Free What You See by Hank Phillippi Ryan

muttered.
    Jake could see the smirk on D’s face, Hewlitt couldn’t.
    Jake shot him a look. Can you not resist?
    DeLuca shrugged.
    “You were saying, Mr. Hewlitt,” Jake went on. “You’re an employee of a security firm at Faneuil Hall? Mind showing me your ID?”
    “My ID?” Hewlitt furrowed his forehead, as if he were thinking intently. “The delight with which I’d show you my ID is immeasurable, except for one small item. Your colleague now has it, as you are no doubt aware, since he frisked me as if I were some potential terrorist at freaking Logan Airport, and took my wallet as well as my car keys and my phone. All of which I demand be returned. You’ll note, however, he did not find a weapon or any other indication that—”
    Shit, Jake thought as the man continued to complain. Hewlitt didn’t talk like a security guard, though what did a security guard sound like? Or maybe some criminal defense attorney had coached Hewlitt about what to say if he was arrested.
    “D?” Jake began.
    DeLuca handed him the flap of cordovan leather.
    “Sir?” Jake asked the guy. “Okay if I look inside?”
    “Knock yourself out,” Hewlitt said.
    “I’ll knock—” DeLuca began.
    Jake ignored him, flipped open the wallet. Amex gold card, on the top. Calvin Hewlitt, member since 2000. Driver’s license, Massachusetts, current, in the window. Jake quickly checked—the photo matched the face. Address in the South End, Jake memorized it. Bill slot thick with twenties. Lots of cash for a security guard. Or not. Jake pulled out a stack of credit cards and shuffled through them. Health insurance, AAA, Starbucks. Looking for a guard credential.
    Nothing.
    Ha. Got you, brother. And you’re coming in. Jake heard the wail of the ambulance siren fading into the distance. Their suspect was on the way to Mass General, finally. The dead guy probably on the way to the morgue. Cadets had certainly gotten eyewitness accounts by now, and inevitably photos of some kind. And he hadn’t even had to deal with any reporters, though Jane would demand the lowdown when they saw each other later. All in all, this episode was wrapping up pretty darn well.
    “I’m not finding your security guard credentials,” Jake said. Calm. Pleasant. Oddly, it would be a lot easier if Hewlitt was a reasonable suspect. They could take him downtown, do a full workup, and it wouldn’t be Jake’s final call whether to let him go. If his status was iffy, Jake could reasonably err on the side of caution.
    “I’m not a security guard,” Hewlitt said.
    “You’re—?” The last thing Jake expected him to say.
    “What’s more, I never said I was a security guard.”
    “Hell, you didn’t—” DeLuca began.
    “Sir?” Jake began to feel the confidence, the calming of the nerve endings that came with making the correct decision. He’d gone by the book, he’d looked for ID, he’d discovered a discrepancy in what the suspect had told him. Bang. That put the big guy in the back of the cruiser.
    “I said —” Hewlitt’s shoulders rose, then fell. Jake didn’t like the look on his face. “I said I worked at a security company. As a matter of fact, I own the security company. Hewlitt Security. I’m out of business cards, but if you’d like to press speed dial one-one on my cell phone, feel free. That’ll call my office. In fact, please do it. They’re probably beginning to wonder where I am.”
    DeLuca pulled a black cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, offered it to Jake. Jake waved it away.
    “However, Detective, ” Hewlitt went on. “If you’d like to call speed dial eight-eight?—which is what I’d prefer—you’ll be calling my lawyer. Might as well. You’ll be talking to her soon enough.”
    “Hey! Jake, shadow at your six o’clock!” DeLuca’s stance changed, his eyes narrowed, his hand hovered over his weapon again.
    Jake pivoted, followed his partner’s instruction. Saw the shadow. Saw someone coming toward them. Holding