by G. K. Parks
He shook his head, stepping backward and dragging Paul with him. “If I let him go, someone will shoot me. I didn’t get a chance to explain, and now,” he used his gun hand to rub his head, “everything’s on fucking crack. After you spoke to me, I wanted to come outside and talk to you. I really did.” He looked at Jacobs, begging him to understand. “But before I could, this guy,” he pushed Paul forward slightly, “runs in here ranting and raving. I thought we were friends, man.”
“We were until I found out you used Rachel, killed Alvin, and tried to poison me.”
“Paul, shut up,” I snarled. Eastman was going to get himself killed, along with Oster, if he didn’t shut his mouth. The moron had no idea how to handle himself in a crisis situation.
“I didn’t kill Alvin,” Oster insisted. “I didn’t kill the other guy either.” He met my eyes. “It wasn’t me. I swear.” A thought crossed his mind, and he began dragging Paul backward at a much faster clip.
“Oster, let Eastman go,” Jacobs tried again, following pursuit at a reasonable pace, hoping to stop Oster before this situation could get any worse.
“Jason, take me instead. I’m a much more lucrative hostage. Female. Former federal agent. Constant police consultant. They won’t risk my life.” It wasn’t necessarily true.
“Parker,” Jacobs growled next to me, “shut up and get outside.”
“No.” This wasn’t the best moment for an argument, and Jacobs shook his head. Oster’s eyes looked pitiful, but he didn’t say another word as we helplessly watched him drag Paul into the elevator. Just as the doors began to close, Jacobs lifted his gun and fired three times. Each shot rang out, echoing as it impacted against the steel doors, never puncturing through the shell. “And now we’ve got a fucking crisis situation on our hands.” I stared at the number next to the elevator, waiting to determine what floor Oster was taking Paul to, but the elevator halted suddenly between levels, making that determination impossible.
“Get outside, Parker,” Jacobs growled. “You’re a civilian, and my top priority is to clear out all civilians.”
I rolled my eyes and holstered my gun. “Is ESU on the way?” The radio chirped, and orders for maintaining the perimeter were relayed. “Never mind,” I mumbled. “They’re at least on six. I’ll help clear the bottom levels.”
“Fine. Take the odds. I’ll do evens. And then get your ass outside.”
“Yes, sir.” The sardonic tone was not lost on Jacobs, and he threw me an angry glare before radioing for an officer to monitor movement on the elevator and to cover all the exits. As long as they remained halted between levels, the only person in danger was Paul. I didn’t like it, namely since I was supposed to be protecting him, but at least it was one guy and not a hundred.
Amazingly enough, the fire alarm actually cleared out the majority of the hotel. The fact that it was the middle of the day and most guests were out only helped matters. After telling a few people to vacate immediately, I took the stairs up another two levels to repeat the process. Why did Oster pull a gun, and what did he hope to accomplish by grabbing Paul? He was threatened. He practically admitted to that fact when Jacobs confronted him earlier. At the time, he wouldn’t tell us who got to him. His only concern was that Rachel was out of harm’s way.
On the fifth floor, I stopped, rocked by a thought. Oster was going after the people responsible, and Paul got in the way. Maybe if he hadn’t shown up, Oster would have divulged some identities and this could have been handled appropriately. Now we were in the midst of a standoff. I glanced at the main elevator, the one Oster had used, but it was still locked down somewhere above me. He didn’t have a plan. He was reacting, and now he was stuck. Desperation only led to bloodshed, and Paul Eastman clearly wasn’t smart enough to hold his tongue.
“Don’t get yourself killed, Paul,” I said to the doors as I went back to the stairwell.
“Hands up,” a police officer bellowed when I exited the lobby.
I did as I was told, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. After identifying myself, I was ushered into the FBI’s tactical van. HRT and ESU were both on scene. The pissing contest was just beginning. Joy.
