The Helper by David Jackson Page A

saying, ‘Let me speak to him, Marty . . . No, just put him on
the goddamned phone, will ya?’
    The girl tilts her nail file toward the door and states the obvious: ‘He’s on the phone just now.’
    ‘No problem,’ says Doyle, and heads into Repp’s office.
    Travis Repp is lounging back in his executive chair, trying to look executive. Sharp blue suit and skinny tie. Gold rings on his fingers. Big flashy wristwatch. Blond hair flopping low over his
forehead. He gives Doyle the once-over, but seems uninterested. He raises a finger, instructing Doyle to wait while he continues his phone call. Doesn’t even offer him a seat.
    ‘Mr Uterus . . . I’m sorry, Mr Yurtis. I misheard my colleague . . . Yes, I know what you told him, but I assure you that we can offer a better service than any of our competitors .
. .’
    Doyle sighs and flashes the tin again. Repp glances at it, gives Doyle a look that says,
So what?
Then resumes his conversation.
    ‘Yes, Mr Yurtis . . . Manpower? Of course we do. I have a whole team of investigators here that I can call on if necessary . . .’
    Doyle looks around the empty office and wonders where they’re all hiding. He decides he’s had enough of this, and that Mr Yurtis could probably do with a break too. He leans forward
and announces his presence like he’s about to raid the joint.
    ‘Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct.’
    Repp clamps his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Jesus! What do you think you’re doing? You wanna put me out of business here?’ He speaks into the phone again. ‘Mr Yurtis,
I’m sorry about . . . Hello? Mr Yurtis?’
    He slams the handset down and glares at Doyle. ‘Great. You know you probably just cost me that gig? What is it with you?’
    ‘Something we need to discuss.’ Doyle gestures toward a chair. ‘You mind?’
    ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ He makes a show of looking at his watch. ‘Is this gonna take long? Because I’m kinda busy.’
    ‘Yeah, I saw the long line of people waiting outside. But I guess if you share them out among all your other investigators here . . .’
    ‘Hey! This is business. This is how you do things when you gotta fight tooth and nail for every buck, instead of just sitting there waiting for your share of the taxpayers’ money to
land in your account every month. Now don’t you got criminals to catch or something?’
    ‘Is why I’m here,’ says Doyle. He doesn’t like Repp. He came here thinking he might be able to reason with the man. His inclination now is to take the secretary’s
nail file and rasp this prick’s fingers down to the bone.
    ‘Meaning what?’ Repp asks.
    ‘You have a client. Mrs Sachs.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mrs Sachs. A sweet old lady who lost her daughter on 9/11.’
    Repp moves his jaw from side to side. ‘So?’
    Doyle can see that he’s already rattled.
    ‘I need you to tell her the truth. I need you to tell her that her daughter’s dead.’
    ‘You’re obviously a very needy person, Detective . . .’
    ‘Doyle.’
    ‘Detective Doyle. But I have to act in the best interests of my client. I can’t go making shit up just to please you. What is this, anyhow? Is this an official police investigation,
or is it personal? Could it be you got the hots for Mrs Sachs?’
    Doyle sighs again. ‘How much have you fleeced her for, so far?’
    ‘I haven’t fleeced nobody. Mrs Sachs is a client. She’s paying me for a service. A service I think I do pretty damn well, as it happens. I’m a licensed private
investigator with an impeccable record. You want to start casting aspersions, take it up with my lawyers.’
    ‘I’m taking it up with you, Travis. Patricia Sachs is dead. I know it and you know it, and now her mother needs to know it too. And you’re the one who has to break it to
her.’
    Repp waves his arms wildly like he’s about to have an epileptic fit. ‘Who says she’s dead? Do you know that? Do you know it for certain? No, you don’t. Have you busted