by J. A. Jance
“Hey, Nick,” I called to him as I approached. “How’s it going?”
He turned and looked at me, shaking his head. “Not worth a shit,” he said. “Three of my vans are inside. They wouldn’t let me move ”em out. And all the tools too. I’ve got first-rate tools in there. It would take years to replace ‘em. One of the cops told me he’s threatening to burn the place down.“
I could see that Nick was a whole lot more concerned about his vans and his tools than he was about his job. Who says pride in workmanship is dead?
“He won’t burn it down,” I said. “Not if we can help it.”
I glanced across the street at Damm Fine Carpets, its grilled windows blindly reflecting back the noonday sun, making the building look like an impregnable fortress. Even close up, the small windows were far too high to give any hint of what was going on behind them.
Suddenly, I had an idea. “Is the inside door locked, the one from the garage into the warehouse?”
“Of course it’s locked. What do you think I am, some kind of dummy?”
“Does Logan know that?”
“Who’s he?”
“Captain Logan, the guy over there with the van. He’s in charge of the Emergency Response Team.”
“I don’t know if anybody told him or not,” Nick replied with a shrug. “Nobody asked me.”
An idea was beginning to form in my head. “When you talk to Mr. Damm, how do you do it?”
Nick was incensed. “What do you think? I open my mouth and the words come out, just like I’m doing with you.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. Do you go to his office or what?”
“I call him on the intercom.”
“You don’t have to go through his secretary?”
“Hell no. You think I should have an appointment to tell him somebody’s clutch went out?”
“Come with me, Nick. I need your help.”
We hurried over to the van. Captain Logan had deployed his men. Now he stood with a bullhorn in hand, ready to establish voice contact.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me try something.”
“What?”
“Give me a chance to go in there and talk to him.”
“No way,” Logan replied. “It’s out of the question.” He noticed Nick Wallace standing behind me. “Who’s he? What’s he doing here? Get him back on the other side of the barricades.”
“He works in there,” I said. “He runs the garage. He can let me in the back way. I can talk to Martin on his intercom.”
“I told you no, Beaumont. I’m not endangering his life or yours.”
“How many of your men have ever been inside this building?” I asked.
“None,” Logan replied.
“Well, I have. I was in there yesterday afternoon, as a matter of fact. I happen to know there’s an interior door between the warehouse and the garage. It’s always locked from this side.”
“Jesus Christ!” Logan exploded. “Why didn’t someone tell me that before?”
“There’s an intercom, too,” I added. Logan was listening now, his heavy eyebrows knitted in concentration.
“An intercom connected to that room, the one he’s in?” he asked.
“That’s right. I’ve been in there too.”
Logan looked at me for a long minute, then ducked his head into the van. “Hand me a couple of those bulletproof vests,” he ordered.
He came back out of the van holding two vests. He handed one to me and gave the other to Nick. “Wear this if you’re going to be here,” he said to Wallace. Logan turned back to me. “What if he’s had time to break through the door into the garage?” he asked.
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I told him, shrugging my way into the vest.
Logan shook his head. “I hate to do it, but at least you know where to look. That’s more than my guys do. You’re not going in by yourself, though. I’ll send Howell in with you. Howell and Perez.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“I can’t go?” Nick asked, disappointed.
“No,” I answered, “you can’t, but give me your keys.”
He pulled a long, heavy key chain out of his pocket and handed it to me. There must have been at least twenty-five keys on it. I gave it right back to him.
“Take off the two I need,” I said. “One for the outside door and one for inside.”
While Wallace struggled to extricate the keys, I looked back at the building. The yellow walls were blank and forbidding. Logan was right: there had been plenty of time for Martin to have broken into the garage if he wanted to. And if he had, we could be walking straight into a trap.
Don’t think I wasn’t scared. I was. Cops are human. They don’t put their lives on the line without being scared. But if anyone was going to go into Damm Fine Carpets and talk to Larry Martin, I was the one to do it. I was the only officer at the scene who knew the first thing about the inside of that building. Besides, it was my erroneous presumption of Larry Martin’s innocence that had gotten us into the mess in the first place.
Nick finally handed me two loose keys. I slipped the key to the inside door into my coat pocket and kept the outside one in my hand.
“Where’s the intercom, Nick?” I asked.
“Over on the workbench, right beside the telephone.”
“And how do I work it?”
“Just press down on the white button and call. He’ll be able to hear you.”
“And will I be able to hear him?”
“Only if he presses the button in his office.”
By the time I turned back around with the keys, Officers Howell and Perez were lined up and ready to move out.
“No heroics, now, Beaumont,” Logan cautioned. “Just get my guys close enough to that room so they can lay down a couple of tear-gas canisters. That’s all you need to do. You got that?”
“Got it,” I said.
With Nick Wallace’s key in one hand and my. 38 Smith and Wesson in the other, I couldn’t cross my fingers.
I crossed my toes instead.
