The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “You sound tired, Razz. It’s been a long day, for everyone. I want to tell you that they found a gun with Clip, the same kind of gun that shot your brother. They’re running tests right now. If the tests show it was the one used to hurt your brother, they’ll be charging him with attempted murder. Do you know how long he could be behind those bars? For years and years. Maybe the rest of his life. If my brother’d been hurt like this, I’d want the person responsible to pay for a long time. A very long time.”

  “He’ll burn in hell.”

  “I think Georgia State’s a kind of hell, too. Razz, they told me he was hiding. Hiding. I wonder what his gang will think when they find out he was hiding away.”

  “You fucking with me?”

  “I told you not to use that language! She’s telling you the pure truth. I was right here, wasn’t I right here when they came in and told her? That boy who shot your brother’s in jail. Now come out of there, you hear?” Opal began to weep again. “Come out of there because I can’t watch another boy of mine bleeding.”

  “Don’t cry, Mama. I want to make him bleed, like T-Bone’s bleeding.”

  “Prison’s worse than bleeding,” Phoebe said. “For a man like Clip? And now he’s got no face left, no rep. Proved himself a coward. A coward who’ll spend years paying for what he did. Your mother needs you, Razz. She needs you to put down the gun and come out. To show you’re not a coward. You’ve got the balls to walk out of there.”

  “You’ll take me to see that bastard? See him in the cage? That’s a solid?”

  “It is. My word on it.”

  “I’m going to jail, same as him. That’s not right.”

  “Not the same as him, not the same at all. You haven’t hurt anyone yet, Razz. Not a single soul. That makes all the difference. If you come out, just the way I tell you, that’s going to make a difference, too.”

  “How do I come out?”

  “You put the gun down.” Phoebe gave the signal, making certain the surrender was relayed to Tactical. “You don’t want to have a gun on you when you come out. All right?”

  “You got guns out there?”

  “Yeah, there are going to be guns out here. I don’t want you to worry. You’ll put your hands up, where everyone can see, and you walk straight out the front door. You come out by yourself, you’re no coward, right? You come straight out the front, with your hands high in the air. Will you do that?”

  “All right. I’m coming out. I’m hanging up.”

  “I’ll see you outside, Razz.”

  Phoebe cut off the phone, stood. “Let’s go get your boy.” She took Opal’s arm and led her toward the door of the diner. “Listen now, they’re going to have guns on him when he comes out. They’re going to move on him, get him on the ground and cuff him. That has to be.”

  Phoebe scanned some of the windows and rooftops, spotted Tactical. Until Razz was out and in custody, she couldn’t risk taking his mother too close to the inner perimeter. “I need you to wait here with this officer for just a few minutes. I’m going to come back and get you, and I’m going to see that you’re taken to where Charlie will be.”

  “Thank you, for everything you did. Thank you.”

  Phoebe moved quickly, angling so she’d have a view of the front of the liquor store. When she saw the door open, saw the boy step forward, hands high, she let out a long breath of relief.

  The gunfire was a stunning blast. For an instant she simply froze, simply stared as Charlie’s body jerked, danced, fell. She heard herself screaming as she rushed forward, as dozens of cops dove for cover.

  Someone shoved her down. With the breath knocked out of her she heard the screams from inside the store, and the shouts of: “Shots fired! Shots fired!” zinging around her.

  It wasbeautiful! And so pathetically easy. All you had to do was slip and slide and know how to look like you belonged. Not so hard to find a good position, hold up, wait things out.

  All that time she’d spent talking that asshole out. Wasted, wasn’t it, bitch?

  Stupid fucker deserved to die. Gangs were a blight on the city.

  He could have put some bullets in her, too. Easy-peasy. But this was better. Thisaccomplished something and kept it all rolling.

  He hadn’t known, really hadn’t guessed, how much fun this would all be. Why end it too soon?

  He’d left the gun, done some more slipping and sliding. Easy-peasy again, tucking the ID away, melting into the panicked crowd, then easing away in the confusion.

