Because Jennifer is the top negotiator on the west coast?
Dominic rubbed his face, glad he wasn’t on video. He didn’t indulge very often but after yesterday’s debacle he’d allowed himself a few beers with the others and had woken up with a hangover. Charlotte had poured him into a taxi at midnight.
The woman was a saint.
Dominic drank from a bottle of water he kept on his desk. “My experience is that getting a woman to really listen to him is exactly what this guy craves.” The waitress had insisted the hostage-taker leave the restaurant when he made a scene with the ex-wife. The waitress had threatened to call the police when he’d refused to go quietly. So, he’d shot her. “Jennifer can get him talking, provide an empathetic ear.”
Over the years, Dominic had noted that many of the people who took hostages were men who felt like they were losing control of what they saw as their property. Their wives left them or simply wanted some independence, and the men couldn’t handle it.
The police chief grunted. “I asked his old boss and brother to come down here to talk to him. Was that a mistake?”
Dominic squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s great that you interview them, but don’t let them talk to the hostage-taker.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve no idea the type of relationship they have or what resentments the husband might harbor. If the hostage-taker is the suspicious type he might think one of them is involved with the ex-wife. Trust me, it’s happened.” With deadly consequences.
The chief made a frustrated noise.
“Have SWAT secure the perimeter and see if you can get a visual on the guy in the event you need a tactical solution. Then let the negotiation team do their work. It will take time, but that’s a good thing.” Giving time time was an idea an experienced negotiator at the NYPD had taught him. “The longer we draw this out the more chance we have of everyone walking away from this thing alive.”
A lot of people considered negotiators and behavioral scientists to be the social workers of law enforcement. The hand holders. The “let’s talk this out” or “this UNSUB was probably abused as a child” types. As if that meant they were somehow less dedicated to putting the bad guys behind bars or getting hostages released without harm.
Stats were pretty convincing that when crisis negotiators got involved tempers had time to cool and things resolved with less violence and harm to those involved.
The police chief swallowed audibly. “There’s a little kid in there…”
Dominic’s grip on the phone tightened. “I realize that, but as tempting as it is to rush in with guns blazing, that’s the most dangerous thing you can do for the child at this point. If the situation deteriorates, you’ll have that tactical team in place ready to respond.”
Dominic never failed to see the futility of the hostage-takers’ actions. What did they think would happen? That the cops would leave them alone while they held their family at gunpoint? That rape and enslavement would be fine as long as they didn’t bother anyone else?
A good negotiator had to put all judgment aside, to convince a hostage-taker—usually a person in crisis—that life was still worth living, and that although things seemed hopeless right then, there was still hope. It got considerably harder when someone committed a capital crime in a death penalty state.
If law enforcement were forced to go tactical then mother and child could easily wind up dead in the crossfire. But if crisis negotiators did their job effectively there was no need for the flash bang or storming the barricades. Getting someone to release their captives and lay down their arms was the most empowering thing imaginable.
The chief seemed hesitant. “I’ll do it your way, but the mayor isn’t going to like it.”
“Tell him to butt out. This is a law enforcement matter, not a political one.”
“Her.” The cop corrected. “I’ll tell her, but she probably isn’t going to like it.”
Getting local politicians and the brass to cooperate in a cohesive manner was often challenging, and lack of communication between various agencies could dangerously undermine the negotiator’s position.
Dominic rolled his shoulder. “Tell the mayor to call me if she wants any clarification on negotiation tactics.” He rang off, knowing the police chief had his hands full with a set of circumstances he wasn’t used to dealing with. Unlike Dominic, who dealt with some variant of this situation on an almost daily basis. It didn’t mean all siege or hostage situations could be run the same way with the same results. Emotions drove events and so did the unpredictable actions of everyone involved. Humans were notoriously fickle. Hence the need for trained negotiators who didn’t react or lash out in frustration and who knew how to de-escalate tension even when lives were on the line.