CHAPTER 14
You don’t think about how noisy doors are until you try to open one quietly. When Nick Wallace’s key clicked home in the lock of Damm Fine Carpets’ back door, the sound crackled in the silent air like an exploding firecracker, and when I slowly pushed the door open, the hinges squawked and creaked with electrifying shrillness.
Holding my breath, I more than half expected a bullet to come smashing out through the open door. It didn’t. I crouched there beside the doorway, peering into the shadowy gloom of the garage, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light.
Three vans were parked inside. Larry Martin’s was still in the same place with the doors still open. Another was raised up on a jack. A tire lay on the floor beside it. My guess was that the alarm had caught Nick in the middle of changing the tire. The third, with no identifiable ailment, was parked nearest the door.
Using the vans for cover, we worked our way into the room, creeping along, heads down, weapons ready. Howell and Perez were packing automatic Uzis. My trusty. 38 didn’t offer nearly the fire power, but I was glad to have it. It felt like an old friend.
Perez reached the interior door first. He tried the knob and found it locked, then motioned for Howell to join him. Meantime, I made my way over to the workbench and located the telephone. The telephone and the intercom.
If I’d had my druthers, I’d have pulled the intercom off the workbench and ducked down behind one of the vans while I attempted to talk to Larry Martin. Unfortunately, this was Nick Wallace’s domain. Both the phone and the intercom had been permanently stationed, bolted firmly to the wall behind his workbench.
I knew that Perez and Howell were poised between me and Larry Martin, but I still felt incredibly vulnerable as I stood with my back to them and to the door and pressed the white button on the intercom.
“Larry? Larry, can you hear me?”
There was no an
swer.
“Larry, this is Detective Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. Can you hear me?”
I waited, but still no response. “If you can hear me, press the button on the intercom.”
An endless period of silence ensued. In it, I could hear the minute ticking of my watch and the muffled beat of my own heart thumping away in my chest. I wasn’t scared. Not much.
“What do you want?” Larry Martin’s voice spilled into the room like a splash of ice water. “Where are you?”
“I want to talk to you, Larry. Where’s Richard Damm? Is he all right?”
“I’m okay, but he’s crazy. You hear me? Help me. Get him out-” Damm’s voice, recognizable but verging on hysterics, was cut off in midsentence. I hoped for Richard Damm’s sake that Larry Martin had simply released the intercom button and turned off the sound. I waited, expecting to hear the report of a fired weapon. None came.
“Larry,” I said. “You’re making a terrible mistake. Release him. Let him walk out of the building.”
“No.”
“Larry, please. It’ll be a lot worse for you if you don’t.”
Larry didn’t answer. At the door, Perez was motioning for me to join them and bring the key. I ignored him. I was determined to try it my way first.
“Look,” I pleaded. “You know the place is surrounded. You can’t get away. Give it up, Larry. Let Damm come out first and then you follow.” Automatically I fell back on my negotiation training. Use the suspect’s first name as much as possible. Try to win his confidence.
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
Those are chilling words when you’re in a standoff. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. A clutch of cold fear gripped my stomach. Those are words that tell you that negotiation isn’t working, that the other guy has nothing left to lose, that he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. When that happens, you’re not playing by the same rules. The odds aren’t even.
“Larry, we don’t want to kill you. You got that? We don’t want you to die.”
“I won’t go back.”
I heard what he said, and I knew what he meant, but I forced him to repeat it. “You what?”
“I said I won’t go back. I’ve been in the joint once. Once was enough!“
It grew quiet again as I wondered what to say next, searching desperately for some life-saving words that would break the stalemate. Again, impatiently this time, Perez motioned for me to bring him the key. I shook my head and released the intercom button for a moment, cutting Larry off from what was said.
“Wait,” I told Perez. “Not yet.” Again I pushed the button. I wavered, but only momentarily. “Did you kill him?” I asked.
“What?”
“You heard me. Did you kill Dr. Nielsen?”
“I was only trying to help,” Larry answered. “I thought he was going to kill her. Then he came after me. I didn’t think she hit him that hard.”
A wave of gooseflesh covered my body. It was the same thing LeAnn had said, the exact same story. “What did she hit him with?” I asked.
“Jesus, I don’t know. Something from the floor. A vase or something. I didn’t know he was dead, for God’s sake. I never thought he was dead.” Martin’s voice broke into something like a sob. A light came on in my head. I knew then and there he was telling the truth, and if he was, so was LeAnn Nielsen.
“Larry, I believe you. Let Richard Damm come out. Help me get to the bottom of this.”
“No,” he answered stubbornly. “It’s a trick. You’re lying. I’m sure of it. I’m not going to talk anymore.”
“Larry?”
There was no answer, only oppressive silence.
“Larry, I’m sure you can still hear me. What happened after LeAnn hit him? What happened next?”
Perez strode over to me, his face thunderous. I let go of the intercom button so Larry wouldn’t be able to hear.
“Will you give me the fucking key?” Perez demanded.
“No,” I answered. “Not yet.”
I turned the intercom back on. “Come on, Larry,” I wheedled. “Tell me what happened. Did he fall?”
“I caught him and carried him over to the chair.”
