Tonight it was real.
2
“You sure you don’t want a lawyer?”
Jack looked up at the 20th Precinct’s chief of detectives, Lieutenant Thomas Carruthers. Fortyish, wearing a rumpled suit and no tie – a thrown-on set of clothes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Every woman’s crystal ball dream. Jack’s nightmare.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Say it again. I want to make sure I’ve got it on the tape.”
Jack directed his voice toward the tape recorder sitting on the battered oak table between him and Carruthers.
“I’m sure I don’t want a lawyer. At least not yet.”
Jack did want a lawyer. Very badly. But he didn’t know any, at least any he could trust. And the first thing a lawyer would tell him was to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to do that. These cops thought he’d shot one of their own. Things could get nasty here at the precinct house if he clammed.
A nightmare. Booked, photographed, and worst of all, fingerprinted. He’d wanted to throw an epileptic fit when they’d coated his fingers in ink and began rolling the tips on that white card. But what would that do other than delay the inevitable?
With or without a lawyer he was screwed. If they didn’t get him for killing the cop, and if he wasn’t prosecuted for killing the guy with the shotgun, he’d still be up for possession of an unregistered firearm. Plus his cover would be permanently blown. Years of hiding in the cracks, of forging an existence in the interstices of society would be wiped away. And then the IRS would get involved, wondering why this man had no Social Security number. They’d begin investigating every nook and cranny of his entire 1040-less life.
And then the shit would really hit the fan.
Jack knew he was facing time. Hard time, soft time, state time, Fed time, it didn’t matter. He was going inside, no doubt for a long stretch.
Jack had sworn he’d never do time. And he wouldn’t.
“Good.” Carruthers spread a selection of Jack’s IDs on the table between them. “Maybe now you can tell me what’s all this bullshit?”
Jack stared at the contents of his wallet and felt the walls of the interrogation room close in. He said nothing.
“So who the hell are you?”
“The name’s Jack.”
“I gathered that.” He picked up the ID cards and shuffled through them. “Jack Berger, Jack Callahan, Jack Menella, Jack Jones” – Carruthers glanced up at him on that one – “and Jack Schwartz. So yeah, I guess your first name is Jack. But what’s the rest?”
“Jack will have to do, I’m afraid.”
Carruthers shot forward, leaning over the table, eyes ablaze.
“It won’t do at all, scumbag! One of our guys is in surgery fighting for his life and another’s a hostage and you’re up to your neck in it. So Jack ain’t gonna cut it!”
Jack didn’t flinch; gave back a glare of his own.
“If I hadn’t come by, Mr. Detective, your guy in surgery never would’ve made it to surgery. You’d still be scraping his brains off the street. But maybe I should’ve kept walking. If I had I wouldn’t be cuffed up here looking at you. Would you be happier if I’d done that? I know I would.”
Carruthers stared at Jack. For an instant, he seemed unsure of himself. As he opened his mouth to reply, another detective, a sergeant named Evans who’d been through a couple of times before, popped into the room again.
Evans had brought Jack into the interrogation room, and had been none too gentle getting him seated. A big guy – his jacket sleeves were tight – and Jack had no doubt that if it had been up to Evans he’d take Jack out in the nearest alley and kick him to death. Slowly.
But the cold light was gone from Evans’ eyes as he glanced Jack’s way on entering.
Carruthers stiffened at the sight of him.
“What’s up, Charlie? Any news?”
Evans shook his head. “Not really. Nothing bad, anyway. No more shots. The hostage team’s made phone contact. They’re trying to talk the guy down. Sounds really wired. Don’t worry, Tom. They’ll get him out.”
Carruthers nodded absently. “Yeah. How’s Carella?”
“Still in surgery as far as I know. Piacentino called from the One-eight. Says if there’s anything you need–”
“Tell him we’re okay, but thanks for asking.” After a pause, Carruthers said, “That it?”
“Nope. Got an ID on the dead guy. A prelim from the M.E. too.”
“So who is he?”
“You mean who was he. Abdul Khambatta, born Harvey Andrews. Out of Attica two months after a stretch for armed robbery. His sheet’s as long as my leg. One bad-news mother.”
“What’s the M.E. say?”
“No surprises. Single head shot. A pre-frag in the eye.”
Carruthers winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. M.E. said if the guy ever had any brains, you couldn’t prove it by him. Matches up with the three rounds left in our mystery man’s pop gun.”
Carruthers glanced at Jack. “Which isn’t registered, of course.”
“You got it.”
“How do we know the Semmerling belongs to him?”
“His prints are the only ones on it.”
“And the sawed-off?”
“Andrews’. ’Scuse me – Khambatta’s. Thing’s lousy with his prints.” He jerked a thumb at Jack. “I think we owe this guy.”
“Yeah? Maybe.”
Jack watched for some sign of relaxation from Carruthers but saw nothing. The lieutenant stayed wound tight as ever.
Carruthers said, “You ever meet anybody with five IDs who was straight, Charlie? If he’s not dirty on this he’s dirty on something else.”
“So?” Evans did not seem impressed.
“I want to know: Who is this guy?”
“Tell you one thing, Tom: His prints aren’t on file anywhere. And I mean anywhere.”
“How come I’m not surprised?”
“I got a better question,” Evans said. “How come you’re here and not over at Costin’s?”
Carruthers walked to the window and stared out at the night, saying nothing.
“I’ll take over at this end,” Evans said. “You should be there.”
Carruthers shook his head, still staring out the window.
“I’ll go nuts over there. The hostage team knows what to do. I’ll just get in the way, maybe even screw things up.”
“No you won’t. Why don’t–”
“Thanks, Charlie.” He turned and flashed him a tight smile. “I appreciate the thought, but let’s drop it. Okay?”
Evans shrugged. “Okay. But if you change your mind…”
Carruthers nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
When Evans was gone, Carruthers returned to the table, standing as he shifted through Jack’s IDs again.
“Prefragmented rounds? What’s the matter? You got something against wounding a guy?”
Jack said nothing. Truth was, he’d been loaded for indoor work. And in general, he didn’t like to have to shoot someone twice.
Suddenly Carruthers stiffened.
“I’ll be damned!” He picked up the IDs and flipped through them again. “Christ! It all fits!”
As Carruthers stared down at him, eyes wide, Jack felt his chest tighten, wondering what he’d found.
“Jesus! I always thought you were make believe. For years I’ve been catching a word here and there about this urban mercenary who hires out for all sorts of jobs, anything from kinda shady to out and out, down and dirty illegal. But when I ask about it, I get blank stares, dumb grins, and shrugs. So I figure it’s one of those urban myths, like the giant alligators in the sewers. But shit! You’re him! You’re that repairman guy!” He looked at the IDs. “Yeah – all Jacks. You’re Repairman Jack.”
Jack’s throat went dry, giving his voice a croaky sound.