He grabbed his water bottle again and took another large gulp, wishing he hadn’t finished off the night with a few whiskey chasers. Beer was one thing. Fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich was something else.
He checked the wire, but there was no update on the UNSUB in Calvin’s murder. The image of Ava Kanas challenging the Director of the FBI to delve deeper into Van’s death flashed through his brain. The woman had cajones even if she lacked subtlety. He picked up the phone and called Fredericksburg and was put through to Ray Aldrich almost immediately.
“Any updates on the shooter?” Dominic asked.
Aldrich sighed. “Nothing that points us to an identity. There’s a basement parking garage, and we believe they drove away before you even got there on foot. No surveillance cameras anywhere in that building or in the vicinity.”
“What about Van’s death?” Ava Kanas’s conviction had been compelling, but maybe neither of them wanted to admit they’d failed a man who’d mentored them both.
“I’ve been over the notes again but can’t find anything that looks suspicious.”
“Could I look at the files?” Dominic closed his eyes as he made the request.
“You sure you want to do that?”
Did he want to view the death scene and autopsy photographs of one of his best friends? No, he didn’t. “I might be able to help.”
“Okay, I’ll send you the access information but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Aldrich.
“What about Agent Kanas? How’s she holding up after the shooting?”
Aldrich sighed. “She’s a good agent, but she’s like a dog with a bone and doesn’t know when to let go. I put her on a lead we were sent from the New Mexico Field Office, which should keep her busy for a few days or weeks.”
So, she’d probably be even more frustrated. “Do you believe her?” asked Dom.
“Honestly? No. I think she’s overwrought and upset.”
Ava Kanas did not seem like the overwrought type. She seemed determined and passionate.
“She and Van were close?” Dominic asked.
“Not intimate like you suggested yesterday, at least, not as far as I’m aware.”
Dominic winced. Not his finest moment and probably reflected more his thoughts regarding Agent Kanas than anything else. She was very attractive.
“But they were close. This is her FOA, and Van took her under his wing. I guess she imprinted on him in a big way.”
Van had done the same thing with Dominic over a decade ago. Dominic had never figured out why. Had he looked like such a newbie that Van had known he needed help? Probably.
Something about Ava Kanas’s conviction seemed deeper than that of a mentee’s reaction to a mentor’s death, but as Dominic sucked at relationships in general, what the hell did he know?
“I’m getting another call,” Aldrich said. “Thanks for taking a look at the files. I do not want to look like an idiot in front of the director.”
Dominic grunted as he hung up. He didn’t give a crap about appearances, but some might suggest he didn’t need to, which was probably true and pissed him off.
Dominic’s email dinged and there was the case file number of Van’s death investigation a
nd a permission key to access it sitting in his inbox. His mouth went dry, and his heart started to pound as his finger hovered over the button. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Not even a little bit.
* * *
Ava sat in her Bucar down the road from the home of the girlfriend of a prisoner who’d escaped from the Penitentiary of New Mexico. The converted older home had three apartments, one on each floor, and backed onto the city and historic Confederate Cemetery. It was mid-morning in a quiet neighborhood, not exactly conducive to surveillance when strangers sitting in parked cars stood out like flashing neon signs. She kept an eye on the front door by watching her rear-view mirror.
She’d dressed down in a The National t-shirt and her oldest, rattiest jeans ripped at the knees, and a pair of red Vans meaning she could run if necessary. She wore shades and a blue, evil eye bracelet her mother had sent her when she’d graduated the academy. Her gun was on her hip, with the shirt tugged over it. A backup strapped to her ankle.
Everyone else from the Resident Agency had been assigned to the investigation into yesterday’s shooting. It looked like she’d hamstrung herself by opening her big, fat mouth in front of the director. Rather than being involved she’d been sidelined. The knot in her throat threatened to choke her.
Van would be so mad at her for screwing that up. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t let it drop. He’d warned her to always make sure she followed the rules and to do her job properly.
