The Vanished Man

in the mood for a pissing contest about weeks or days of seniority between them. “You can bitch to your supervisor about it later.”
    If he said anything else she didn’t hear; ignoring the painful arthritis, she leaped down the stairs two at a time after Roland Bell and began pursuit of the man who’d killed their friend.
    •   •   •
    He’s fast.
    But I’m faster.
    Six-year-vet Patrolman Lawrence Burke sprinted out of Riverside Park onto West End Avenue, only twenty feet behind the speeding perp, some biker asshole in a Harley shirt.
    Running around pedestrians, broken field, exactly the way he used to do in high school, going after the receiver.
    And just like back then, Legs Larry was closing in.
    He’d been on his way to the Hudson River to help secure a 10–24 assault crime scene when he’d heard a further-to pursuit call and turned about-face to find himself staring at the perp—a scuzzy biker.
    “Yo, you! Hold it!”
    But the man hadn’t stopped. He’d dodged past Burke and kept right on going north in a panic run. And so just like at the Woodrow Wilson High homecoming game when he’d sprinted seventy-two yards after Chris Broderick (managing to bring him down with a breathless wallop two feet shy of the end zone), Legs went into overdrive and started after the perp.
    Burke didn’t draw his weapon. Unless the perp you’re after is armed and there’s an immediate danger he’s going to shoot you or a passerby you can’t use deadly force to stop him. And shooting anybody in the back looks very bad at the shooting incident inquiry, not to mention at promotion reviews and in the press.
    “Hey, you fuck loser!” Burke gasped.
    The biker turned east down a cross street, glancingback with wide eyes, seeing Legs steadily closing the distance.
    The guy skidded to the left, down an alley. The cop took the turn even smoother than Mr. Harley and stayed right on the man’s ass.
    Some police departments issued nets or stun guns to stop fleeing felons but the NYPD wasn’t so high-tech. Besides, it didn’t matter, not in this case. Larry Burke had more skills than running. Tackling, for instance.
    From three feet away he launched himself into the air, remembering to aim high and use the guy’s own body for padding when they went down.
    “Jesus,” the biker gasped as they crashed to the cobblestones and skidded into a pile of garbage.
    “Goddamn!” Burke muttered, feeling skin flay off his elbow. “You motherfuck.”
    “I didn’t do anything!” the biker gasped. “Why were you chasing me?”
    “Shut up.”
    Burke cuffed him and because the guy was such a fuck-all runner he used a plastic restraint on his ankles too. Nice and tight. He examined his bloody elbow. “Damn, I lost skin. Ow, that hurts. You fuck.”
    “I didn’t do anything. I was at that fair is all I was doing. I just—”
    Spitting on the ground, Burke inhaled deeply a number of times. He gasped, “What part about shut up ’re you having trouble with? I’m not gonna tell you again. . . . Fuck, that stings!”
    He frisked the man carefully and found a wallet. There was no ID inside, only money. Curious. And hehad no weapons or drugs either, which was pretty odd for a biker.
    “You can threaten me all you want but I want a lawyer. I’m going to sue you! If you think I did something, you’re way wrong, mister.”
    But then Burke tugged up the guy’s shirt and T-shirt and blinked. His chest and abdomen were badly scarred. It was creepy to look at. But even stranger was a bag around his waist, like those belly packs he and the wife’d worn on their European vacation. Burke expected a stash, but no, all that the guy was hiding was a pair of jogging pants, a turtleneck, chinos, white shirt and a cell phone. And—this was really weird—makeup. A ton of wadded-up toilet paper too, stuffed in the pack, as if he was trying to make himself look fat.
    Pretty weird . . .
    Burke inhaled deeply again and got an unfortunate whiff of garbage and urine from the alley. He pushed the button on his Motorola. “Portable Five Two One Two to Central. . . . I’ve got the perp in that ten-two-four in custody, K.”
    “Injuries?”
    “Negative.”
    Except for one fucking sore elbow.
    “Location?”
    “Block and a half east of West End, K. Hold on a minute. I’ll get the cross street.”
    Burke walked to the mouth of the alley to look for the street sign and wait for his fellow cops to show up. It was only then that