, but to Doyle’s eye the artistry is as bad as the poetry. He wonders whether it’s him just not getting this arty stuff, then decides no, it really is that amateurish.

He moves on to the next book, then the next, and the next. More poetry, more doodles. He chances across a short story called ‘Freud’s Ghost’, reads the whole thing through and decides that either it wasn’t finished, or else it was finished and the point of it has totally escaped him.

He speeds up his search then. Pull out a book, riffle through its pages, put it back. He gets all the way to the end of the shelf. Nothing. No diary. Nothing whatsoever about the events of her life save for what may be lurking in the depths of her prose and poetry. And he’s already decided it’s beyond his ability to tease that out.

He gets to his feet. He scans the spines of every book on the shelves, just to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He goes to the storage units and opens each one. He finds clothes, bags, shoes, more cuddly toys, but no diary. He tries all the drawers of the make-up table. Hair pins, jewelry, perfume bottles, tissues, shopping receipts, tampons.

But no fucking diary.

Doyle takes another look around. He tries the not-so-obvious places. Under the pillow, under the mattress, under the bed. Behind drawers. Inside bags and purses. Slipped behind other books.

Nothing.

And now he’s pissed off. Now he feels like he’s being jerked around.

He leaves the bedroom. Mrs Mellish is sitting at a table, doing nothing. She stands when she sees Doyle.

‘I think you were right,’ he tells her. ‘I can’t find a diary.’

He is convinced he sees disappointment on her face. When he abandons her in this apartment she will have nothing but her grief again. He starts to reach into his jacket for a card with his number on it. ‘I tell you what-’

The phone rings then. Mrs Mellish says, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and goes to answer it. Her conversation is brief, and then she turns to Doyle.

‘It’s for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. A man. He says he’s got that help you wanted from him.’