The public relied on the FBI to get the bad guys off the street and agents had to be willing to get the job done no matter the sacrifice. Agents were allowed a personal agenda, but the Bureau’s work came first. He’d drummed that into her from the moment they’d met.
So here she sat outside Maria Santana’s apartment, drinking coffee and watching the door when she’d rather be tracing Van’s last movements or going door-to-door searching for clues as to the identity of yesterday’s shooter.
A fly buzzed, and she swatted it away. Despite it being early and her being parked beneath a large, leafy tree, it was hot as Hades inside the Impala. She had the engine and AC off and windows rolled down as an idling car would draw too much attention. This promised to be a long and tedious assignment.
Maria Santana’s boyfriend, Jimmy Taylor, had been held on charges of drug smuggling and two counts of first-degree murder, one of which involved a cop sent to arrest him. Ava had no idea how Jimmy had escaped custody but the idea he’d travel back to Virginia when he was right next to the Mexican border seemed ludicrous. So what if Maria was sex on legs? There was no way he’d come back here. This was a waste of her time.
Ava forced herself to not react when Maria emerged from the building looking pretty and feminine, wearing dark shades, a long floral skirt with a peasant blouse. Ava weighed her options. Follow Maria on foot or hang out here and wait for her to return home? Alternatively, she could drive around the block and park at the Sugar Shack and watch the apartment from there while refueling on donuts until Maria returned.
Follow on foot. She could do with the exercise.
Ava was reaching for the door handle when a big, black Suburban pulled up behind her down the street.
She froze.
The driver was a white male wearing dark shades and a red ball cap pulled low. Was it Jimmy? Nah. He couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Ava forced herself to remain still and not draw attention. At the same time, she peered in the mirror, attempting to make a positive ID.
Maria climbed in the truck and locked lips with the guy like she was gonna nail him then and there in the front seat. What the hell?
Holy shit.
It was Jimmy Taylor. Obviously, Maria was sex on legs and worth the risk of a lengthy prison sentence. Was that true love or the ultimate in stupidity? Considering Maria could have flown out to meet the guy anywhere in the world, Ava was hedging toward them both being morons.
She let them pull away and watched them turn down Sylvania Avenue before she started the engine and cut quickly down Mortimer, parallel, one street over. She floored it, catching sight of the Suburban crossing Littlepage, and floored it again. By the time she got to the next intersection, she’d caught up and watched them veer left before she indicated and did the same. She called dispatch.
“I have a sighting of the suspect, Jimmy Taylor, traveling west on William with his girlfriend, Maria Santana, in a black Suburban.” She gave them the license plate. “I’m in pursuit and need immediate backup. Get a chopper in the air if possible.”
Maybe she could patch into some local police cruisers, and they might be able to box Taylor in before he got away.
She squinted at the vehicle now traveling in front of her. Ideally, she’d be part of a team—unlike what Sheridan had suggested yesterday, she did know how to work as part of a team—and they’d operate in tandem changing positions and taking different routes, but today she was on her own. It was unusually quiet on the road, which was both good and bad. They took a right onto Highway 3, and she stuck closer than she wanted because she didn’t want to get caught at a light. She held her breath as they passed the exits to Route 1, grateful he didn’t take either. Unfortunately, they were only a mile from the intersection that took him onto Interstate 95, which ran the entire length of the east coast. The cops couldn’t afford a high-speed chase on such a busy road and if they lost him, Jimmy could escape to anywhere along the eastern seaboard.
She eyed the conditions. They were on a four-lane portion of Route 3 with a lot of shops and restaurants—too much of a risk to pedestrians to try what she had in mind.
“I’m going to attempt to pull him over as soon as I find some green space,” she said to dispatch.
“Roger that, Agent Kanas. Backup is on the way.”
Ava got close to Taylor’s vehicle and turned on the flashing lights in the dash. She laid on the siren, and Taylor’s car jumped ahead.
