The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  Prior inserted the key in the ignition and turned it clockwise. The engine came to life immediately. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Focus on the present. Drive.’

  The policeman put the car in gear and pressed his foot lightly down on the gas. The vehicle moved off slowly. Bishop felt it gain speed, and when he thought enough distance had been covered he raised himself up on the seat and looked through the windshield. They were approaching a crossroads and a red light.

  ‘Take a left,’ said Bishop. ‘Screw the red light. You’re a cop.’

  Prior’s walkie-talkie started chattering as he looked left, waiting for a gap in the oncoming traffic.

  ‘Call in,’ Bishop said. ‘Say you received a possible sighting on Ruscoe Street and you’re checking it out. No more than that. Then click off.’

  ‘They won’t believe me.’

  ‘They won’t disbelieve you, either. Not straight away. Do it.’

  Still looking for a gap in the traffic, Prior pulled the radio from his belt and brought it to his mouth. Bishop checked the rear-view as Prior gave his destination. Once he was done, Bishop grabbed the radio and threw it in the glove compartment. The light turned green as they were waiting and Prior drove into 108th Avenue towards Merrick.

  Bishop said, ‘Turn on your siren and flashers and pull the lead out. You’ll take a right at Merrick when we come to it. You guessed where we’re headed yet?’

  Prior turned on his lights and the accompanying siren got everyone’s attention. He swerved left into the oncoming lane and started overtaking. The cars coming towards them got out of the way quickly. ‘Jamaica,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’ Bishop knew Merrick would take them to Archer. Then another five or six blocks to one of the busiest transit hubs in New York. Ten of the eleven LIRR lines passed through Jamaica before splintering off again. And although it was a Sunday evening, Bishop figured there’d be more than enough commuters for his purpose.

  Ahead of them, a long line of cars waited for the lights to let them join Merrick. Prior kept in the oncoming lane and paused at the junction until the flashing red and white lights did their job. He sped off again down the four-lane thoroughfare, veering in and out of traffic like a pro. Bishop suspected a small part of him was actually enjoying this.

  ‘You’re doing okay, Cliff,’ he said over the noise. ‘Just a little while longer and you’ll have the vehicle to yourself again.’ He looked at the gold band on the fourth finger of the cop’s left hand. ‘And a bedtime story to tell your wife.’

  ‘Sure. Unless you go psycho on me.’

  Bishop looked ahead at the busy six-way junction coming up at speed and sighed. ‘Believe it or not, killing cops isn’t high on my list of priorities,’ he said. ‘I got enough problems. Not that I won’t if you force me to. Drive straight through this and take a left on Archer. You’ve done this before. Don’t stop; let the siren and the lights do the work.’

  The policeman geared down as he approached the intersection. The east- and westbound cross traffic in front slowed at the unwelcome intrusion and Prior used the available space to manoeuvre them through like they were in a game of pinball. When they emerged out the other side, Prior continued down Merrick, gradually picking up speed and raising his eyes to the rear-view every few seconds.

  ‘Something interesting?’ Bishop asked. He reached up and swivelled the mirror round. Behind them he made out red and white lights in the distance. Looked like two cars. Well, that didn’t take long. ‘Delaney, right?’

  Prior made a face and grunted, as if the very idea of a female in charge marked the beginning of the final days.

  ‘I’d only been there a few hours,’ Bishop said, watching his eyes. ‘She’s better than I thought.’

  ‘Or luckier. The desk clerk at the hotel made you and pressed three buttons on a phone. Yeah, she’s talented, all right.’

  Bishop smiled to himself. He figured she must be good at her job. Bad cops weren’t hated with such vehemence. ‘It’s a new millennium, Cliff. It’s entirely possible she reached her position on merit alone.’

  Prior didn’t reply. Probably didn’t see the irony in their conflicting viewpoints, either.

  Bishop looked ahead. Here came Archer. And a green light, no less. It changed to amber as they approached. ‘Beat the light,’ he said.

