“I want him guarded 24/7,” said Carter to the uniforms. “Two men at all times, and heads up. If this guy wants to finish the job, he’ll come in blasting.”
They followed the gurney inside. There was a flurry of green scrubs and shouting, then the doors to the OR hissed shut, leaving the two detectives standing with a surgeon.
“How long for the operation?” asked Michaels.
“To take the bullets out, not long,” said the surgeon. “But we got to get Neuro down to take a look at the spine. I don’t think the guy walks again.”
“He wasn’t going anywhere, anyways,” said Michaels. “We’d like him alive and talking.”
“Don’t worry, that’s what we do,” replied the surgeon. “Welcome to Gunshots ’R’ Us.”
He vanished through the doors. Carter tugged on Michaels’s arm.
“What?”
“I figure that adrenaline rush you’ve been coasting on is about to run out,” said Carter. “Let’s get you looked at before you crash and get all whiny with it.”
Cracked rib, said the ER nurse. Cracked rib, said the X-ray tech. By the time an actual doctor came by and peremptorily taped him up, the formal diagnosis was an afterthought. The doctor pulled out a prescription pad, then looked at him quizzically.
“How much do you want it to not hurt?” he asked.
“What’s the tradeoff?” asked Michaels.
“You have any desire to be awake anytime in the near future?”
“Actually, I do,” said Michaels. “But give me something for when I need to sleep without screaming.”
The doctor scribbled something. “You’re a lucky man today,” he said as he handed it to him.
“I guess I am,” said Michaels. “Not really feeling it yet.”
He walked out of the ER. Carter was waiting for him.
“They told me you got a cracked rib,” he said.
“So I heard,” said Michaels. “How’s our boy?”
“Still in surgery,” said Carter. “And Birnbaum’s here.”
“He wants to debrief us?”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Birnbaum’s moods were measured on the Richter scale. From the looks of his complexion, which was veering into the deep-purple end of red, there was major activity happening along his faultline.
“Routine execution of a search warrant, that’s what you said,” he fumed. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”
“Yes, captain,” answered Carter.
“And now I got an escaped cop-shooter with no description,” said Birnbaum. “Wonderful. Let’s call the Post and share our little victory.”
“I didn’t really get shot,” explained Michaels. “I got shot at. The bullet did not technically enter my body.”
“And my foot will not technically connect with your ass,” retorted Birnbaum.
“We did get twelve keys of coke off the street,” pointed out Carter. “And one guy to charge them against.”
“Oh, that was good work,” said Birnbaum. “Did he put up a struggle as you put the cuffs on, or was he too busy bleeding on the floor? Get Portillo, and then I can start sticking medals on someone.”
He stormed away.
“Ain’t no winning with this one, is there?” said Carter.
The surgeon came out. “You need these for evidence or something?” he asked, holding out his hand. There were two bullets in it.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Carter. “How’s the patient?”
“He’ll live, but he won’t be out of a wheelchair until someone figures out how to reconnect spinal cords.”
“That sucks,” said Michaels. “How long until he wakes up?”
“Should be soon.”
“Okay, doc, thanks,” said Michaels. He turned to Carter. “So now that they’ve sewed him up, let’s go see if he’s willing to spill his guts.”
“Not until I talk to him about his condition,” said the surgeon. “He hears that from me, not from you.”
“Look, doc, this is a serious case here,” said Michaels. “We got a shooter on the run.”
“My house, my rules,” replied the surgeon. “I’ll let you know when I’m through.”
About fifteen minutes later, he came out and gave them a nod. They went inside. The man was stretched out on a bed, a number of different monitors beeping and blinking around him. He was staring up at the ceiling, but rolled his eyes toward the two detectives as they pulled up a couple of chairs to the bed. One of his hands was handcuffed to the siderail.
“How’s it going, John?” asked Michaels.
“Who’s John?” whispered the man.
“That’s how they got you listed,” said Michaels. “You’re John Doe 375 until they find out your real name. Sorry about your situation. Guess your partner figured he didn’t want you talking.”
“I’m not talking,” said the man.
“Look at that loyalty, will you?” beamed Michaels.
“Impressive,” said Carter. “Gets shot in the back by his own boy, and still won’t give him up.”
“John — screw that, give me a name,” said Michaels. “We’ll have it by tonight with the fingerprints, so you might as well.”
“Santos,” said the man.
“Okay, Santos, nice to meet you. Here’s the thing,” said Michaels. “We took twelve keys out of the floor in the bedroom. That puts you deep into A-1 felony weight, which in real terms means a whole lotta years to life. Not only that, you get charged for what your buddy Portillo did when we came in the door.”
“What do you mean?” wheezed Santos.
“I mean two counts of attempted murder in the— Hey, I guess it’s first degree, isn’t it?”
“He was shooting at police officers,” said Carter. “Hit one. That makes it first degree in my book.”
“So that makes it another whole lotta years to life consecutive to the first whole lotta years to life,” continued Michaels.
“I didn’t shoot anyone,” protested Santos.
“Yeah, but it’s this whole acting-in-concert thing,” said Michaels. “Legal stuff, but I’m saying it means you go down for everything here.”
“He’s not my partner,” said Santos.
“Then you shouldn’t give a shit what happens to him,” said Michaels.
“I wouldn’t,” added Carter.
“You see, here’s what I’m saying, Santos,” Michaels continued. “We can give up on him and let you take the weight, and that’s a win for us. We go on to the next case, and you go upstate into maximum security...”
“That’s on account of it being a violent felony,” explained Carter.
“Where you will spend the rest of your life not being able to walk, piss, shit, or... which one am I missing?”
“Fuck,” said Carter.
“Oh yeah, fuck,” said Michaels. “On the plus side, when you get gang-banged, you won’t feel a thing. You could get some reading done while it’s going on.”
“You are going to be one well-read man,” said Carter.
“But, as you might have figured out by now...” started Michaels.
“Because you are an intelligent individual...” said Carter.
“There is a way of making this situation a whole lot easier.”
“Portillo,” said Santos.
“That’s right.”
“And you give me what? Witness Protection Program?”
“Not likely,” said Michaels. “But we could just charge you with the drugs, and there’s a lot of flexibility in the sentencing. Even probation comes into play if your info is good.”
“I can get out?”
“We could drop it down a grade or three depending on the level of cooperation we get,” explained Michaels. “This is Queens. We got a deal going with the Narcotics DA. Doesn’t mean you can go back to selling, but yeah, you can get out.”