  But not before he watched Phoebe scramble up, run toward the others at the door of the crap-shit liquor store and drop down beside the dead kid.

  ’Cause that kid was stone dead, and don’t you mistake it.

  Press was going to love this, he thought as he made his way west to where he’d left his car. Going to eat it up like Cheez Whiz on a cracker.

  Lieutenant Bitch Mac Namara had talked the asshole out all right. And straight into a hail of bullets.

  He was going to pick himself up a six-pack and some takeout, go home. And watch the news.

  When Phoebe got home she heard the voices in the parlor. Dinner long over, she thought. Dishes done and put away.

  Coffee and brandy served in the parlor—the Wedgwood pot, the Baccarat decanter and snifters.

  All on loan from the tight-fisted estate of Elizabeth Mac Namara.

  She wanted to go straight up the stairs, crawl into bed. Or under it. But it couldn’t be done. Just one more thing that couldn’t be done. So she walked to the doorway.

  Carter was telling some story—she could tell by the way his hands were moving. He had such good stories. She knew he hoped to become a writer, and that he worked at it when he could. But teaching ate up most of his time.

  Beside him Josie rolled her eyes, but she was laughing while she did. It was so sweet, the way they loved each other. Still so fresh and sweet.

  There was Mama, looking so happy. Just peaceful and happy, her world full of people who made her so. And Ava perched on the arm of Mama’s chair, sipping coffee from one of those lovely Wedgwood cups.

  Her little girl, sitting on the sofa beside Duncan. And oh my goodness, what was that look on Carly’s face when she smiled up at him? Her baby was having her first crush by the looks of things.

  And didn’t he seem just right at home, Mr. Duncan Swift, sprawled back, all relaxed and easy, sending her little girl winks like the two of them were in on a big secret.

  How many blocks from here was Hitch Street?

  How could that distance have an entire world between them?

  It was Duncan who saw her first. A quick light in his eyes, then an equally quick fade into concern. Was she so transparent?

  He rose, came to her. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I’m not hurt, but I’m not all right. I’m sorry I missed dinner,” she said in a voice that carried into the room.

  “Mama, we had the best time! And Duncan said…” Carly’s words faded away as she dashed over. Phoebe saw her bright blue eyes latch on to the blood on her pants.

  She’d had a spare shirt in her locker, but she’d had to come home with the blood—Charles Johnson’s blood—on her pants.

  “It’s not mine. I’m not hurt, not at all. But I need such a hug from you right now. I need such a big, enormous Carly hug right this minute.” She crouched and squeezed tight as Carly wrapped around her.

  She stayed crouched. She had her child tonight, right here, safe and sweet in her arms. Others didn’t.

  She leaned back, kissed both of Carly’s cheeks. Then, straightening, she looked at her mother. Essie stood, face pale, hands linked tight.

  “Nothing happened to me, that’s first. Look at me, Mama. Nothing happened to me. Nothing. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Carter, pour Mama some of that lemonade there. You sit down, Mama. I’m going to say I know you think I share too much of what I do, what there is, with Carly. I’m sorry we don’t agree on the boundaries
of that. Well. I think I could use something stronger than lemonade right off.”

  “I’m going to get you some wine, and some food.” Ava walked to her, squeezed her arm. “You ought to sit down, too.”

  “I ought to. I will. I want to change these pants first. I’m going to be right back,” she said to Carly.

  Duncan glanced over at Essie as Phoebe went out. “Essie, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to go up with her.”

  He didn’t wait for permission, but caught up to Phoebe on the steps.

  “I’m just going to change my pants.”

  “I’m not looking to grab a quickie while you do. You look exhausted.”

  “It was a bad day. Very bad. I can’t talk about it yet. I only want to talk about it once.”

  “I’m just going to be here, you don’t have to talk.”

