“Wait, wait, wait. What about our girl?”
“Our girl? Don’t ever use that expression round me again. I swear, I’ll knock you out — I don’t care how old you are.”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. Yet she remains in grave danger.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you.”
“Not for your sake, for hers.”
The old man nodded, his head bowed and eyes on the table. “Jack, a piece of advice,” he said in a small voice. “You should not judge people so quickly, without first taking a long, hard look in the mirror.”
Jack exhaled, short and sharp.
“Don’t worry yourself, mate. I’ve done my fair share of that.” In spite of better ideas, his anger diminished as he first glanced at the mirrored window on one wall, and then down at the miniscule man at the table. “Listen, give the cops what they need to know. Tell them you didn’t kill the Capes — hell, maybe even tell them the Big O stuck you in hiding. But leave Louise out of the yarn. The police might go easy on you, if they believe your story and Gypsie-Ann doesn’t press charges. But I’ll tell you one thing — this will be all over the news, and people won’t forget anymore. If he’s still in Heropa, Major Patriot would know about you by now and he doesn’t sound like the forgiving kind of guy. I’m not sure I like your chances, but we’ll try to keep an eye out.”
“That’s fair enough. I understand. Please find Louise. Please protect her.”
Crossing to the steel door, Jack nodded.
“I will.”
#159
Jack zipped straight past Kahn, the other cops, plus Gypsie-Ann —“All yours,” he breezed — and then thought twice and doubled back. “By the way, the guy you’re looking for isn’t the Professor. The real trickster wears a brown coat and a red hat, a Stetson.”
“The old man told you this?” Kahn asked.
“No, I knew already.”
“You did? Could’ve saved us some trouble by disclosing this a quarter hour ago.” The police captain was eyeballing his busted-up recording equipment.
“Sorry — I wasn’t sure then.”
“But you are now.”
“Yep.”
“Great. And Sekrine isn’t our man?”
“Nah, he’s a couple of generations too long in the tooth.”
“So,” piped up Detective Forbush, rounding out the commentary with a sneer, “what fancy shade of red are we s’posed to keep our eyes peeled for?”
“Fire engine. You won’t miss it.”
“Hard to,” Kahn agreed. “What do you have on him?”
“Saw him kill Bulkhead, and possibly he planted the bomb that did in Sinistro. The others I’m not so sure about.”
“Working alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bop or civilian?” That was Forbush, lobbing in his two cents again.
“I’d put even money on this being a Blando.”
“Blando…Pfft.”
“Civilian, then. But I haven’t asked the fella.”
Kahn poured himself coffee from a nearby vacuum brewer. “Nothing else to go by? No silly walks or — better yet — facial scarring? No eyepatches like mine?”
“Hard to tell. The hat’s always running interference, and the only time I saw him without it was in a darkened street. Average height, average build. Average everything, aside from the Stetson. Didn’t see a patch.”
“Okay, I’ll put out an APB on the red hat. Round up all the usual milliners.”
Jack grinned, but kept the applause in check. “Funny. One thing, though — maybe keep it on the sly. Tell only officers you trust.”
Pushing forward from his place by the door to stand toe-to-toe with the Equalizer, Detective Forbush tried his best at intimidating. “What’s the matter, bub? You don’t trust Heropa Police?”
“Sure I do,” Jack muttered, unimpressed. “More worried the bastard will ditch the hat, if word gets out regarding a public witch-hunt for his peculiar headwear. Then he’ll be just another—”
“Blando?”
“Face in the crowd.”
Throwing up chubby hands, Forbush grimaced. “Boss, this’s ridiculous. You really going to have us buskin’ round town for a red-coloured boater?”
“Bet your bottom dollar I am.”
“Next thing, these Bops’ll have you lunging through loops.”
“Enough, Irv. You have a job to do.” Kahn’s subordinate backed away, catching hint of the impatience. “All righty, we’ll keep it under the hat.”