Hunted

by Karen Robards

  “Hope the little son of a bitch is worth it, because you just threw your life away for him,” Martin snarled at Ware at the same time.

  On the monitor, Caroline could see Ware’s face tighten, see the way his pistol nudged the back of her father’s head. Her heartbeat quickened. The last thing her father, or any of them, should be doing was antagonizing Ware. The situation spoke for itself: the man was armed, dangerous, and clearly capable of extreme violence.

  “If I go down, you’re going with me,” Ware told him. “Count on it.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me handle this, Superintendent,” Caroline said crisply.

  Eyes widening a little, her father sat taller in his chair: the ultimate control freak, it was obvious that he was surprised by, and not particularly appreciative of, her intervention. A sardonic laugh came from Ware.

  “That’s right, that’s your little girl on the other end of that phone, isn’t it, Superintendent?” he said. “Play nice, and you two just might get to eat Christmas dinner together after all. Wouldn’t that be nice, Caroline?”

  “Yes,” Caroline replied, lying through her teeth. Of course they had no such plans: the last Christmas Day she’d spent with her father had been the one before her parents had split up. He’d gotten drunk as a skunk and had an angry explosion over something, and the evening had ended with her little sisters hiding in a closet and Caroline standing between her parents, threatening to call the cops—his cops—if he came one step closer to her weeping, cringing mother.

  Outside the family circle, nobody knew about that particular episode. Nobody ever had to know about that particular episode.

  That the superintendent’s first marriage had ended badly was common knowledge. The worst of the details were for the most part a shameful secret they all kept to themselves. Those details were also probably the reason she wasn’t a particular fan of the institution of marriage to this day.

  Love ’em and leave ’em: it might be a cliché, but that was how she conducted her love life. How she meant to keep on conducting her love life.

  Seizing the moment, going with another rule of hostage negotiation that was to humanize the victims, she added, “All the people in the room with you would like to go home to have Christmas dinner with their families, too, you know. Why don’t you let them go so they can?”

  Ware laughed. Implicit message: fat chance. “Cut the crap, Caroline. You know I’m not going to do that.”

  “I can’t believe you’re really this stupid,” Martin told Ware. “You’re digging your own damned grave.”

  Ware’s eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. “You don’t keep your mouth shut, Superintendent, somebody’s going to be digging yours.”

  Martin’s eyes flashed.

  “Detective, you want to tell me the name of the kid you want released from jail one more time?” Caroline said hurriedly before things could escalate. Her pulse raced and she found herself leaning toward the monitor as if she could somehow physically intervene between the two men. Much as she hated to admit it, the volatile combination of her father and Ware was unsettling her with its possibilities. If it escalated into violence, bad things could happen to all the hostages.

  Keep your head in the game, she ordered herself fiercely. By her count, seven innocent people lay on the carpet: five women, two men. Add her father, and there were eight hostages in all. They were depending on her for their lives.

  She did another quick visual sweep of the room as it suddenly hit her who she didn’t see: Jefferson Parish Sheriff B. J. Cardwell, Council Chairman Leo Joseph, and New Orleans’ mayor, Harlan Guthrie.

  They’d been reported as being among the hostages. So where were they? She was afraid to ask. If they were dead, or hurt, she didn’t want to remind Ware of it, and thus remind him, too, of how little he had to lose. If they were hiding somewhere in the house, she didn’t want to alert him to that, either.

  “Hollis Bayard,” Ware replied, and spelled it out with a touch of sarcasm. “Anything happens to him, this is going to get real ugly, real fast. Might want to pass that on.”

  Caroline didn’t need to: Dixon heard. “You’ll pay for this,” he muttered to Ware, who because she was no longer depressing the talk button couldn’t hear him. “Just you wait.”

  Then he turned and exited the van.

  “So if Hollis Bayard is released, you’ll let the hostages go?” Caroline asked, assessing via the monitor as much of the room the hostages were in as she could see. It was on the second story, maybe eighteen by twenty feet, with artfully arranged bookshelves lining the long wall opposite the camera and, presumably, the one on which the camera was mounted as well, which she could not see. The veranda that ran outside it struck her as a possible staging area for a SWAT assault, if that became necessary. On another monitor, she saw that she was not the only one who had realized its strategic possibilities: a long view of the house revealed that as the exodus of beautifully clad guests continued through the front door, a ladder was being put in place that rose from the ground to the second-story veranda.

  “Hollis Bayard’s release is one of the conditions,” Ware replied. Caroline was relieved to see that her father was sitting there with his lips compressed and a stony expression on his face. Apparently he believed in Ware’s threat enough to comply with it. The realization that Martin Wallace was cowed into silence by Ware sent a cold chill down her spine: it told her how real he felt the danger to himself and the other hostages was. “I’ve got a couple more.”

  “And they are?” The thought that she was keeping Ware calm and occupied while all around the mansion the stage was being set for him to be killed loomed large in Caroline’s mind. The horror of how in all likelihood this night was going to end made her stomach churn. She’d vowed to serve and protect, and she knew from experience that serving and protecting could be a bloody, soul-destroying business, but that didn’t mean she was immune to bad things when they happened.

