Takeover

by Lisa Black

  “Too late, Chris. I’m already surprised that you’d risk losing a few of these people because the entire police department is at the Winn-Dixie drinking coffee instead of getting a tow-truck driver off his ass. Makes me think there’s some other problem with the car.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the car.”

  “You didn’t cut up the interior, did you? Bobby will be really mad if you did. I mean really.”

  A pause.

  “Robert Moyers.” Don spoke from the doorway. “CPD just ran him down. He sold the house because he had to serve eight months for a parole violation from the armed-robbery charge. He got out on Friday.”

  “Is that Bobby Moyers with you?” they heard Chris ask.

  “The one and only!” a distant voice shouted. The other robber. “What’d you do to my car?”

  “The car’s fine.” Lucas sounded fainter for a moment, as if his head had turned away from the phone. “Chris says so.”

  “I don’t believe them,” the faraway voice continued.

  “Now, Bobby, if Chris says the car is okay, it’s okay. We’re happy about that, Chris, and we’ll give you another ten minutes to get it on a flatbed. And don’t talk to me about traffic jams, because everyone in town is over at the convention center, so there isn’t any traffic. Talk to me about something else—like why I don’t see any money coming up the elevator. What have you been doing for the past forty minutes, Chris?”

  “We’ve been working on the money, too. The problem is, the robots never place money in the passenger elevators, only the freight elevators. To get them to move money to a new place, the Fed engineers have to write a whole new program.”

  “You’re telling me the tech geeks can’t handle that?”

  “They’ve begun to work on it. When you”—Cavanaugh paused here, no doubt trying to think of a less offensive word than “invaded”—“took over the lobby, we evacuated the building. Nearly three hundred people work in that building, Lucas, and they couldn’t all hang out at the Hampton Inn. We sent them home. Everyone’s getting a paid day off because of you, so you’re a fairly popular man among the staff right now.”

  Theresa snorted.

  Jason told her gently, “I know he’s laying it on a little thick, but if you can get them feeling good about themselves, for any reason, they’ll look at the hostages that much more generously.”

  “So you don’t have any programmers?” Lucas pressed.

  “Oh, yeah, we got hold of two. One has arrived, I’ve been told, and the other is stuck in the convention-center traffic.”

  Lucas said nothing. Theresa asked Jason, “Is he lying?”

  “Chris? No. He meant what he said about not lying to them.”

  “I’d lie to them.” Leo sat with one ear cocked toward the radio, as if listening with all his might.

  “He can’t. As bizarre as it sounds, the whole thing works on trust. If he says the pop machine doesn’t carry Diet Coke and they know it does, it’s all over. If they can’t trust him, we’ll never get them to give up.”

  The radio sprang to life with Lucas’s voice. “Here’s a thought: Why don’t the programmers just pick up the damn money and throw it into the elevator themselves? Bypass the robots.”

  “Only the robots enter those rooms. It’s designed that way.”

  “Are we standing on procedure now?”

  “The rooms are made to keep people out. If any body of matter other than a robot enters, the alarm system trips and all hell breaks loose.”

  “I don’t mind if the alarm rings. My ears are tough.”

  “It also closes the doors and locks them for twelve hours. It’s a fail-safe thing. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing anyone can do about this. We are all at the mercy of modern technology, my friend.”

  Then Lucas said, “I am not your friend,” so that the words coursed through Theresa like a river of ice. We’re not going to make it through this. Paul is going to die.

  Then Lucas added, “More than that, Chris, I’m beginning to doubt your commitment to this endeavor.”

  “Don’t doubt me yet, Lucas. I might have a solution. There’s a shipment of cash scheduled to arrive this morning. It’s only three million, but at least we mere human beings can touch it without triggering a mechanical lockdown.”

  “You trying to haggle with me, Chris? This is priceless. Someone over there decided that these people aren’t worth four million, only three? Or that you only want three-quarters of them back, is that it? Then I might as well kill the last quarter of the group, if I’m not going to get paid for them anyway.”

  “Come on,” Theresa said to Jason. “Let’s get that car down there so at least that will be in place.”

  “But the tow—”

  “We don’t need a tow. I’ll just drive the damn thing.”

  “But—”

  She stopped as Cavanaugh spoke, dying to move but afraid to miss a word.

  “It’s not the money, Lucas. You can empty every last cent out of that building as long as you don’t hurt anybody. We don’t care. If you want four million instead of three, I’m sure we can scrape together the last million for you—that’s not a problem. The problem is, the three million on the truck isn’t going to arrive until two. It’s on 80, just passing State College.”

  Another pause. “Clever. Very clever. Hang on a sec, Chris. I just need to talk this over with Bobby.”

  Jason scratched his chin with the radio antenna, staring at nothing. “That’s not good.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you—it’s just that we had Bobby pegged as a follower, not an equal. Negotiations are more complicated when you have more than one person on the other side, because you have to get a consensus. When you go to buy a car, the salesman wants you to come in by yourself, but he’ll have the floor manager and the finance guy on his side. It means he has an excuse to slow down, whereas you don’t. What we need,” he went on as the radio remained silent, “is for the hostage taker to make decisions. If these two have to discuss everything first, it will drag on that much longer. That’s why sometimes a lone gunman is easier than a takeover.”

  She stared at him.

  “A single robber instead of a group of two or more,” he clarified.

  “He sounds so calm,” Don said.

