Covington said, “Boxer. Conklin. You know this guy?”
He stood the shooter up so I could get a good look at his face. I’d never met Kingfisher. I compared the real-life suspect with my memory of the fuzzy videos I’d seen of Jorge Sierra, a.k.a. the King.
“Let me see his hands,” I said.
It was a miracle that my voice sounded steady, even to my own ears. I was sweating and my breathing was shallow. My gut told me that this was the man.
Covington twisted the prisoner’s hands so that I could see the backs of them. On the suspect’s left hand was the tattoo of a kingfisher, the same as the one in the photo in Kingfisher’s slim file.
I said to our prisoner, “Mr. Sierra. I’m Sergeant Boxer. Do you need medical attention?”
“Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, maybe.”
Covington jerked him to his feet and said, “We’ll take good care of him. Don’t worry.”
He marched the King to the waiting paddy wagon, and I watched as he was shackled and chained to the bar before the door was closed.
Covington slapped the side of the van, and it took off as CSI and the medical examiner’s van moved in and SWAT thundered into the Vault to clear the scene.