  Prior accelerated and swept across the line of vehicles waiting to proceed east, tearing round into the westbound lane at forty. ‘Shit on a chute,’ he cried and spun the wheel to the right. A large Kawasaki was coming straight at them, encroaching on their lane to get to the head of the eastbound queue. The rider saw their car bearing down on him and swerved to his right at the same time. Bishop grimaced as the bike collided with the rear door of a stationary yellow cab. The police cruiser missed him by a hair as it sped by.

  Bishop glanced in the rear-view and saw the rider topple into the street with his machine. A moment later he got up and looked down at his bike, then back at the disappearing police car, while an angry, overweight man climbed out of the taxi alongside him.

  ‘Jesus Horatio Christ,’ Prior breathed as he stared straight ahead, too scared to look in his wing mirrors. ‘Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay.’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Bishop said, ‘as long as the cabbie doesn’t kill him.’ York College flew by to their left and he looked across at the elevated LIRR lines running parallel to them. ‘Maybe he’ll stay in his own lane in future.’

  The cop glanced in his side mirror and said, ‘That’s not funny. Jesus. That was too close.’

  ‘Forget about it. We’re nearly there.’ They darted through the 150th Street intersection and Bishop could see the Sutphin Boulevard junction a block ahead. As Prior muttered distractedly under his breath, Bishop started transferring everything from his leather jacket to his pants pockets. In the distance, two more lines of cars waited at the next set of lights.

  Bishop said, ‘Kill the siren and stop behind that last car.’ The cop obeyed the first instruction and began to decelerate. Bishop pulled out his baseball cap and Prior’s cuffs. He put the cap on and waited for the car to come to a halt in the centre lane behind a red Toyota. He didn’t need to look in the rear-view to make the flashing lights two or three blocks back. Or the din of the sirens. The Jamaica Station terminal lay ahead at the far corner of the intersection. He had about fifteen seconds. ‘Give me your handcuff keys,’ he said.

  Prior hesitated, then pulled them from his pants pocket and tossed them over. Bishop handed him his cuffs and said, ‘Through the wheel, Cliff. Hands on either side. It’s in both our interests for you to be quick.’ He waited while the cop attached one of the bracelets to his left wrist, then pulled the other through the gap in the steering wheel and attached it to his right.

  The V was back in place as Prior glared back. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again, Bishop,’ he said.

  ‘Only on TV,’ Bishop said and took the keys from the ignition and placed the gun in the waistband of his pants. ‘Your jurisdiction ends at the state line.’ While Prior chewed on that, Bishop got out and slammed the door shut.

  He looked back and saw that the two cars in pursuit had shortened the distance to a block. The grey Chevy was in front, followed by another black-and-white. Bishop turned and ran to the sidewalk, threw both sets of keys into the gutter along with his hotel key, then sprinted towards the five-storey building on the other side of the crossroads.

  Bishop figured they wouldn’t have seen him exit the vehicle so they’d have to check Prior’s cruiser first. Then they’d figure he was making for the terminal and one of the train platforms, maybe even the subway station underneath them. And Prior would confirm it.

  When Bishop reached the Sutphin Boulevard intersection he stopped behind the cover of an office building on the corner and glanced back. Both cars had come to a stop behind the cruiser, lights still flashing but sirens off.

  Bishop faced front and pulled the cap from his head and slid out of his jacket, making sure his swe
atshirt covered the gun. He took the glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. Then he walked off the kerb between two parked cars, tossed the jacket and cap underneath the one on the left and jogged across the street towards the entrance doors.

  Jamaica had recently undergone a major expansion, and the elevated tracks to the left of the station building were now housed under a curved steel and glass canopy that took up a large part of the skyline. Underneath, a long underpass led to the station control centre on the other side of the tracks.

  When Bishop reached the doors to the terminal he took another look behind him. His pursuers hadn’t reached the corner building yet, so he ignored the entrance and began walking left towards the underpass. A hundreds yards ahead he spotted the mandatory taxi rank and saw a short line of yellow cabs with On Duty signs. He turned to look behind him as he walked and saw Delaney sprinting towards the terminal doors with two more Marshals and a couple of uniforms in tow. She yanked the door open and all five disappeared into the building.