“Alexis Parker,” an FBI agent said, reading my name off my license. He radioed for further information, taking appropriate measures to make sure I wasn’t part of this insane conspiracy that had rocked the hotel and led to a few homicides. By the end of the day, there would probably be even more bodies cooling in the morgue. “OIO agent,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck it. Walton wants a word with you.”
“Little ol’ me?” I asked innocently, knowing precisely what was about to happen. A rectal exam would be less invasive than the interrogation I would be forced to endure.
“Parker,” Walton barked from the van door, “let’s take a walk.” I followed him outside and to the staging area he was sharing with the ESU commander. “Every time this place goes to hell, you’re here. It looks like you’re the commonality, so I suggest you explain before I bring you up on charges.”
After explaining my joint venture with Detective Jacobs concerning Jason Oster and Paul Eastman’s sudden interruption, Walton rolled his eyes. I spotted Jacobs having a similar conversation with a member of ESU. Lucky for him, no one thought he was to blame for the current hostage situation, even if those were his bullets in the elevator doors. Briefly, I wondered if firing was a breach of protocol and what IA would think of the officer involved shooting.
“I need a full workup on Eastman and Oster,” Walton bellowed, turning to one of the techs. “Does anyone have a twenty on Wheeler?”
“Negative. We lost sight of him when the evacuation began. Our surveillance cameras are down too,” the tech said, slamming the keyboard in the hopes of forcing it to cooperate through physical violence, but the inanimate object just beeped angrily in response. “We have no idea how many guests are unaccounted for. The desk clerk and a few of the security guards are trying to compile a list of missing personnel. As soon as we locate the hotel manager, we should have a clearer picture of how many might still be inside.”
“You lost Wheeler.” Smug wasn’t the way to go, but I couldn’t help it. “Real fine job you’re doing, SAC Walton.”
“You’re one to talk,” he snarled. “At this very moment, it appears that Jason Oster is our killer.” He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to me. “And I’m betting that Paul Eastman is helping him.” The force of his words sent spittle flying from his mouth. Disgusted, I wiped my face and stepped back.
“That’s not true.” My words were hollow.
“Then why didn’t Oster put a bullet in his head and call it a day?” He glared daggers. “It’s because they’re working together.”
“You have no basis for thinking that,” I snapped. I had no basis not to think that. Truthfully, it would have been a brilliant play. Dupe me, create some bogus standoff, escape during the hostage situation, and kill whatever silent partners might remain, namely Rodney Wheeler. Maybe it was a robbery, a way to access Wheeler’s money or whatever money Frank Costan might have stashed somewhere in the hotel, and escape while everyone was working to sort through the mess and deescalate the situation before a tactical option became the only viable one. “But if that’s true, they need an escape route.”
“What the hell do you think demands are for?”
“Have you received any?” I retorted.
“No. We haven’t been able to establish contact. As far as we know, the elevator hasn’t moved. They’re still inside.”
“Maybe it’s a murder-suicide.”
“Maybe you’re their accomplice.” His look grew wary. “You are working for Paul Eastman, aren’t you? From what Jablonsky’s told me and what has leaked out of the police department, you were instrumental in getting Eastman released from lockup and having the charges dropped.”
“The charges were bullshit, and you know it. If anyone ought to be accused of collaborating with the killer, it should be you. You pulled strings to make sure Eastm
an remained in custody supposedly to make some grand bust, but maybe you’re Wheeler’s inside man. Has anyone performed an internal assessment to figure out how a killer got inside the hotel, axed one of the FBI’s most wanted, and let another party be hung out in the middle of the hallway like a fucking piñata, all while the FBI was monitoring the situation? All while you were monitoring the situation.”
“Get her out of my face,” Walton ordered an agent that just joined us, “but make sure she doesn’t go far. Right now, she’s a prime suspect.”
Biting my tongue, I inhaled sharply, letting out a few barely contained huffs. If Walton wanted to play this game, then I’d give him a much better reason to bring me up on charges, starting with assaulting a federal agent.
