not?’
‘What I think is that I’m getting too old. My mind, it doesn’t function like it used to. It’s like it’s given up thinking about things that are too hard or too upsetting. Now, it’s just willing to believe whatever comes its way. I rely on other people now to tell me what is true and what is false. Tell me, did you go to see Mr Repp?’
‘Yes, I met with him.’
‘And what did you think? Does he seem reputable to you?’
Doyle’s thoughts are that he wouldn’t put it past Repp to take the last dime from a blind beggar, but he doesn’t say so. He had hoped his little visit to Repp would have been sufficient to scare him back onto the path of the righteous, at least as far as his relationship with Mrs Sachs was concerned.
‘I didn’t get to know him real well. Tell you what, why don’t I go see him again, see if I can offer him a little police help to track down Patricia?’
She smiles again, and this time it looks to Doyle as though her watery eyes are ready to overflow.
‘Thank you, Detective. You don’t know how much this means to me.’
Doyle wonders how much it will mean to her to discover that her daughter really did suffer a terrible fiery fate in the Twin Towers. He makes a mental note to advise Repp in the strongest terms that he will need to let her down gently — so gently she doesn’t shatter.
He helps the old lady out of her chair and sees her out of the squadroom. Before he can retake his seat, his cellphone rings. He looks at the screen. No caller ID. He presses the button to kill the call. Fuck you, he thinks. I ain’t playing. This game is over.
It reminds him that there’s work to be done on the homicides. Now that he’s got the lieutenant’s consent to push ahead, he can investigate properly, unfettered by a need to keep things to himself.
You’re mine, you sonofabitch, he thinks. It’s only a matter of time.
Not again.
This is starting to get annoying.
Doyle gets to his car, reaches for the door handle, and — surprise! — he’s there again. At his side like a faithful dog welcoming home its master.
Just don’t start humping my leg, he thinks.
‘Gonzo, what the hell are you doing here? Did you spend your whole lunch hour just waiting out here in case I should show?’
Gonzo scratches his head and puts on a pained expression. Like he’s just been asked to solve the riddle of the origin of the universe.
‘Well, yeah. I needed to speak with you.’
‘Why didn’t you just call me on my cell?’
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You know, while you’re working. I know how busy you are. I know how important your cases are. I thought I’d wait until you take a lunch break.’
Doyle sighs. ‘Get in the car.’
They both get into what seems to have become Doyle’s makeshift private office.
‘What is it, Gonzo?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You wait outside my building for an hour, and you don’t know why you want to see me?’
‘I. . I just needed to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About. .’ He waves his arms wildly, causing Doyle to duck. ‘About all this. I’m not used to this kind of thing, you know.’
‘You need counseling? Maybe you should go see a shrink.’
Gonzo glares at him. ‘That’s not funny, Detective Doyle. What I witnessed last night was traumatic. It may have affected my mental stability for the rest of my life.’
You mean, Doyle wonders, it can get quirkier than this?
‘What do you want me to say, Gonzo? I didn’t ask you to put a constant watch on Vasey. In fact, I don’t recall asking you to get involved in this at all. All I wanted was for you to find one lousy thing on a computer. How did that develop into you becoming the city’s secret protector?’
‘I’m not trying to be a superhero. Or even a cop. I’m just trying to help. I sit over there in 1PP, looking at computer screens day after day. Except for Lonnie and a few of the other guys, I hardly see a soul. And the only reason they talk to me is when they need me to look at a computer. I never go out of the building. When you came in and asked me to look for that diary, I thought here we go again. One more request to add to the pile. But when it became obvious that you had reasons for keeping it under wraps, I thought this was my chance to prove that I’m more than just a brainy guy who knows about computers. That’s all. I was just trying to be of assistance.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ve had my fill of people trying to push help on me lately. Maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
They lapse into silence. Both staring out of the car windows, watching the people walk by.
Doyle’s phone rings again. He takes it out of his pocket. No caller ID, so he kills it, scowling as he does so.
He notices that Gonzo is watching him, additional puzzlement on his permanently bewildered features.
Doyle doesn’t want to get into it, so he throws out a random thought: ‘Why do they call you Gonzo, anyhow?’
The pained expression again.
‘I forget.’
‘So what’s your real name?’
Gonzo thinks some more.
‘I forget.’
Doyle can’t help himself then. He cracks up. He knows it’s probably doing untold damage to this individual’s fragile mental state, but the absurdity of it all just keeps hammering the laughter out of him.
And when he looks again at Gonzo, he sees that he too is wearing a smile. At last, a point of agreement. A small meeting of minds which interpret the world in very different ways.
Says Doyle, ‘What you saw last night? Try to put it out of your mind. We’re working on it. We’ll catch whoever did that.’
Gonzo nods, says nothing.
‘You want me to drop you off at the Big House?’
‘No. Thanks. I’m good.’ He opens the car door. ‘Do me a favor, will you, Detective? If you ever need a little job doing — I mean, nothing too dangerous or anything — do you think maybe you could consider me?’
‘Sure, kid. You’ll be top of my list.’
And then Gonzo closes the door and is gone. Back to his lab. Back to his computers. Back to his lonely little existence.
SIXTEEN
The office is as dead as it was last time. Doyle half expects to see tumbleweed rolling by, driven by a whistling wind. He thinks the girl here must get bored out of her skull. Although she seems to have no trouble finding things to keep herself occupied. Her own appearance, mainly. Today she has moved on from her nails and is concentrating on her hair. Maybe tomorrow she’ll shave her legs. She looks sidelong into a small mirror set up on her desk while she pecks her fingers at her blond strands, teasing them into order. When she notices Doyle walk in, she shows him how perfect her teeth are.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You’re that cop guy, right?’
‘Yeah, I’m the cop guy. Is your boss in?’
