Free Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers by F. Paul Wilson

Massacre. Before that, the heavy scrutiny had been directed at vehicles entering the city. Appeared they'd expanded that to those leaving.
    His big black Crown Vic's trunk—fittingly enough for a car that got negative miles per gallon—was huge, big enough to house a whole Al Qaeda cell and their favorite caprine squeezes. Apparently that made it something to look out for.
    Jack's stomach turned sour as a cop at the entrance to the span signaled him to pull over.
    The big, bored-looking white guy with five-o'clock shadow before noon strolled up to Jack's window. No hurrying for this guy.
    "Good morning, sir. May I see your license and registration?"
    This was bad. Very bad. Jack's IDs, though the best money could buy, were bogus. The registration would pass muster, but he didn't know if the John Tyleski license he'd been using would withstand a computer check. Ernie the ID guy was good, but no one was perfect.
    With moist fingers, Jack dug the license out of his wallet, the registration out of the glove compartment, and handed them over.
    The cop thanked him and turned away, studying them as he headed toward a kiosk by the curb. Halfway there he stopped and returned to Jack's window.
    "These don't match."
    Here we go.
    "Yessir. I drive and run errands for Mr. Donato."
    "We're talking Vinny Donuts here?"
    "Yessir."
    The cop looked around, then handed the cards back.
    "Okay. You got anything in that trunk I shouldn't see?"
    Nothing but some of Jack's burglary tools, and they were hidden in a canvas bag in the spare well.
    "Not a thing, sir. Mr. Donato is a loyal American citizen."
    "Yeah. Okay, pop it so I can take a look."
    Jack did. The cop made a cursory examination—going through the motions—then slammed it shut.
    He slapped the roof and said, "Have a nice day, sir."
    "I will now," Jack muttered once his window had rolled up.
    He crossed the bridge slowly, letting the adrenaline work its way out of his system as he blessed the day he'd come up with the idea of cloning Vincent Donato's car. Mr. Donato, sometimes called "Vinny Donuts" and sometimes called "Vinny the Donut," was built like Abe and ran certain ventures of dubious legality out of Brooklyn. Jack had bought a black Crown Vic identical to Vinny's and had Ernie make up an identical registration card and plate.
    The inspiration had been mothered by necessity: Someone with no love for Jack had traced the plates on his previous car to Gia, putting her and Vicky in jeopardy. Now should anyone trace his plates they'll find themselves dealing with a hard guy notorious for a bad attitude.
    He'd returned to his normal steady state by the time he reached the BQE and took it down to Red Hook. The big Vic sailed along the pocked pavement as if it were velvet.
    Across the river, Lower Manhattan gleamed in the winter sunshine. The city looked so clean from over here. Almost pristine. He wondered when someone would discover the three anything-but-pristine corpses in that cellar.
    He rolled into Red Hook, found Zeklos's apartment, and parked out front. Then he leaned back, watched the pedestrians, and waited.
    After twenty-five minutes a middle-aged man carrying a grocery bag stepped up to the building door. As he fumbled for his key, Jack hopped out and came up behind him. When he unlocked the door, Jack reached past him and held it open.
    "I got it," he said.
    The guy looked at him, suspicion in his eyes.
    "You live here, bud?"
    Jack held up his own shopping bag and loosed his most charming smile.
    "Staying with Zeklos. Y'know, Two-B?"
    "You mean the ghost?"
    They stepped into a tiny vestibule, and then Jack followed the guy up the stairs.
    "Why you call him that? He's a good guy."
    "Maybe so. But nobody hardly ever sees him. You hear him go in and out, but it's like he's invisible. Like a ghost, y'know?"
    Jack knew. He'd been living that way for the past decade and a half: slipping in and out unseen. A ghost in the machine.
    A ghost soon to be exorcised.
    Jack laughed.