“I’m not finding your security guard credentials,” Jake said. Calm. Pleasant. Oddly, it would be a lot easier if Hewlitt was a reasonable suspect. They could take him downtown, do a full workup, and it wouldn’t be Jake’s final call whether to let him go. If his status was iffy, Jake could reasonably err on the side of caution.
“I’m not a security guard,” Hewlitt said.
“You’re-?” The last thing Jake expected him to say.
“What’s more, I never said I was a security guard.”
“Hell, you didn’t-” DeLuca began.
“Sir?” Jake began to feel the confidence, the calming of the nerve endings that came with making the correct decision. He’d gone by the book, he’d looked for ID, he’d discovered a discrepancy in what the suspect had told him. Bang. That put the big guy in the back of the cruiser.
“I said-” Hewlitt’s shoulders rose, then fell. Jake didn’t like the look on his face. “I said I worked at a security company. As a matter of fact, I own the security company. Hewlitt Security. I’m out of business cards, but if you’d like to press speed dial one-one on my cell phone, feel free. That’ll call my office. In fact, please do it. They’re probably beginning to wonder where I am.”
DeLuca pulled a black cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, offered it to Jake. Jake waved it away.
“However, Detective,” Hewlitt went on. “If you’d like to call speed dial eight-eight?-which is what I’d prefer-you’ll be calling my lawyer. Might as well. You’ll be talking to her soon enough.”
“Hey! Jake, shadow at your six o’clock!” DeLuca’s stance changed, his eyes narrowed, his hand hovered over his weapon again.
Jake pivoted, followed his partner’s instruction. Saw the shadow. Saw someone coming toward them. Holding something.
“Freeze!” DeLuca yelled. “Police!”
“What’s going on?” Hewlitt backed against the wall, lowered himself to a crouch.
“Police!” Jake drew his Glock. Pointed it at the shadow. “Drop it!”
12
Jane steadied herself, trailing her fingers against the brick wall as she rounded what she figured must be the last curve in the alley. Whose idea was this? Hers, she had to admit. Bobby was already out of sight. If anyone were back in the dead end, waiting, she’d see them in about two seconds.
Voices. Yelling. Police? Someone yelled “Police!” Jake? Sounded-did it?-like Jake. Or was someone calling for the police? Calling for help?
She skidded to a stop, tucked her body behind a chugging black air-conditioning unit. One heel twisted in the rock shards between the bumpy cobbles, and she fell hard, yanked off balance, landing on her bare knee. Camera still rolling.
“Jane!” Bobby’s voice. Calling for her.
Or warning her? She felt her stomach clench, felt the tension of the decision she needed to make, and make right now. Should she turn, run, get help? Or at least get away? Bobby had told her two plainclothes cops were down here, so it must be safe. Right? Unless he’d been wrong and they weren’t two plainclothes cops, they were simply two guys. And with who knew what agenda.
She stared across the empty alley, trying to assess. A man had been stabbed to death not a block from here. The cops were clearly looking for the bad guy. But what if the cops had followed the bad guy down this alley, and now they were also dead, and Bobby had run right into their-
Go. She turned away, ready to head for the safety of the park and the multitude of police. But wait-leave Bobby? Who the hell was he, anyway? A street kid she’d instantly believed?
The yelling had stopped, but still there were voices, only lower. The air-conditioning unit kicked on, vibrating against her shoulder, making it impossible to make out words. Her scraped knee was bleeding, lovely, and she couldn’t quiet her pounding heart.
“Jane! It’s okay!” Bobby’s voice again.
Footsteps. Coming toward her. They crunched in the gravel of the cobblestones, walking deliberately. Not running.
She closed her eyes. Just two choices now. She could run. Or she could wait. But she could no longer hide. She opened her eyes.
“Jane!”
Jake.
Jane?
Jane. In high heels and a black suit, hiding behind a rusting air conditioner in a filthy back alley a block away from a murder.
Jake attempted to keep the top of his head from blowing off. He’d left a still-complaining Hewlitt in the care of DeLuca. They ordered the paparazzi kid with the camera-what if they’d shot him?-to stay put. The kid had insisted that Jane Ryland, the reporter for Channel 2, was following him down the alley. But Jake knew Jane wasn’t a reporter anymore, for Channel 2 or anyone else. So this kid was full of crap.
“Holy shit, Jane, what the hell’re you doing?”
“Getting up,” she said. “What’re you doing?”
She hauled herself to her feet, one hand clutching a metal handle on the side of the air conditioner, the other holding some device. Her suit jacket flapped open, T-shirt grubby with dust and smeared with black stuff, her hair half out of its ponytail, her tote bag strapped across her body. One knee was bleeding, Jake saw, making a narrow red trickle down her bare leg.
“You okay?” He gestured toward her knee.
She looked down, licked a finger, and wiped away the blood. “Just a flesh wound,” she said. “Cobblestone attack.”
“Jane?”
“Yeah?” She was smiling as if this wasn’t absurd.
“You realize this is ridiculous? Having this conversation? There’s a paparazzi kid, showed up with a camera, insisted he’s with you. I almost shot him, for God’s sake. What the holy hell are you doing back here?”
Uh-oh. He knew that expression. Jane had something to tell him, and he wasn’t going to like it.
“Jane? I’m serious. There’s been a crime committed. We’re looking for a suspect. I don’t have time for-”
“I know, Jake. It’s complicated.” She paused, seemed to be considering again, then held up the device in her hand. “Detective Brogan? You’re looking for a suspect? Can you tell us what happened in Curley Park?”
“Is that a camera, too? Are you fre-” Jake paused, trying to sort this out. She had a camera and was asking questions. Why? Whatever the reason, anything he said was about to be recorded, and that meant he needed to evaluate everything that came out of his mouth. He’d started to say, “Are you freaking kidding me?” then stopped. He narrowed his eyes, shading them from the sun with one hand. Jane still pointed that thing at him. “Ms. Ryland? Are you here in a capacity as a reporter?”
She lowered the camera. “Yeah, actually. I am. Listen, Jake? I have some pretty interesting news, but I promise I won’t shoot what you say, okay? See? Camera’s down? The paparazzi kid told me he’d seen two cops, I guess one of them was you, running after someone. So I figured I’d-I mean, were you running after someone? Was that the person in the ambulance? What happened?”
“Are you asking as you? Or as a reporter?”
Her face changed again. “I work for Channel 2. For now, at least.”
“Jake!” his radio crackled in his back pocket. “Get back here!”
“Crap,” Jake said. He turned toward the dead end, where he’d left DeLuca, Hewlitt, and the kid. If the kid was somehow in cahoots with Hewlitt-could that be?-there’d be a damn three-ring circus about to go down.