"No, don't need that. I'll tell you what's going down." She explained the situation then said to Simpson, who was behind the wheel, "Head east. At the light make a left. Just slow up. I'll jump out."
Pulaski climbed into the Camaro, fired it up and couldn't resist pumping the gas to get a sexy whine out of the Tubi exhausts.
Rettig asked, "You don't want us to stop?"
"No, just slow up. I want the suspect to be sure I'm leaving."
"Okay," Simpson said. "You got it."
The RRV headed east. In the sideview mirror Sachs saw Pulaski start forward--easy, she told him silently; it was a monster engine and the clutch gripped like Velcro. But he controlled the horses and rolled forward smoothly, the opposite direction from the van.
At the intersection of Cedar and Nassau the RRV turned and Sachs opened the door. "Keep going. Don't slow up."
Simpson did a great job keeping the van steady. "Good luck," the crime scene officer called.
Sachs leapt out.
Whoa, a little faster than she'd planned. She nearly stumbled, caught herself and thanked the Department of Sanitation for the generous sprinkling of salt on the icy street. She started along the sidewalk, coming up behind the man with the newspaper. He didn't see her.
A block away, then a half block. She opened her jacket and gripped the Glock that rode high on her belt. About fifty feet past the suspect, Pulaski suddenly pulled to the curb, climbed out and--without the guy's noticing--easily jumped over the barricade. They had him sandwiched in, separated by a barrier on one side and the building being renovated on the other.
A good plan.
Except for one glitch.
Across the street from Sachs were two armed guards, stationed in front of the Housing and Urban Development building. They'd been helping with the crime scene and one of them glanced at Sachs. He waved to her, calling, "Forget
something, Detective?"
Shit. The man with the newspaper whirled around and saw her.
He dropped the paper, jumped the barrier and sprinted as fast as he could down the middle of the street toward Broadway, catching Pulaski on the other side of the metal fence. The rookie tried to leap it, caught his foot and went down hard in the street. Sachs paused but saw he wasn't badly hurt and she continued after the suspect. Pulaski rolled to his feet and together they sprinted after the man, who had a thirty-foot head start and was increasing his lead.
She grabbed her walkie-talkie and pressed TRANSMIT. "Detective Five Eight Eight Five," she gasped. "In foot pursuit of a suspect in that homicide near Cedar Street. Suspect is heading west on Cedar, wait, now south on Broadway. Need backup."
"Roger, Five Eight Eight Five. Directing units to your location."
Several other RMPs--radio mobile patrols, squad cars--responded that they were nearby and en route to cut off the suspect's escape.
As Sachs and Pulaski approached Battery Park, the man suddenly stopped, nearly stumbling. He glanced to his right--at the subway.
No, not the train, she thought. Too many bystanders in close proximity.
Don't do it. . . .
Another glance over his shoulder and he plunged down the stairs.
She stopped, calling to Pulaski, "Go after him." A deep breath. "If he shoots, check your backdrop real carefully. Let him go rather than fire if there's any doubt at all."
His face uneasy, the rookie nodded. Sachs knew he'd never been in a firefight. He called, "Where're you--"
"Just go!" she shouted.
The rookie took a breath and started sprinting again. Sachs ran to the subway entrance and watched Pulaski descend three steps at a time. Then she crossed the street and trotted a half block south. She drew her gun and stepped behind a newsstand.
Counting down . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
One.