  Bishop continued until he reached the taxi stand. In the cab at the head of the queue sat a bearded, fifty-something driver reading the sports pages and picking his nose. Bishop opened the rear door and sank into the back seat.

  ‘Just tell me where, pal,’ the driver said without checking the rear-view. He flung the paper on the seat next to him and continued picking his nose.

  Bishop looked out the side window and considered his answer. It was a good question. If he couldn’t trust the staff of a fleapit like the Ambassador, what chance did he have with any of the others? Especially as his new ID was now worthless. So hotels were out. Which didn’t leave too many other options.

  Except one, maybe.

  ‘Make for Kennedy airport,’ he told the driver.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘You were somewhere else tonight,’ Helen Sook Nam said.

  Jenna Falstaff frowned at her friend as she pulled her towel tight across her chest. ‘Somewhere else?’ she asked.

  As usual, they were the only two left in the locker room. Of all her students, the pretty, slight Korean woman had known Jenna the longest, and she always made sure the two of them were the last to shower so they could gossip about the men in their lives. Or, rather, since Jenna was usually lacking in that department, so she could gossip about the men in her life. There was usually more than one at any given moment.

  Helen looped the brassiere over her shoulders and reached through the long mane of impossibly silky black hair behind her to connect it. ‘Somewhere nice, I hope,’ she said. ‘You weren’t as focused as you usually are. You seeing someone I don’t know about?’

  Jenna smiled as she extracted various items of clothing from her locker and began to put them on. As far as Helen was concerned, any change in your behaviour meant the involvement of a man somewhere along the line. And would you believe it? For the first time ever, she was right on the mark. James Bishop had been in her thoughts for much of the day.

  When she’d suggested to Ali she might hang around the house for a while longer this afternoon he’d just smiled and said, ‘There’s no future in it. And you the sensible one, too.’ She knew that Ali was right on both counts, but she could also tell that Bishop was attracted to her too. She’d considered giving him her cell phone number before she left, but as usual common sense had prevailed at the last moment. If Bishop was picked up with her number on his person, the trail could end with Ali joining Owen in Greenacres and she wasn’t about to risk losing another brother.

  Damn, she thought. Why did she always go for the impossible ones? To her friend, she said, ‘The only guys I meet are the ones you try to set me up with. None of whom, I might add, are ever worth a second date.’

  Helen giggled. ‘You’re too fussy is what it is, Jen. At least try them out in the sack. Then if you don’t like ’em, throw ’em out with the bacon rinds. Easy.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve got a few more scruples than you.’

  Helen scrunched her nose at the word like it was week-old milk. ‘Scruples. What good are they?’ She nodded at the Elvis T-shirt Jenna was placing in her bag. ‘He sure didn’t have any; that man went for anything that passed in front of him. Although you couldn’t really blame him, looking like that.’ She gazed at the ceiling and said, ‘I wonder if he ever had an Oriental?’

  Jenna shook her head as she slipped into her tan suede jacket and reached down for her sneakers. After lacing them up, she said, ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Always.’

  They picked up their equipment bags and slung them over their shoulders, then left the changing room and walked through the downstairs gym. It was empty now aside from the owner, who was checking the next day’s bookings on the computer at the front desk.

  They said goodnight and descended the steps to the sidewalk while the owner locked up behind them. The street below was lined with parked vehicles that were only partly obscured by the large elms that lined the pavement at twenty-yard intervals.

  ‘Can’t interest you in a night out at Artisans, I suppose?’ Helen said when they reached the sidewalk. Artisans was a new, trendy singles bar cum nightclub that had become her hot place to be seen this month. ‘Tonight’s manhunt night.’

  Jenna smiled. ‘Never give up, do you? And tomorrow a work day.’

  ‘Hey, you’re only young once. Unless you live in LA, that is. I take it that’s a no, then?’

  ‘Ask me again on Wednesday, okay?’

