The two detectives exchanged quick looks, Jake wondering if the expression on his own face was as baffled as D’s. Both had instantly pointed their weapons straight at the man in the alley, the V of their arms aiming right at his center mass.
“Take him, D,” Jake said. His Glock stayed rock steady. The man was big, tough looking-rugby player, maybe. Something in his eyes didn’t seem like fear. “Now, sir? You get up, hands in the air, nice and slow. You budge, you bolt, you’re done.”
In the brick-walled cul-de-sac at the back of Franklin Alley, they’d found this guy, kneeling square on the back of another man, that one smaller, his sinewy arms sticking out from a white T-shirt. The guy underneath was face-planted in the concrete and gravel, arms splayed, not moving. His face was turned toward Jake, his eyes closed. Was he faking? Dead? How? Why? Who were these two?
“Listen, listen, it’s all good. About time you cops got here.” The man on top kept one bent knee on the middle of the man’s back, the other on the pavement, balancing. Now he was gesturing Jake and D closer. “I’m Calvin Hewlitt, I’m in security, and I heard the yelling, and saw this guy running-running. Not sure if I could have held this bozo when he comes to. He fought me like a-anyway.”
His face bloomed red, red as his hair, his nose and ears flushed, sweat darkening his pale blue shirt. Breathing hard.
“I said up.” Jake kept the Glock aimed. What was this freaking guy doing? “Hands in the air, Hewlitt. Then freeze.”
Hewlitt stood, one foot at a time, pushing himself up from the pavement, brushed a few pebbles from his hands and knees. Most rolled across the concrete, but one bounced onto the back of the “victim.” The guy lay still. Not a fidget, not a twitch.
Jake’s weapon was just as motionless.
Was that guy dead? The second victim of the Curley Park stabber? Or the stabber himself? Jake had to secure the scene ASAP, get this balance of power back for the good guys. Hewlitt looked like some average run-of-the-street moke-security guard, had he said? But who knew what a killer looked like.
“No blood on his shirt,” D muttered as Hewlitt got to his feet.
“Maybe he ditched a jacket,” Jake said.
No time for surprises now, no time for tricks, no time for seemingly dead guys to come back to life, maybe come back shooting.
Hewlitt eyed Jake, up then down, pointed to the guy. “Must have hit his head on the pavement when I brought him down. But as you can see, he’s-”
“I. Said. Freeze,” Jake repeated. “Right now. You do not move. You do not talk. And I said, hands in the air. Not in your pockets. Now.”
Jake had to keep his eyes on two people at the same time. Was one a killer? What if both of them were? Was this guy talking to distract him? D could cuff only one person at a time, and Jake couldn’t afford to let down his guard. Or his weapon.
The redhead-thirtyish, Jake assessed, civilized haircut, okay shoes. Not a street thug. As he raised his left hand, Jake saw a gold band on his ring finger. Saw both knees of Hewlitt’s slacks ripped, shredded, and his shirt twisted and smeared with dirt. In a struggle at Curley Park? Or here? And why? Damn. What was this?
“Hands behind your back,” D said.
In one quick motion, D cuffed him, pulling first one, then the other brawny arm. D was a head taller, maybe, but the guy had him on muscles. The triangular shape of a body builder, or at least someone familiar with the gym.
Jake took in the whole scene, tried to envision what might have happened. Not that it mattered what might have happened. Conjecture and assumption, the two things that would kill a case. All that mattered was what did happen. And why. It was Jake’s job to find out, and soon. On the brick wall behind them, some idiot had graffitied in puffy white letters: REGGIE IS AN ASSO. Below that, the guy on the ground, motionless.
Wait. Did his back lift? Guy was breathing. Jake crouched on the pavement, two fingers on the neck pulse point, closing his eyes, feeling for a heartbeat. It was there, barely. Held his palms flat on the guy’s back. Breathing. Not dead. Good. He didn’t want to move him, didn’t want to turn him over.
“Get the EMTs over here,” Jake told D.
“Hey,” Hewlitt squirmed in the cuffs, protesting. “Listen, officers-”
“Detectives,” DeLuca corrected. He grasped Hewlitt’s arm with one hand, keyed his radio with the other. “This is Unit Two, requesting medical assistance for victim at Franklin Alley, top priority. Do you copy?”
“Copy,” dispatch’s voice crackled over the radio. “Unit is en route, ETA is in three, over.”
Hewlitt shrugged, adjusted his manacled arms. “Detectives. Whatever. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not trying to run. And given the circumstances, I won’t call my lawyer. Unless it becomes necessary. All I can say is, better make sure this man doesn’t get away while you’re taking me in custody. Like I keep trying to say, I’m not the bad guy.”
“Bad guy? How do you know there’s a bad guy?” Still holding his weapon, Jake carefully patted the back pockets of the man’s jeans. Little guy, wiry, midthirties, maybe. No blood apparent, on this side, at least. Or on the ground, that he could see, at least. Jake always hesitated to move a victim-possible internal injuries, liability, making an injury worse-wished the damn EMTs would get here. Wasn’t there someone back at the park Doc Kratky could spare?
“No wallet,” Jake reported. “You happen to have that, Mr. Hewlitt?”
“We copy,” DeLuca said into the radio. “Like Detective Brogan said, Mr. Hewlitt, you happen to have this man’s wallet? You can hand it over, or I can search you. Your call.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Hewlitt widened his eyes, feigning confession. “You got me. Yes, I have it. Makes complete sense. I robbed this man, then held him down and called for help.”
“You weren’t the one who called for-” Jake began.
“What’s with the attitude?” D interrupted. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoo-”
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Hewlitt said. “You see me trying to get away? I were you, I’d be more interested in the bad guy.”
“What happened here, Mr. Hewlitt?” All Jake needed, D and this mouthy possible suspect goading each other into some alpha-male pissing match. Where the hell was the EMT? “Do you know who this person is?”
“Know who he is?” Hewlitt rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
Jake slid a palm under the prone man’s shoulder, scraping his hand against the gritty pavement. His skin was still warm under the jersey T-shirt. Should he turn him? Then, motion. A shudder. A cough. The man’s nose wrinkled, his mouth twitched, his nervous system struggling into reality. The Bruins logo on his back rose, then fell, then rose again. Jake eased his hand away, wiped it on the leg of his jeans.
“He’s coming to,” Jake said. “Where’s the-”
A siren keened in the near distance, the wail of the ambulance growing louder.
“You might want to get another set of handcuffs,” Hewlitt said. “If this gentleman wakes up, he’ll not be happy to see you, and five’ll get you ten he makes a break for it. Like he tried to do when I grabbed him. You see where that got me. I’d figured on headlines. Instead I’m in a dead-end alley with two dumb cops.”
“Detectives,” DeLuca said. “With two dumb detectives.”
Jake got to his feet, eyes on the fallen man, brushed the pebbles indenting the knees of his jeans. “You have something to say, Mr. Hewlitt?”
“Well, you might want to apologize,” Hewlitt said.
“Jake,” D said. Pointed. “Check it out.”
The guy on the pavement was definitely moving. The fingers of his left hand lifted, paused, fell back to the concrete. Jake knew he should cuff him, just in case. He’d be damned, though, if this security guard asshole-asso, he thought, looking at the graffiti-could think he was telling him what to do. Jake was in charge here.