  “Bayard’s release is number one.” Ware spoke directly into the camera. Directly to her. “I also want a helicopter. And a pilot who’s under orders to take me wherever I want to go. Have it land in the side yard, on that flat grassy area near the swimming pool. There’s plenty of room over there. Oh, and I want a million dollars. Cash. Unmarked, untraceable, nonsequential bills. In a suitcase. In the helicopter.”

  Caroline’s breath caught. “This is about money?” The question escaped before she could stop it. That was because she still couldn’t fathom it: what could have occurred to make a good cop like Ware do something this monstrous? Quick answer, arrived at almost as soon as she considered the matter: probably not a sudden, overwhelming desire for a million dollars in cash. If a boatload of cash was what he wanted, there were easier, safer, more anonymous ways to get it, especially for an experienced cop like Ware. First thing she would think to do, if she desperately needed that much cash and was willing to commit criminal acts to get it, was shake down a few drug dealers. Or rob them. Not take half the movers and shakers in the city hostage. In fact, that was probably the last route she would choose: too dangerous; too public; almost zero chance of success.

  Ware wasn’t a stupid man.

  “You have no idea what this is about,” Ware replied. “Just get me my million dollars.”

  “So tell me,” she invited, her eyes riveted on him as he stared down the camera. “Tell me what this is about. I might be able to help you.”

  He made an impatient sound. “I’m going to say this one more time: I don’t want you to help me. I don’t want you to understand. I want a damned million dollars in cash. Get it.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Caroline responded cautiously, and thought, Okay, this is not about the cash. Then she immediately found herself worrying about where they were going to be able to get their hands on such a sum at such short notice anyway. A million dollars cash? In the middle of the night on Christmas Eve—or, rather, Christmas Day now? The department might be able to swing the other de
mands—although, face it, no way would any helicopter be permitted to take off with Ware in it—but the cash was problematic. Then she remembered the billionaire homeowner, Allen Winfield, whom she had been told on the way over had managed to escape along with his wife in the general exodus and was at that moment being whisked away somewhere under the protection of his own private security: maybe he could arrange something. Reality hit a split second later: it didn’t matter whether or not the money was actually made available. It only mattered that Ware thought it was.

  Because he wasn’t ever going to actually get away with the money. He was either going to be taken into custody or wasn’t going to live long enough.

  Ware had to know that.

  If it wasn’t about the money, then maybe it was about his first demand, although the same argument prevailed: there were a hell of a lot easier ways to get someone out of jail.

  “Who is Hollis Bayard?” she asked him.

  His face hardened. “If I wanted to have a chat, I’d be talking to a shrink instead of you. What I want is Hollis Bayard out of jail, a million dollars in cash, and a helicopter to get me the hell out of here.” His voice had an ominous ring to it.

  Promise ’em anything: the negotiator’s golden rule.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. Releasing the talk button, picking up the radio at her belt, she relayed his newest demands to Dixon, who snapped, “Tell that bastard he can have anything he wants,” and clicked off.

  “We’re checking into getting Bayard, the helicopter, and the money for you,” Caroline told Ware, not promising that it would be done because another rule of negotiation was that you never wanted to give in too easily, and thought, This is going to get bad. Not that the impossibility of the demands was the reason: they would be met, although probably only insofar as was necessary to keep Ware thinking he actually had a chance of pulling this off. It was a foregone conclusion that he was not going to be allowed to escape. The truth was that hostage takers almost never got away. They were either captured or killed at the scene.

  Since this was Reed Ware, thinking about how this night was likely to end for him made her throat tighten.

  He’d been good to her during that long-ago summer. Before he’d dumped her in the swimming pool, of course.

  But he was the one who’d crossed the line tonight, Caroline reminded herself grimly, and nothing that was happening here, or was going to happen here, was anyone’s fault but his. Still, she hoped he didn’t have to pay with his life. And if she could help it, he wasn’t going to. If she did her job right, he and everyone else in that room would be alive in the morning.

  That was the happy ending she was aiming for.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “JUST AS A HEADS-UP,” Caroline added, sounding far more casual than she felt, “a million dollars might be a problem in the middle of the night. Especially given that it’s Christmas Day and all.”

  “The department can make it happen.” Ware’s tone was dismissive. He was looking directly into the camera again, and it was almost as if he could see her, although she knew that he couldn’t. “You know that. I know that. Quit trying to jerk me around.”

  “I would never do that.” She did her best to project sincerity down the phone line. “We want to work this thing out. Get everybody out of there safely, including you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He regarded the camera steadily. “Snipers in place yet?”

  Caroline’s lips compressed. “Not yet.”

  It wasn’t quite a lie.

  He laughed, the sound short and unamused. “Where are you, Caroline?”

  “In a mobile unit parked in front of the house,” she replied. Building trust was important here, and to that end she tried to tell the truth as much as possible: as a cop, he knew how things worked. He also would know how this night was going to play out for him, which raised the question once again: why?

  For the first time, she wondered if maybe the reckless glitter in his eyes was at least partially attributable to drink or drugs, or some combination thereof. She remembered hearing a rumor, a few years back, that he liked to party. Maybe he was on something, strung out, high as a kite.