  ‘Hold you to it.’ At that moment Helen’s cell phone went off and she reached into her bag and brought it to her ear, turning and waving to Jenna as she began her three-block walk to the bus stop. ‘Hank, I was gonna call you . . . Tonight? Baby, I’m bushed . . . Of course I do, but with tomorrow a work day . . .’

  The girl’s incorrigible, Jenna thought, shaking her head as she watched her friend walk away. She turned to go in the other direction, but she’d only taken about ten steps when a man in a hood stepped out from behind the tree a few feet in front of her.

  Dropping her right shoulder to let her bag fall to the ground, Jenna immediately gave him her left side and raised both fists. Adrenalin pumped through her body and her heart rate doubled. Please don’t let him have a gun, she thought.

  The man remained still except for the movement of the left arm as it pulled the hood back. Jenna’s heartbeat slackened only marginally when she saw his features.

  Bishop smiled and said, ‘Let’s not fight, Jenna.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Never been out here before.’ Bishop waited while Jenna found her keys and inserted one into the top lock of apartment 3C. She looked good under the bright corridor lights. ‘It’s quiet.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘For this town better than okay, I guess. People here mind their own business.’

  After a short walk to her ten-year-old Honda Accord, Jenna had driven them to her modern, six-storey apartment block in Laurelton, a leafy suburb of Queens with wide roads and plenty of single-family homes. They’d parked in a small area at the rear with spaces for twenty. Bishop had counted three apartments on each floor, leading off from a single elevator that ran through the centre of the building.

  Jenna finished with the second lock and opened the door. She stepped inside and flicked a couple of switches. When the lights came on she said, ‘You may enter.’

  Bishop followed her down the short hallway, passing a neat bathroom on his left, and came to a stop in the living room.

  It wasn’t immediately obvious that a single woman lived here. Bishop had expected bright colours and houseplants, but he guessed maybe that was just his sister’s taste. Jenna’s walls were white and made the place look bigger than it was, while a large picture window took up most of the wall ahead. In the centre of the room a light grey three-seater sofa and two matching chairs sat around a black wooden coffee table whose surface was covered with folders, files, magazines and loose paperwork. On the left-hand wall, next to an archway leading to another hallway, a widescreen TV sa
t alongside a tall bookcase filled with CDs, DVDs and paperbacks. Another smaller bookcase against the right-hand wall held nothing but computer texts. For decoration, two pen and ink Picasso lithographs dotted the wall behind him, while a third hung to the left of the window.

  Jenna drew the drapes and watched Bishop look the room over. She asked, ‘Can I get you a drink of something? There should be a pint of Polish vodka at the back of the refrigerator. Just don’t ask me how long it’s been there.’

  Bishop was studying one of the drawings behind him, counting the number of brush strokes the artist had used for the sketch. He decided the pencilled signature underneath had probably taken more effort. He turned to Jenna with a frown. ‘Is this a horse or a dog?’

  Jenna laughed and said, ‘That’s a matador.’ Tossing her jacket on the sofa, she moved towards him and pointed at the one on the right. ‘That’s the horse with its rider. And that’ – she turned to the one by the window – ‘is a sleeping woman.’ She turned back to the matador and frowned. ‘Although now you mention it . . .’

  Bishop leaned closer as she ran a finger over the glass, and then winced as his stomach muscles complained. Jenna looked at him and said, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I got my ass well and truly kicked yesterday. I’m still feeling the effects is all.’ He felt around in his pockets and realized he hadn’t transferred everything over from his leather jacket after all. ‘I don’t suppose you got any Advil lying around?’

  ‘Sure. Follow me,’ she said, and led him into the other hallway. It contained two doors, one on each side. Bishop followed her into the joint kitchen and dining room on the right. It was predominantly white, like the rest of the apartment, and split in half. A breakfast bar and two stools separated the kitchen from the dining area, where a large table was jammed against the wall. Bishop guessed Jenna didn’t entertain much as a Power Mac currently took up much of the table. Next to the computer were two laptops, a pile of paperwork, a scanner, a printer, a router and additional hardware he couldn’t begin to identify.