Free The Helper by David Jackson

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