“It’s not about the money. Just get out of there as soon as you can. Tell him anything but don’t let him get suspicious. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Trisha, you’re upsetting me. What’s with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? I—Oh, Gene, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Lassiter was in the kitchen. Trisha’s heart pounded like a sledge hammer. She imagined Cindy turning to face him, the phone still to her face.
“I was just talking to Trisha—” Cindy’s voice suddenly rose in pitch. “What are you doing? Stop! Stop!”
“Cindy! Cindy!” Trisha said.
She heard the clatter of Cindy’s phone falling to the floor, then Cindy’s voice but from farther away. “Stop! No! No!” It sounded as if she was trying to fight him off.
“Cindy! Cindy!” Trisha yelled, but the connection was lost.
She bolted for the door. She had to help her sister.
“Hey! What’s going on?” Barry said. “Where are you going?”
“My sister and father are at Lassiter’s house. Something bad’s going down. It’s in progress. Call the police and get a SWAT team over there right now. I want a hostage negotiator, too. And EMS personnel. I’ll meet them there.”
“Hang on! Hang on!” He came around the desk and jabbed his finger in her face. “In case you forgot, you’re just one special agent in someone else’s jurisdiction. You do not call the shots here. You—”
She slapped his hand away. “When my family’s lives are on the line, I do call the shots.” She whipped the door open. “Call the cops, Barry. Now. 877 West 21st Street.”
She ran down the hallway, heading for the bank of elevators, her jaw clenched. She pressed the down button, then took her gun out of her bag, popped the clip, and checked to make sure she had a full load.
She stared at the lighted numbers over the elevator doors. Come on, come on, hurry up. That son of a bitch is not going to take the rest of my family.
Chapter 23
Lassiter tied the sky blue scarf around Cindy’s ankle to the leg of the captain’s chair she was sitting in. It was the last limb he had to bind. Her wrists were tied to the arms, ankles to the legs, torso secured to the back with lots of duct tape. Her head slumped forward, the tape holding her up.
Michael McCleery sat in an identical chair, tied the same way, his head tipped back, mouth open.
Choke holds really are wonderful, Lassiter thought. Puts them right out.
He’d had a little trouble dragging Michael’s rangy body down the stairs because he was heavier than Lassiter had expected, but it was better than struggling with him conscious. And Cindy was a piece of cake, even if she wasn’t petite like her sister and mother.
He’d positioned their chairs side-by-side, like a king and queen on their thrones, facing the door to the dirty basement, which was closed, the seams on all four sides sealed with duct tape. An ax leaned against the wall. He had used the blunt end to pound on a coupling on the gas pipe that came in from the street in the dirty basement. He’d created a slow leak, just a whisper hiss, but it was filling that part of the basement with natural gas. He had two disposable cigarette lighters in his pants pockets. If anyone tried to come in, he’d open the door—break through it with the ax if he had to—and flick a lighter. If he didn’t get exactly what he wanted, he’d blow the whole place to kingdom come. He didn’t care who the blast took, himself included. He knew this was his only chance to have Trisha. If he failed this time, there’d be no reason to live. His eyes stung with the beginnings of tears as he realized that failure was a distinct possibility. But he couldn’t think like that. He had to be positive.
Originally he had wanted Cindy and Michael to face the bed, but he’d changed his mind. He had wanted to be on the bed, facing them, but that meant turning his back to the windows. The police had sharpshooters, and they might try to pick him off from outside. So instead he positioned a chair for himself in front of the king and queen, putting them between him and the windows. Snipers wouldn’t have a clear shot, and the police would never risk hurting the great Michael McCleery. If he were shot, they’d never live that down.
The cops could try to come in through the cellar windows in the dirty basement. But he’d let them know he wouldn’t hesitate to ignite the gas.
There was also a third possibility—breaking down the front door and trying to come down the staircase. But the door to the basement was reinforced steel, and it would take some doing to break it down. The cops would get through it eventually and come storming down the narrow stairs in their bulky bullet-proof gear, but by that time he’d have accomplished his goal. And if not, well… KA-BOOM!
Cindy rolled her head and moaned. He hadn’t gagged either of them—there was no point. He’d had the room soundproofed. And anyway this was the final act. They could shout to the rafters for all he cared.
The only thing they couldn’t do was watch. He had been alone when he’d killed Natalie so he had to be alone when he killed Trisha. He glanced at the ax and thought of the hunter who’d killed the Big Bad Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Once he had Trisha tied to the bed, he’d dispose of Michael and Cindy. A single chop to the jugular for each of them. They’d bleed out fast. He had a few folded blankets on the floor. Kill them and cover them, then drag them out of the way, chair and all. He and Trisha needed privacy.
The whop-whop-whop of an approaching helicopter entered his consciousness, quickly growing louder. He looked up at the ceiling. “Well, it’s about time,” he said and took his seat in the empty captain’s chair. He adjusted his position so that Cindy and Michael were squarely between him and the windows. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, checking to make sure it was turned on. The landline phone was on the floor within reach. Spinal needles with tubes attached were on each night table. He smiled, electric with anticipation. Everything was ready.