  In her room, she pulled out a pair of cotton pants. She stripped off the blood-smeared trousers, tossed them in the hamper. “Mama will likely perform some miracle of science and get that poor boy’s blood out of those.” She pressed her hand between her eyes as the grief swamped her. But before Duncan could take her into his arms, she stepped back, shook her head.

  “No, no comforting hugs just yet. And no tears. If I have to cry, it’ll wait until later. My mother’s worried. She’ll stay worried until I get back down.”

  “Let’s go back, then.”

  He went down with her. Ava had already set a plate on a tray, had a glass of wine waiting.

  “It’ll be on the news,” she began. “Probably has been. There was a situation over on Hitch Street. Gang-related. Hostages. The boy was sixteen. Just sixteen, grieving, so angry, so misguided. It took time to talk him down, but I did, I talked him down, and told him it would be all right. So he came out, just the way I told him. Unarmed, hands up high. And someone shot him. They shot him while he stood with his hands up, when he was surrendering. His mother was there, close enough I think she must have seen it happen.”

  “Is he going to be all right?” Carly asked.

  “No, honey. He died.” Before I got to him, Phoebe thought.

  “But why did they shoot him?”

  “I don’t know.” She stroked Carly’s hair, then bent down to kiss it. “I just don’t. We don’t know why or who. Not yet. There’ll be talk, on the TV about it. I wanted you—all of you—to know what happened.”

  “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “Oh, baby, so do I.”

  Carly snuggled up. “You’ll feel better if you eat. That’s what you say.”

  “It is what I say.” Deliberately she speared something on her plate. It didn’t matter what, she couldn’t taste it. But she ate it with a little flourish. “And as usual, I’m right. Now, everybody should stop worrying and tell me what you did for fun tonight.”

  “Uncle Carter and Duncan played a duelette.”

  “A duelette?”

  “That’s what Uncle Carter called it. On the piano. That was fun. And Aunt Josie told the joke about the chicken.”

  “Notthat again.”

  “I liked it.” Duncan worked up a smile. He saw what she was doing, needed to do. Get everyone back to normal.

  “And Duncan said you and me could go on his sailboat on Saturday if you said we could. So can we? Please? I’ve never been on a sailboat before. Ever.”

  “You’re obviously a neglected and abused child. I suppose we probably could do that.”

  “Yes!”

  “But right now it seems to be somewhat past someone’s bedtime.”

  “But we have company.”

  “And a polite, self-sacrificing child, too. How’d I get so lucky? Now, say good night, and I’ll be up in a couple minutes.”

  Carly dragged her feet all around the room, stalled, looked beseechingly toward the other adults for intervention. She circled her way around to Duncan, sighed heavily. “I wish I didn’t have to go to bed, but thank you for coming to dinner.”

  “Thank you for having me. We’ve got a date on Saturday, right?”

  The sulks flew away. “Okay. ’Night.”

  The minute she was gone, Phoebe set down her fork.

  “I’d better get on.” Duncan rose.

  There were polite protests, mutual thanks, cheek kisses and handshakes.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  It felt so good to step outside, into the air. To take a breath of it. “I’m sorry I brought home something that tainted the evening.”

  “Don’t think of it like that.” He draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked down to his car. “Hard for you.”

  “It was awful.” She indulged herself a moment, turning into him, holding on. “I don’t know that I’ll ever get it all the way out of my head. Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know how it could’ve happened. Some people are already saying it was us who did it. We’re saying we suspect it was one of the members of the rival gang. We found the gun. AK-47. It wasn’t one of ours. Theyriddled that boy. In seconds. One of the hostages inside was hit. He’ll be okay, but…” She sucked in a breath, drew back. “That’s not for here.”

  “It’s for wherever you need it to be.”

  “I need to keep as much as I can away from here.” She glanced back toward the house. “Whenever I can. So…about Saturday.”

  “I’ll pick you and Carly up about ten. How’s that?”