“The one there in the examining room?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“We left. There was so much blood in my eyes that I could barely see. She led me to my car and drove me to the hospital.”
“And Nielsen was still alive when you left?”
“He was still breathing. His heart must have stopped.”
“It stopped all right. It stopped because somebody shoved a dental pick in his throat.”
I waited, letting my words sink home.
“What?”
“Somebody shoved a dental pick in his throat after you left. He bled to death.”
Perez was staring at me like I’d gone stark raving crazy, but I wasn’t paying much attention to him. I was waiting to see what kind of impact my words would have on Larry Martin.
When he spoke again, he sounded stunned. “You mean he didn’t die because she hit him over the head?”
“That’s right.”
“You mean somebody else…” He paused. “Wait a minute, is this the truth?”
“It’s the truth, Larry, I swear to God. Let Richard Damm go.”
His voice came back, almost a whisper. “It’s too late.”
My heart fell. Was Richard Damm dead then? Had Larry finished him off when he tried to talk to me? I tried to stay calm, focused.
“It’s not too late, Larry. It’s never too late.”
“If I come out, they’ll kill me. I know how SWAT teams work.”
“Larry, listen to me. I’m not on the SWAT team. I’m just a detective, a plain old homicide detective. If you won’t come out, let me come in. Trade me for Richard Damm. Is he still there? Is he all right?”
I could hear a muffled sound in the background, but I had no idea what it meant.
“If you didn’t kill Dr. Nielsen, you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s all a mistake, Larry. Don’t make it worse. Let Damm go.”
“It’s a trick. It’s gotta be a trick.”
I decided to go for broke. It was a gamble, but all of life is a gamble, and there are far worse ways of dying than attempting to save innocent lives.
“It isn’t a trick, Larry. I’ll prove it. We’re in the garage right now. There are three of us.”
“Beaumont!” Perez howled. “What are you trying to do?”
“We’re in the garage,” I repeated, plunging ahead. “I’m with two guys from the Emergency Response Team. I’m giving them my gun.”
Perez stepped away from me. “What? Are you crazy?”
“Unlock the door. I’m coming in unarmed, Larry. Just me, do you understand? You won’t be able to talk to me anymore. I’m turning off the intercom.”
I put my. 38 on the workbench beneath the telephone and started toward the door with the key to the inside door clenched tightly in my fingers. “Okay, guys, let me through.”
Howell was standing in front of the door. “You can’t do this. Logan will shit a brick.”
“Let him,” I said. “I’ve got to end this before it gets worse. You two stay here.”
They could have stopped me, if they’d put their minds to it. After all, there were two of them and only one of me. They had guns; I didn’t. But there’s a certain understanding that’s usually unspoken among cops, a mutual respect, that says when to back off. Howell and Perez knew that Larry Martin was mine. Grudgingly, Howell stepped aside to let me pass, holding out his hand for the key.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he said tersely. “After that we come in with the tear gas.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, giving him the second key.
I made my way through the warehouse and showroom. The place was well lit yet eerily silent except for the soft swish of my shoes on the thick carpeting. Standing outside the door to Richard Damm
’s private office, I whipped off my jacket, revealing the empty shoulder holster under my arm. I tried the doorknob. It was still locked.
“Let me in, Larry. It’s Beaumont. Hurry. There’s not much time.”
After what seemed an eternity, the lock clicked. I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. The room was totally dark. I stopped and shut one eye, hoping to help ease the visual transition.
“Turn on the light so you can see I’m unarmed. I just want to talk to you.”
“Come in first. Put your hands up.”
Martin’s voice came from behind the wall next to the door. With my knees shaking, I stepped into the room and stopped. Behind me the door swung shut. I was still holding my breath when the lights came on.
The room was a shambles. The fish tank had been smashed to bits. The carpeting was soaked and littered with shards of glass and pieces of decorative shells and plants that had once decorated the bottom of the tank. All the booze bottles had been shoved off the shelves of the bar and lay in a shattered, soggy heap on the floor. A huge hole had been beaten into the face of Richard Damm’s big screen television set.
“Turn around slowly,” Larry Martin ordered. “Keep your hands up.”
I turned. The first thing I noticed was his face. Three separate lines of stitches fanned the length of his cheek from scalp to chin. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. He was standing there in a big league batter’s stance with an old wooden baseball bat aimed at my head.
My initial reaction was to laugh. When you’re expecting the muzzle of a rifle, a baseball bat is a welcome surprise. My relief was overwhelming. Cindy was nearsighted all right, so much so that the wooden bat must have looked like a gun to her. I canned the laughter, though, because the baseball bat was still a hell of a lot more weapon than I had, and Richard Damm’s shattered haven gave mute testimony to Larry Martin’s ability to use it.
“What do you want?” Larry asked.
“Where’s Richard Damm?” I asked.
“Over there on the couch.”
“Is he all right?”
“Sit up and show him, Dick,” Larry ordered.
I glanced over my shoulder. Richard Damm sat up, his face peeking over the back of the couch. His skin was a pasty, unhealthy shade of gray.
