Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

"Not if you don't do it again."

Greenberg put his left hand on his chest in a gesture of contrition. "I promise. And tell whoever complained that I'm really sorry."

It was the scar that did it, deep and vivid and running down the back of the man's hand. Jordan prided himself on being a part, however small, of the law enforcement community, and so kept up with the bulletins and alerts that regularly made the rounds. Days ago, he'd received a BOL e-mail, a so-called be-on-the-lookout, featuring a man with brown hair and a mustache who was wanted for questioning in a homicide. The photograph hadn't been great, and the guy had looked pretty ordinary. But the BOL had stressed both the scar and the man's left-handedness.

Jordan knew instinctively that he was staring at the one they were after.

Unfortunately, Gabe Greenberg noticed Jordan's interest. His eyes narrowing slightly but with his voice still light, he waggled the hand before him. "Nasty-looking, isn't it? I suppose I should get some plastic surgery or something. I've just had it so long, I don't hardly notice it anymore."

Jordan stepped back, intent on getting to a phone as fast as he could. "Didn't mean to offend. Well, I'll leave you be."

Greenberg also moved, following Jordan out onto the front stoop. His voice was less upbeat as he said, "Most people ask me how I got it."

"I figure that's your business."

"I don't mind. It was a dog bite, when I was a kid."

Jordan nodded, still backing away. "Tough."

Greenberg kept coming. "Yeah. My dad sicced him onto me."

"Don't say?"

"You seem a little nervous, Constable. You know something I don't?"

It was one of those critical moments, usually missed, which-if you survive-you forever refer to as a miracle. Alvah Jordan's plan A of heading for a phone was clearly over. Plan B was to try to save his hide and live with the embarrassment of possibly being wrong.

Without another word, on instinct alone, he threw himself at Greenberg.

That timing saved his life. As Jordan suddenly closed in, Greenberg was drawing a knife from the back of his belt, but by the time he'd swung it around to use it, he was already off balance, and Jordan had inadvertently blocked the blow with his body.

Both men careened backward, smacking against the door frame. Greenberg's head made contact with an audible crack, distracting him long enough for Jordan to pull his gun free and use it as a hammer on the other man's left wrist.

Greenberg let out a yell of pain, the knife fell to the ground, and Jordan completed his string of lucky breaks by bringing his knee up sharply into his adversary's groin. As astonished as if he'd just been watching the past three seconds on video, Alvah Jordan saw Greenberg crumple up and collapse, both hands on his testicles.

After a moment's stunned hesitation, he bent over, quickly removed Greenberg's belt, rolled him onto his face, and strapped his wrists together, checking to make sure the knife was out of reach.

Then he stood, already shaking with adrenaline, and asked as calmly as he could, "You have a phone I could use?"

Greenberg's only response was, "A fucking constable-Jesus."

The VBI was still threadbare enough that it depended on sister agencies for everything from copiers to jail cells. Gunther's official bailiwick extended solely to the one office with four desks, and all across the state the situation was roughly the same. Personally, he didn't mind it. It heightened his own sales message that VBI was a support team to every other cop out there. There were moments, however, when the level of dependence stretched credibility. One hour after local constable Jordan had arrested Gabe Greenberg, Joe was watching what was technically his prisoner through the one-way mirror of the Brattleboro police department's tiny interrogation room-marking the first time anyone from the VBI had even heard of this latest development in their very own investigation.

Ron Klesczewski stood beside Joe, watching the man sitting alone and now properly handcuffed, next to a rickety card table.

"How's he been acting?" Joe asked.

"Pretty much like now: cool and calm. He asked to see a lawyer once, and he's been a clam ever since."

"You run him through the system?"

Ron handed him a thin file. "He exists. That's about all you can say. He's either been very careful or very lucky."

Joe noticed the touch of doubt in his former subordinate's voice. "Or he's innocent."

Ron looked at him. "Is that possible? Does make you wonder."

But Joe had only been playing devil's advocate. "I don't think so. The bartender in Gloucester had no doubts, we have the pictures from Tunbridge, and he did go for the constable, from what I hear. That's enough for a warrant. Once we tear his house apart, we'll probably get more. If we're really lucky, we'll even match his knife to the wounds and/or blood types of both Shriver and Shea." He stopped, ran all that through his mind once more, and added, "I'm betting this is the guy."

It was an odd sensation, despite his having watched hundreds of other suspects through similar windows over a lifelong career. Looking at this nondescript man, he felt an emotional pulling in his chest connecting Greenberg to his own entire past history.

"You going to talk to him?" Ron asked.

Joe hesitated. The temptation was great, even if the likelihood was slim that it would yield anything.

"You have, right?" he asked Ron.

"Yeah."

"What did you think?"

Ron pursed his lips. He didn't enjoy being put on the spot. He was a detail man, devoted to reports and analyses. But he knew what Joe was after, and owed him a response. "I think he's guilty as hell and not about to say a word, no matter what you lay on him."

Joe waved the file in his hand. "So, when I do, it better weigh more than this." He left the tiny viewing cubicle and stepped into the hallway outside, adding, "Let's feed him his lawyer, lock him up, and do some homework."

Joe slipped his arm behind Gail's bare shoulders and cradled her more comfortably against his chest. She let out a contented sigh and placed her hand on his stomach.

"I like coming over to your place," she murmured.

"Too crazy at home?"

"Too crazy, too big, too empty or too full, depending. It's gotten to be like an office. Not a place to escape."

"How's it coming? Katz told me you should consider making some room in the fridge for champagne."

She laughed, making his chest tickle. "What a bullshitter. Bet he hoped that would open you up. What did you tell him?"

"'Nice try,' I think. He let it go. Not the persistent mutt he used to be."

"I hope he's right," she said reflectively, "but I have my doubts. I still haven't connected with so many people-the truck drivers and farmers and regular working stiffs. Sometimes it feels like they all see me as a threat, not realizing I'm more in their corner than Parker'll ever be. But he plasters the county with all those signs and ads and waves around all that red-white-and-blue crap, pretending that if you're pro-choice or against war you're anti-American, anti-Christ, and anti-everything else. I end up looking like Fidel Castro, when the first thing he'll do is come down on every program we've got for the poor and the working class, and try to gut the economy, pushing for sweetheart deals with big business-anonymous Tom Bander megamoguls nobody knows anything about."

"Whoa," Joe told her, patting her shoulder. "I'll vote for you-promise." But what she was saying cut straight to something he'd learned late this afternoon, and which had been preying on him ever since.

"Sorry," she said. "But I'm really getting nervous about him. I don't think people realize just how powerful Bander could be. Charbonneau is just a grab-ass happy boy with too much cash. According to Susan, Bander's got connections everywhere, and he's completely untouchable-never run for office, no publicly traded businesses, and he has a bunch of flunkies standing in for him on every occasion. He's like a woodchuck Howard Hughes. I just have this awful feeling that come election day, all the headway we've been making in this county for the past couple of decades will be suddenly walking the plank. Bander and his types will come out of the woodwork big-time."