The Helper by David Jackson Page B

your ass investigating this case? No you haven’t. That would be me. And all the evidence tells me that Patricia Sachs may in fact be alive and well. And that’s what I’ve told her
mother. No more, no less.’
    Doyle pulls Mrs Sachs’s photograph from his pocket and slaps it down on the desk. ‘This your evidence?’
    Repp glances at it, says nothing.
    ‘How long did it take you to fake that?’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘It’s a phony, Travis. Dozens of people all walking in the same direction, all looking where they’re going. All, that is, except one. How come she’s the only one who
finds your photographer so interesting?’
    Repp waggles his jaw again. ‘We have ways. Tricks to attract attention. Anyhow, I didn’t take this; it was one of my operatives.’
    ‘Neat trick, singling out one member of a crowd to look your way. Do Penn and Teller know about you? Where’d you get the headshot, Travis? From a corporate brochure? That looks to me
like the face of somebody posing for a portrait. Neat cut and paste job, though, making it all grainy like that just to add the right element of doubt.’
    Repp is quiet for a good ten seconds. ‘You finished? Because like I say, I got work to do.’
    Doyle takes back the photo and stands up. ‘Finish it, Travis. Tell Mrs Sachs what she needs to hear about her daughter, and then leave her be. I don’t want to have to come back, and
I’m sure you don’t want me back either.’
    On the way out, Doyle receives a smile from the secretary. He gets the impression she really enjoyed listening to her boss being told what to do.
    The worry returns with a vengeance once Doyle is back at his desk. The visit to Repp was a nice distraction, but it hasn’t gotten him any nearer to catching the killer
that only he knows is of the serial variety. The weight on his mind is so intense it feels as though his brain is about to burst.
    An hour later he sees Cesario heading toward his office. Cesario glances across, as if to say,
Ready when you are, Doyle. Whenever you feel like unburdening yourself . . .
    Doyle starts to rise from his chair, ready to pursue Cesario. He hasn’t rehearsed this. Doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to say. The only thing he does know is that
he’s about to be crucified for revealing the truth at such a late stage. But it has to be worth it. If it might improve the chances of saving somebody’s life, does he really have any
alternative?
    The phone on his desk rings. He looks at it, trying to decide whether to answer it or to follow through with his decision to see Cesario. Out of the corner of his eye he notices another cop
looking at him, wondering why he’s hesitating.
    He sits down again, answers the phone.
    ‘Doyle.’
    ‘Cal? It’s Marcus, downstairs. I got someone here says he wants to see you. Won’t say what his business is, though. Won’t give his name neither.’
    Marcus Wilson is the desk sergeant. The station house’s huge black gatekeeper. Three months after Doyle arrived at the Eighth, Wilson took over the desk from the previous sergeant –
a man named Hanrahan. Whereas Hanrahan didn’t even notice half the people who walked past him, Wilson rapidly gained a reputation as a man who was not beyond making visitors strip naked if he
thought it was necessary to get them to prove they were harmless.
    ‘What’s he look like?’ Doyle asks.
    ‘Geeky-looking kid with red hair and a squeaky voice. Acts like something’s missing upstairs, if you know what I mean.’
    Shit, thinks Doyle. What the . . .
    ‘Keep him there. I’ll be right down.’
    Doyle ends the call and heads for the stairs. Cesario will have to wait.
    When he gets down to the first floor, Wilson looks at him, then directs his gaze toward the waiting zone opposite his desk. Gonzo is sitting between two doped-up hookers and looking petrified
that he’s about to have his virginity snatched away from him. He holds a black cloth bag firmly on his