Chapter Text
Jack Manhattan had seen his fair share of difficult cases. From serial killers to stalkers to the Skulker (which had wound up to be his own son), every single one of them was more difficult than the last.
This case was on a level beyond any of those.
It was like this thief knew him better than himself, or hell, even better than his recently maybe-deceased partner Cosmo knew him. Every witticism he had was matched with one right back; every punch he threw was expertly blocked; every shot he fired was dodged.
And they were fast with a gun of their own; a small 9 mm that still packed a hell of a punch. No one had been shot yet in dealing with this punk, but Jack was sure it was coming any moment.
Which was why he was up late, hunched over his desk in his wife's recently re-constructed attic, doing his damnedest to put together the clues to thwart what appeared to be the perfect anti-Jack Manhattan.
"Maybe I should call 'm the Queen," he said to himself, laughing sardonically. "Or Vermouth."
It also didn't help that any evidence he got seemed to vanish the moment he turned his back. Whoever that thief was, they had eyes on Jack and his family, and that made him nervous.
As he glanced around for any possible security cameras, his walkie crackled to life. "Manhattan!" a garbled voice shouted. He knew automatically it was the Chief Lieutenant. "Manhattan, are you there?"
He picked up the walkie and put it to his head in a fluid, practiced motion. "I'm here. What is it?"
"We've got eyes on your perp. They're near the station. You better get over here and not let them get away again."
"On it, chief. Manhattan out." He kicked the hatch to the attic open and dropped down to the second floor of the house, immediately in front of his son, who gave him a quizzical look.
"Have you seen Vicki?" Johnny asked. "Mom said to let her know dinner was ready."
"She's probably out babysitting for the Kosciuskos again," Jack replied. "You know her."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Her loss. Mom made pot roast." Jack could think of several things better than his wife's pot roast, up to and including the leftover pizza the Kosciuskos surely had left in their fridge for pizza, even if it was Los Angeles pizza.
"Right. Well, if I see her, I'll let her know. Bye." He pushed past his son and raced down the stairs, grabbing the keys to the police car he was definitely not meant to have taken home with him and racing out the door to the car.
The tires squealed on their driveway as he pulled out with the siren blazing, leaving rubber marks behind. Jack was sure he would be power-washing those away later, lest he face the wrath of Lucy Santangelo-Manhattan, but for now, he grinned as the cold city air hit his face.
Jack Manhattan was where he felt the best: in hot pursuit of a criminal.