“Ma’am,” the agent said from behind, “please, come with me.” He put a gentle hand on my shoulder, and giving Walton a final death stare, I let the agent lead me back to the surveillance van for questioning.
After answering every question imaginable concerning the two murders, my role as security consultant for PDN, my current client, and Jason Oster and Rachel Romanski’s connection to every party imaginable, I was left to sit quietly while techs continued to compile information on Oster and Eastman. The surveillance feed inside the hotel had been cut, and it made no sense to me how that happened.
“We can’t locate the hotel manager,” one of the agents reported while I drummed my fingers against the side of the chair. “We’re guessing he might still be inside.”
Even though they weren’t talking to me, I answered anyway. “Gordon Russell is upstairs. The last time I saw him was ten minutes before the world went crazy. He was on the tenth floor.” The agents turned to me. “I questioned him about the hotel remodel.” They looked bewildered. “I used to do your job for god’s sakes. I’m not an incompetent moron like the guy in charge of your op.” One of the two men shut his eyes, stifling a chuckle, and the other walked away. “Have there been any developments?” I asked, hoping the remaining agent might offer an update.
“Not yet. Contact still hasn’t been established. We’re reviewing phone records now, hoping for a solid lead. We’ve dialed Oster’s cell, assuming it’s on him, but he doesn’t answer. We’ve tried Eastman’s too, but we get the same results.”
“Eastman doesn’t have a phone on him.” I bit my lip, wondering if Jablonsky ever figured out who Paul called at the hotel before he pulled his Houdini act. “Can I see Oster’s sheet for a second?” He glanced around to make sure the coast was clear before handing me the paper. I didn’t recognize any of the numbers and handed it back. “Have you tried phoning inside the hotel?”
“We’re on it. We’ve tried the main offices, front desk, conference rooms, but no answer. Like I said, as far as we know, they’re still in the hotel.”
“Are you planning a breach?” I asked, afraid of the response.
“We’re hoping to get eyes and ears inside before we do. But we’ll see what happens.” His gaze shifted out of the van and at the group assembled under the makeshift tent that was being shared by ESU and HRT. The two commanders were in the midst of a disagreement, and I wasn’t positive they wouldn’t come to blows over it. With any luck, Walton would try to take charge of both teams and get his ass knocked out.
“Nice pissing match. A word of advice, have a few snipers set up in the surrounding area. They can fire some warning shots when the PD and FBI come to blows.”
“The police need to back off,” he muttered. “This is our investigation.”
“Really?” Honey, not vinegar, I reminded myself, faking interest and turning on the charm. “How long have you been monitoring Jason Oster?”
“We haven’t.” He paused.
“So who have you been monitoring?” I knew the answer, but it never hurt to have some additional verification.
“Senator Wheeler.” His eyes shifted uncomfortably, and he stepped back.
“Do you know if Wheeler’s still inside the hotel?”
“We lost track,” he stepped out of the van, seconds away from leaving me to die of boredom.
“So how exactly does that make this situation FBI jurisdiction?” Yes, I used to be an agent, but there were too many cooks in the kitchen for this to have a positive resolution. One team needed to back off.
Thirty-seven
After alienating the one agent who actually appreciated my sense of humor, I decided to risk my personal freedom by sneaking out of the surveillance van. It was funny since the techs inside didn’t give a shit where I went or what I was doing, and Walton didn’t bother to confiscate my weapon, P.I. license, or any personal property. Obviously, he was ticked off that I was calling him out on his shit, but he had much bigger fish to fry. I wasn’t even a blip on his radar.
“Jacobs,” I hissed, coming up behind him and leading him to a secluded corner where only a few LEOs were milling about, “what the hell is going on?”
“The shit’s hitting the fan,” he looked at the group under the tent, “and it’s flying every which way.” He sighed deeply. “As far as I can tell, they’re working on a plan. The bottom levels have been swept. Everything below the stopped elevator has been cleared.”