Shit.
Dispatch was still on the line.
“He took off.” The on-ramp for the interstate came into view a half mile away. Taylor was going to make a run for it.
Ava weighed her options. The Impala was fully fitted out with reinforced bumpers as it was one of the few surveillance vehicles they had at the Fredericksburg Resident Agency. “I’m going to attempt a PIT maneuver to prevent him getting onto the interstate.”
She’d practiced the Pursuit Intervention Technique a hundred times in training as a patrol cop, but never for real and never on her own while trying to arrest an alleged murderer.
He ignored the northbound ramp, which suited her purposes. Southbound had more waste ground and less trees on the side of the road.
She put her foot on the gas, and her car shot forward. It took a few nerve-wracking seconds to position the nose of her hood just behind his rear, driver’s side wheel arch. He swerved away as if he knew what she was planning. Maybe he did. She couldn’t afford to hesitate in case he had a weapon and started shooting.
She checked her surroundings again and saw the flash of lights in her rear-view. Backup was close.
“Going to try to force him off the road.” She matched her speed to his, hoping the Impala had enough power in reserve to accomplish what she intended. Holding tight to the steering wheel, she nosed the Impala inches from Taylor’s Suburban as he hit the ramp. She punched the gas, jerking the wheel toward the other car. The fleeing vehicle abruptly spun sideways across the tarmac and careened onto the shoulder, coming to an abrupt halt, a complete one-eighty to where it had started.
Ava managed to keep control of her car and pulled up onto the shoulder a little distance away. Jumping out, she drew her Glock even as she pulled the lever for her trunk. She grabbed her ballistics vest and pulled it over her head, strapping it on one-handed and never taking her eyes off the Suburban.
The other car still rocked slightly in the dirt at the side of the road.
Knowing backup was close, but not knowing the state of the people inside the rig, Ava carefully approached the vehicle from the
driver’s side. Her heart pounded from the exhilaration of the chase and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Did Jimmy have a weapon? Did Maria?
“FBI. Open the door and show me your hands,” she yelled.
Slowly the door creaked open. Jimmy Taylor held his hands out to show they were empty and turned his body so both feet were visible. She moved around so she could see past him into the passenger seat. Maria was slumped, apparently unconscious, against the passenger door. Blood matted her hair. More blood coated Taylor’s chin.
“You ran us off the road?” His voice was high-pitched with shock. “What the fuck? My girlfriend is hurt. I need to help her.”
Ava balanced her weight on the balls of her feet. “She should have worn her seatbelt.”
“You fucking bitch.” His words were clipped. Eyes hot with rage.
“Ambulance is on the way.” Not quite true, but it wouldn’t be long. “Get out of the car, Mr. Taylor. Nice and slow.”
“Who? You’ve got the wrong guy, darlin’, and I’m going to sue you and your department for everything you have.”
“Get out of the car, Jimmy.”
“You made a mistake, and I’m gonna sue your fucking ass so bad…” He slid out of the car slowly, then lunged so fast he caught her off guard. She dodged, cursed and then moved in closer, keeping her gun out of his grasp while she kneed him in the groin. As he curled over in agony, she caught one of his wrists and used it to force him to the ground. Patrol cops were pulling up as she drew her cuffs out of her back pocket. She identified herself. One officer handled traffic. Another approached with his weapon drawn, pointed at Jimmy. Ava read the guy his rights and slowly registered the sound of a chopper overhead.
“There’s an injured passenger.” Ava told the police officer. “We need them both checked out at the hospital before they get processed.” She helped Jimmy to his feet and passed him over to a third cop who turned up. “Call the Marshals. Tell them we found something they lost.”
Ava and another cop saw to Maria until the paramedics arrived. The woman had banged her head on the side window and claimed she didn’t remember a damn thing, not even her name. Not the first person in the world to claim amnesia, but as a defense tactic it generally didn’t go down great with the judge.
Dangerous To Love Page 4