Cindy moaned again. She seemed to be in pain, poor thing. Her moaning roused her father who winced as he righted his head. He blinked and tried to focus, but it was as if he were looking into a bright light.
His voice was gravelly. “What the hell’s going on?”
“We’re having a party,” Lassiter said.
The NYPD Emergency Response van lurched forward, and the people inside held onto the walls to steady themselves. A pack of city tow trucks had moved all the parked cars near Lassiter’s townhouse to make room for the van and its escort of police cruisers. Inside Trisha struggled to keep it together as she stared at a bank of video monitors over a control panel lined with buttons, switches, and telephone receivers. The monitors showed the front and rear of Lassiter’s house from various angles as well as an aerial shot of the roof transmitted from the police helicopter. She felt the same guilty helplessness she’d felt as a teenager when she’d learned that her mother had been murdered. But this time she had to do something. She didn’t want to be branded in the press as the lone surviving family member of the deceased. She moved her FBI I.D. from her waistband to the breast pocket of her jacket. She didn’t want to be overlooked in this crowd of cops. She was law enforcement, too, and she intended to contribute. She had to.
Detective Soto sat at the control panel with an NYPD hostage negotiator—a bald, paunchy detective named Weinberg who looked more like a community college professor than a cop. The SWAT team commander, a tall broad-shouldered man in a dark blue commando uniform, stood over them. He had a trim gray moustache, square jaw, and the no-nonsense manner of an ex-Marine. The yellow lettering over his shirt pocket identified him as WM. BOOKER. The precinct captain stood next to him, a dark-haired, good-looking man in his fifties wearing a light gray suit. Trisha hadn’t caught his name. A steady stream of uniformed cops came in and out of the van, whispering messages to him. Pete Warwick stood by Trisha, his collar unbuttoned, tie pulled down. He stayed by her side, and Trisha wondered if he’d
been ordered to console her if necessary. If that was the case, she resented it. She didn’t need consoling now and wouldn’t need it later because no one was going to die, not if she could help it.
“We’ve got men in position on the roofs behind the house,” the precinct captain said.
“Snipers?” Booker, the SWAT commander, asked.
“Two. They can see the rear windows, but the view is obstructed by tall trees. It’s as if this guy landscaped it that way on purpose.”
“He probably did,” Trisha said, and they all looked at her as if a piece of furniture had sprouted lips and started talking. She ignored the expressions of silent pity and continued. “Organized serial killers plan ahead. They want things to go according to plan—their plan.”
Weinberg, the hostage negotiator, took off his glasses and squinted at her. “And do we know for sure he’s a serial killer?”
“No,” Soto said.
“Yes,” Trisha said. “We do know. I know.”
Soto smirked. “Are we gonna go through this again?”
“I know how these guys think. Trust me.”
“I would love to trust you, but you gotta show me some evidence. Your gut feelings don’t cut it.”
“Well, as long as we’re being brutally honest, detective, I’m not all that impressed with your smooth brow-beating of Shugrue.”
Soto laughed, but he clearly wasn’t amused.
Weinberg held up his hands. “Hey, let’s calm down, okay? We haven’t talked to Lassiter yet. I have to start a dialogue with him, and I don’t need you two squabbling in the background.”
The precinct captain pointed at the bank of phones. “Why don’t you try him again?”
Weinberg checked his wristwatch. It had been at least fifteen minutes since he’d last tried Lassiter’s home phone and cell. So far he hadn’t answered either one. Weinberg picked up a receiver, pressed a button, and speed-dialed.
“Put it on speaker,” Soto said.
Weinberg shook his head. “I have to establish a rapport with him. That won’t happen if he thinks other people are listening.”
Everyone watched Weinberg. A minute of silence passed. Weinberg put his finger on the hook to disconnect the call.
“No answer,” he said. “I’ll try the cell.”
But just as he pressed the speed-dial button, the door whipped open and slammed against the wall. Weinberg hung up, and all eyes went to the noisy intruder.
“Bring me up to speed,” Colleen Franco ordered. “Come on, come on, give me the latest.”
“We’ve been trying to get in touch with Mr. Lassiter,” Weinberg said, “but he isn’t answering his phones.”
“He hasn’t shown himself,” Booker said. “No sign of activity through the windows.”
“We’ve got the building surrounded,” the precinct captain said. “All available manpower is on the scene.”
Franco zoned in on Trisha. “What the hell is she doing here?”
Trisha spoke for herself. “I got the initial call from my sister that she and my father—that the hostages—are in there.”
“We’re assuming they’re hostages,” Booker said. “We haven’t seen them, and no demand has been made. They could be dead.” His assessment was blunt, but he looked Trisha in the eye as he said it. She appreciated that he was speaking plainly and treating her like part of the team. She’d already considered that possibility.
“Get her out of here,” Franco said, brushing the air with her fingers. “Family members do not belong here—”
Trisha cut her off. “An expert on serial-offender behavior does belong here. I’m staying.”
“Oh, really.” Franco’s nostrils flared. She looked at Pete. “Get her out of here, detective. If she resists, cuff her and drag her out.”