  “It’s nice of you to offer her such a treat. I don’t want you to feel obliged to—”

  “Don’t.” He tapped a finger to her lips. “Don’t do that. And the fact is, you might as well know, if things don’t work out with you and me, and Essie turns me down, I figure I can wait about, what, fifteen years, for the kid.”

  “Twenty. Minimum.”

  “Hard-ass.” He tipped her face back. “Still, that oughta be some motivation for you, seeing I’ve got multiple choices here.” He kissed her, long, very long, very soft.

  “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “Saturday. I’ll pack a few gallons of sunscreen for us redheads.”

  She waved him off, stood there a while. And after a while walked over and sat on the front steps. She needed to go in, of course, needed to go tuck Carly into bed, keep an eye on Mama, just in case. But she sat awhile longer.

  Carter came out. Saying nothing, he sat beside her, took her hand.

  Together, they sat awhile longer yet.

  18

  Phoebe wasn’t wrong about the media storm. It raged across the television screens, the newspaper headlines, the Internet. In death, Charlie Johnson became a symbol of gang violence, racism, police corruption and incompetence—depending on which side you were on at any given time.

  She fielded dozens of calls from reporters, and for the first time in her career received death threats.

  And she once again found herself interviewed by IAB.

  “How you holding up?” Dave studied her as she drew lines down the condensation of her glass of iced tea. He’d pulled her out for a quick lunch.

  “I keep seeing him coming out, hands up. Just that one second when I thought: Good job, Phoebe. High five. Then the sound of the gun, the way his body jerked like a puppet. Just one more second, really, for it all to go to hell.”

  “You did a good job.” He shook his head at her expression. “You did. Let’s just get that on the table.”

  “Crisis negotiators are part of a team, Dave. Who taught me that? The team failed that boy, and the hostages. It failed everyone.”

  “Something broke down; we’re still not sure what. Your end of it didn’t. Regardless,” he continued, “a boy died, a hostage was injured. No member of the tactical team fired their weapon. The weapon fired and discovered wasn’t ours. And regardless,” he repeated, “the failure’s on us. Someone got through, or was overlooked, during the evac of the area.”

  “There was more violence on both the east and west sides last night,” she pointed out. “More shootings. They’re using that boy to justify killing. The media and the mouthpie
ces are using him, whittling it down or blowing it up—I’m not sure which applies—to race. To white against black. And I don’t know that you can say race has nothing to do with it, because it’s certainly one of the elements that play into gangs. But I don’t believe Charles Johnson was shot because of his skin color. And I don’t believe he deserves to have his death pushed into that.”

  She said nothing while the sandwiches they’d ordered were served. “Franklin Johnson died this morning.”

  “I know.”

  “Opal Johnson’s lost both her sons. Her children are dead. The first, that’s not on us, at least not on the surface. We found and arrested the man who killed him. Would we have done so as quickly, even at all, if Charlie hadn’t gone into that liquor store yesterday? I don’t know the answer. That troubles me.”

  “I don’t know it either, but I do the best job I can. So do you. We save who we can, Phoebe, one crisis at a time.”

  “Maybe.” She picked up one of the chips that came with her sandwich, broke it into pieces. “I told him it was going to be all right. If he came out, it would be all right.”

  “You didn’t make a mistake. Itshould have been all right. He should be in custody now, with his public defender working to cut a deal with the prosecutor. The mistake was in Tactical, and we’ll find it. Every minute of the incident is going to be investigated. Every move, every order. Meanwhile, there’s the anger of the community, the public relations nightmare and the very real problem of keeping this from boiling over into riots and burning. You’ll be giving a press conference this afternoon, along with the tactical commander. You’ll each read a brief statement and answer questions. It’ll be short, and it’s necessary.”

  “And it provides a visual. I’m a white woman, the commander’s a black man.” She lifted a hand before he could speak. “I’m not discounting the fact that the visual doesn’t matter nearly as much as the statements. I’ll do my part. What time?”

  “Three.”

  She nodded. “All right. That’ll give me time to go over to Hitch. I want to see the crime scenes. Both of them.”