  Otherwise, to have done something like this, he had to have totally lost his mind. If she couldn’t talk him out of there, for him this night was going to end in his death, either by suicide when he detonated the bomb she hadn’t yet seen, or by suicide by cop when SWAT or a sniper took him out.

  He knew that. He had to know that. As she thought about it, the question that alarmed her most was, Is that what he wants?

  If a perp was suicidal, the negotiator’s job became infinitely more difficult.

  Ware had lost his child, his ex-wife. Maybe he wanted to die, too.

  She remembered him at the funeral. He had been bowed over with grief.

  With that possibility in mind, Caroline tried to evaluate his present condition as best she could. Besides that hard glitter, his eyes were slightly bloodshot but seemed completely aware. His lack of other physical manifestations of stress—he wasn’t sweating, his hands didn’t shake, and his movements weren’t jerky, as just some examples—might be attributable to the reality-clouding effect of drugs rather than the steely resolve she had initially assumed was the prompt behind his mannerisms, so unusual for the typical hostage taker. Cocaine, maybe? But in her experience, blow tended to make users hyperactive, and he showed no signs of that: if anything, he was unnaturally calm considering the circumstances. Heroin, which was enjoying a resurgence on the streets? But he wasn’t showing signs of that, either.

  The sound of the door opening made Caroline glance around. Dixon stepped up into the van, followed by NOPD Sgt. Sydney Miller, a short, barrel-chested, gray-haired officer nearing retirement who could generally be found manning the front desk at headquarters.

  Surprised at Miller’s presence in the van, Caroline raised her eyebrows questioningly at Dixon as he moved toward her.

  Dixon grimaced. “I’ve got news about Ware. He got fired earlier today. Miller was on deck when it happened. I brought him in here so you could hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “What? Why? Who would fire Ware?” The unexpected news made Caroline’s eyes widen. Although the firing of a police detective wasn’t official until it went through more channels than were available on cable TV, an officer could be relieved of duty and placed on administrative leave pending a hearing by any number of superiors. But even as Caroline asked the question, she had a sinking feeling that she knew the answer.

  “The superintendent,” Miller said, confirming her guess. As he met Caroline’s gaze he shrugged semiapologetically. “I was on the desk when I heard them shouting at each other. Hell, the whole building heard them shouting at each other. Ware was pissed.” He paused. “My daughter’s an administrative assistant in Internal Affairs. Scuttlebutt is Ware got caught taking a bribe.”

  “What?” Caroline’s shocked reaction was instantaneous and instinctive. “No way in hell.”

  “That’s the story,” Dixon said. “Just to be sure, I gave John Hendricks in Internal Affairs a call to confirm it for myself. It’s true.”

  Miller nodded vigorously.

  Caroline shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” She did a lightning mental review of everything she personally knew about Ware. She thought of his years of service and his professional reputation, which was solid. Then she thought of all the things she probably didn’t know about him, about the rumors of his partying, about the death of his ex-wife and child. Had any of those things been enough to turn a good cop bad?

  “I don’t believe it,” she said again, but more slowly. Because the truth was, she couldn’t be sure.

  You have no idea what this is about, was what he’d told her. Could this—the bribery charge, his firing—be what he had been referring to? Caroline’s attention was drawn back to the monitor by a sudden movement on the screen.

  “You know they’re out there prepping for a SWAT attack or something, right
?” The shrill-with-fear voice, a woman’s, came clearly over the phone, and had Caroline refocusing on the other monitors in a hurry. There it was: a woman in a green satin ball gown had lifted her head from the floor to hurl the question at Ware. As she continued, her tone teetered on the brink of hysteria: “The only way you even have a chance of getting out of here alive is if you let us go!”

  The rest of the hostages were reacting. Several of them moved restlessly. Some dared to raise their heads and take surreptitious peeks at their captor. Caroline’s heart stuttered. An ill-considered move by the hostages could get everyone in that room killed.

  “Calm down, Ellen,” Martin spoke sharply. Caroline registered that it was the first thing she had heard him say since Ware had threatened him if he didn’t stay silent, even as she recognized the woman, a fortyish, reed-slim, perfectly groomed redhead, with a sense of shock: Ellen Tremaine, New Orleans’ city attorney. Caroline had had no idea that she was among the hostages. Even if he lived through the night, Ware’s future just kept getting bleaker and bleaker: from what Caroline knew of Ellen Tremaine, once she was released the woman would go after Ware with everything the legal system could throw at him.

  He could be facing decades, maybe even the rest of his life, in jail.

  Ware pointed his pistol at the attorney. “If you want to get out of here alive I suggest you put your face down and shut the hell up.”

  “Do what he says, Ellen,” Martin snapped. Ms. Tremaine held Ware’s gaze for a moment, almost pitiably defiant, then as he steadied his aim she grimaced and subsided back down onto the carpet, resting her cheek against the scarlet fibers so that only the top of her head remained visible to the camera. Martin’s eyes shifted to Ware. “You know she’s talking sense, Ware. You want to live, you’ll let us go.”