Pete took Trisha’s arm. “Come on, Trisha—”
“No!” She jerked away from his grip and glared at Franco. “Why don’t you do it?” It was an open challenge that she knew would get her into trouble, but she didn’t care. She was dying to take out her frustrations on someone, and she couldn’t think of anyone better than Colleen Franco.
The assistant chief narrowed her eyes. “You think I can’t?” She took a step toward Trisha who stood her ground. Franco was at least a head taller and thirty pounds heavier.
Weinberg raised his hands, playing referee again. “Ladies, please.”
“Shut up!” Franco yelled. Her eyes bored into Trisha’s. She grabbed her lapel and pulled, but Trisha didn’t budge.
Franco yanked harder and ripped a seam. Trisha acted instinctively, reaching out and going for Franco’s face, finding the pressure points under her lower lip where the roots of her eye teeth were, pinching them with her thumb and index finger. Franco winced and reared back, losing her balance and crashing into the precinct captain. He caught her before she fell, but she jerked away as soon as she was on her feet.
Red finger marks showed on her chin. She pointed a sharp finger at Trisha. “You have made the mistake of your life, McCleery. I will personally make sure—”
A phone rang, and Weinberg waved for quiet. “Shhhh!” He leaned into the console and read the caller ID. “It’s Lassiter’s home number.”
“Put it on speaker,” Franco said.
Weinberg’s hand was on the receiver. “That’s not a good idea—”
“Do it!” she shrieked. “That’s an order!”
Weinberg sighed and flipped a switch, waiting a second before picking up the receiver. “Hello? Mr. Lassiter?”
Silence.
“Mr. Lassiter? Are you there?”
“I’m here.” Lassiter’s voice came out of two small speakers in the console. It was a clear connection. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“My name is Paul Weinberg. I’m with the police.”
“You’re a hostage negotiator I suppose.”
“Yes.”
Silence. All eyes were on Weinberg, but Franco’s bulged, showing her impatience and ignorance. Trisha understood that Weinberg had to go slow to get a dialogue started. If he came on too strong, Lassiter wouldn’t talk to him or else he’d start lying. But if Weinberg was too friendly and conciliatory, Lassiter would see him as weak and unworthy of a serious exchange.
“Who’s in the house with you, Mr. Lassiter?”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know for sure. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Michael McCleery and his daughter Cindy. Do you need their Social Security numbers, too?”
The precinct captain snorted at Lassiter’s sarcasm, and Weinberg motioned for him to be quiet. Trisha took Lassiter’s flip attitude as a bad sign. If he was joking, he was comfortable with his situation. He had something up his sleeve.
“Look,” Lassiter said. “I’ve seen Dog Day Afternoon. I don’t want this to take all day, okay?”
“You don’t want what to take all day?”
“Please don’t get cute with me. It’s tiresome.”
“Okay, I hear you. So why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
“Why don’t I tell you what I’ve got?”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“One, I’ve got Michael and Cindy. Two, I’ve got a basement full of gas.”
Weinberg frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Natural gas. I broke a pipe, taped up the door seams, and just let it go. I’ve a bunch of cigarette lighters, too. You get the picture?”
The precinct captain’s expression turned grave, and Franco seemed a little pale. She whispered in his ear. “Evacuate the neighborhood.”
He nodded and quietly stepped out of the van.
“Okay, so what do you want?” Weinberg said.
“Just thinking out loud, I’m guessing th
at the gas situation would prevent you from shooting into the house or throwing tear gas bombs through the windows, concussion grenades, any of that stuff. I mean, anything could set off an explosion, right?”
Booker nodded in agreement. He pointed at the light switch on the wall, pantomimed flipping it, then thrust his arms into the air with fingers splayed. Just turning on a light could set off an explosion.
Pete glanced at the wall that faced Lassiter’s townhouse. “Maybe we should move the van,” he whispered to Booker.
“Mr. Lassiter,” Weinberg said, “are the McCleerys all right? Do they need medical attention?”
“You mean cops dressed as EMS workers? Please. I’m not an idiot.”
“Are they alive?”
Trisha’s heart started to pound.
“Yes, of course they’re alive. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Can I speak to one of them?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”“Why not?”
“They”—Lassiter hesitated—”they can’t come to the phone.”
“Bring the phone to them.”
“This is getting tedious, Paul.”
“Mr. Lassiter, let me tell you what I want. I want the McCleerys released. I want you to assure their safety. Can you promise me that?”
“Well, obviously not. They’re my bargaining chips.”
“When you say ‘bargaining chips,’ that implies there’s something you want. Am I correct?”
Lassiter heaved an audible sigh. “Look, Paul, I’m sure you’re a wonderful person, but you’re boring me to tears.”
Weinberg looked at Soto who raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Maybe you’d like to talk to someone else,” Weinberg said.
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“You still haven’t told me what you want. I don’t think you’re doing this just for the hell of it. You’re not a terrorist, are you?”
“Is Trisha McCleery there?”
Trisha’s heart pounded harder. All eyes went to her.
Bleeders Page 27