“Why stop there?” I asked. “Have the doors been opened?”
“We don’t know.” ESU ventured as high as seven and reported the outer elevator doors appeared to be forced open. The adjacent elevator is halted on ten, and the override code’s been entered. So we can’t bring it down.” He pressed his lips together. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
“Probably not,” I admitted, “but lucky for you, I’m intimately aware of the building’s layout. And since the FBI is currently considering me a prime suspect, I’m willing to share my infinite knowledge.” I offered a smile. “What else shouldn’t you be telling me?”
“Gordon Russell is probably still inside. We’ve phoned his office, and someone picked up the receiver but hung it up. And now we can’t get an answer.”
“So you think they’re inside his office?”
“Someone is.” His gaze shifted to the police department’s emergency services unit that relocated to their own staging area, away from the FBI’s hostage rescue team. “Have you picked a side?”
“Maybe I should flip a coin. Former federal agent and police consultant are both on my résumé, and it doesn’t look like Switzerland is a current option.” I chuckled. “Do you promise not to hold me responsible for this shit?”
“Why would I?”
“Good enough for me.” I headed in the direction of ESU. Not waiting for Detective Jacobs to make the proper introductions, I introduced myself. Diving into the blueprints spread across the table, I told the commander everything that I knew of the hotel, the weaknesses in the security, the measures in place, and every tidbit of information I had on elevator operation, courtesy of my stint with PDN and my recent improvements at Martin Technologies.
“Parker,” Commander Torre let my name play across his lips, “where have I heard that name before?”
“It’s common enough.” I shrugged.
“She’s worked with major crimes off and on,” Jacobs piped up. “Regardless of her private sector career and attitude, she knows her shit.” He tossed a faint smile in my direction. “Her current client was taken hostage by Oster.”
“All right,” Torre came to a decision and spread out the building schematics and called his team over, “we need to block off all exits and entrances. The only way out has to be through the front door in the main lobby. We’re working under the assumption it is a single hostile acting alone, but our hostage taker is hotel security. It’s possible some of the unaccounted for employees are working with him or are hostages. We have no way of knowing.” He handed the marker to me. “This is Parker. She reviewed building security, and she’s going to tell us where to position ourselves.” He turned to me. “It’s your show.”
“Okay,” I began circling side exits, employee-only access points, and drew into questi
on the subbasement with tunnel access, “these are your points of entry. Anything above the third floor isn’t a viable option for escape since there are no practical exterior means of exiting. Someone needs to close off the below ground perimeter. As you might have heard, in the last two weeks, it was used to hide a body. Obviously, that means the doors have been breached. If the chatter from the FBI is believable, the hostage taker might also be responsible for that man’s death which means he knows precisely how to access the subbasement and get out undetected.”
“I want two guys inside those tunnels, and I mean yesterday,” Torre snapped, and part of his team disappeared. “Anything else?”
“That’s everything on the building.” I stepped backward. “I’m sure Detective Jacobs has offered his insight on the hostile inside.”
“All right, stay close in case we need you,” Torre mumbled, immediately returning to devising a play as another one of his team members began running through a possible upper level breach using roof access and rappelling gear.
Jacobs nodded his thanks, and I wandered through the mess of police and FBI personnel, contemplating the reason for Oster’s behavior. He didn’t seem unstable. He didn’t seem crazy. And he sure as hell didn’t seem like a killer, let alone someone who would ever think taking a hostage was a good idea. The only strike against him was the fact he was desperate. Rachel’s threats and involvement made him desperate, and desperate led to horrible decisions. The fact that Paul appeared and added insult to injury only exacerbated the situation.
Dialing Detective O’Connell, I hoped he’d be at the precinct. On the third ring to his desk phone, he answered. “I need to speak to Rachel Romanski,” I said, not bothering with a greeting.
“Alex, what’s going on?” Nick asked. “Jablonsky showed up maybe an hour ago, asking for a number lookup. And we keep getting reports on the current hostage situation.”