  “They usually do. That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out either. Even the psychotic ones are often calm. They’re focused, I guess.”

  “Let’s go—” Theresa began to say, but then she stopped once more, arrested by voices from the small device in Jason’s hand.

  “Bobby doesn’t want to wait until two o’clock,” Lucas said. “He’s not the patient type.”

  Cavanaugh didn’t miss a beat. “Then I don’t know what to do, Lucas. Those money rooms can’t be bypassed.”

  “Tell you what, Chris. You just get that car here and let me worry about the money. I have an idea.”

  “Good, let’s talk about that. What’s your idea?”

  “Never mind, just get the car here. Oh, and one more thing—we won’t be leaving alone. In case you get any ideas about installing a remote kill switch in the engine or a GPS tracker, you should know that we’ve made some friends here and we’ll take at least two of them along for company. I thought you ought to know that. It might figure into your thinking.”

  Click.

  “Lucas?” Cavanaugh asked, without result. He sounded worried to Theresa, but perhaps this was a projection of her own terror.

  “Come on,” she said to Jason. “We’re going.”

  She turned and led the way out of the lab without looking back. They took the stairs.

  “What’s on your mind, Theresa?” Jason’s voice sounded almost as smooth as his boss’s, and that only irritated her.

  “He isn’t going to hold out much longer. I don’t know why he wants the stupid car, and I don’t care. All I know is that I can at least get that into place in case he decides
to start shooting. He’s melting down, this Lucas.”

  “All due respect, Mrs. MacLean,” Jason told her as he followed her down two flights, “but you’ve never been through a negotiation in your life, right? Perhaps you’re not the best person to predict what’s going to happen.”

  She reached the bottom, held the door as he caught up. “All due respect, Jason, but you can’t stop me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  10:55 A.M.

  “The car’s here,” Theresa announced as soon as she reached the reading table. Cavanaugh sat in front of the phone system, with the scribe, Irene, at his side and another woman next to Irene. Both Frank and the head librarian had left; Kessler sat drinking coffee as if it were an act of penance. Jason took a seat on the other side of Cavanaugh. Assistant Chief Viancourt browsed the library shelves with polite interest, the way one might do at the in-laws’ house. “It’s down on Superior, in front of the Hampton Inn,” she added.

  Cavanaugh looked at her with a gaze so sharp she wondered what he saw. A red face and a crumpled blouse, a voice tight enough to tune a violin—not a professional scientist but a woman on the edge? She forced herself to take a deep breath, slow to a stop, drape one hand over the back of a chair as if she had nothing better to do than drop by the library on this sunny morning.

  He said only, “Can they see it from the lobby?”

  “Not unless they go through the employee lobby and the security team to the Superior entrance.”

  “Good.” He turned back to the woman in front of him, middle-aged, black, wearing a navy suit and sensible shoes. “Go on, Mrs. Hessman.”

  Theresa sidled over to the nattily dressed assistant chief of police, now perusing the spine of The British Museum Catalogue of Seals. She introduced herself to the man, who cooed with admiration over how “cool” her job must be before she could go on. He did not seem to know about her relationship with Paul, and she did not see the need to inform him. “I can use your clout on something.” She handed him the blank, powder-processed envelope from the robbers’ car and explained about the postage-meter number. “They won’t be able to give it to me, not immediately. I’d have to fax them all sorts of letters and forms. But someone in your position…”

  Theresa had never been much of a manipulator, and she couldn’t believe how easy it was. The man’s chest expanded, and he nodded with great solemnity. He even patted her hand and told her he’d have it taken care of in no time before striding forcefully from the room. She watched him leave. The poor guy just wanted something to do.

  Now if she could convince Cavanaugh to give Lucas his car back, her day might end well after all.

  Theresa leaned against the metal shelving, listening to Cavanaugh question the woman, trying to stay still and quiet and patently under control. She wished Frank were there. She worked with cops every day but was not one of them, and she liked having Frank and Paul to buffer the unfamiliar faces.

  “You handled getting Mark Ludlow on board?” the hostage negotiator asked.

  “Yes. A number of our bank examiners were hired at the same time, so they all retired at the same time, and we didn’t have enough qualified replacements locally. It’s hard to find an experienced Fed examiner who wants to move, much less move to Cleveland, I’m sorry to say.”

  She chuckled, and Cavanaugh nodded. A survey of large cities with good self-esteem would not have Cleveland in the top ten. Or fifty.

  “So you convinced him to leave Atlanta?”

  “No, he responded to the online posting. He wanted to come here.”

  “Why?”

  She paused, fingers stroking the gold cross around her neck. “I think he said Atlanta had gotten too crowded. It is a huge city. But he still drove a hard bargain—he got a promotion and a job for his wife out of it.”

  “What does his wife do?”

  “She’s a secretary in the savings bond unit.”

  “She doesn’t work with her husband?”

  “Oh, no. Family members can’t be in a supervisory relationship with other family members. She can type and had done some clerical work before the baby was born, so we fitted her in with the support staff.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “Yes—Jessica, her name is. Sweet girl.”

  “How did she feel about the move, about her new job?”

  Again the human resources manager fingered her pendant. “I don’t really know. I only met her twice, once for the testing and interview process and once to sign all the paperwork. She seemed excited about the job but expressed some…misgivings, I guess you could say, about moving to the new city. I suppose that’s normal. She’s young and probably away from her family for the first time. I was a new bride of nineteen when I left Biloxi. It’s hard.”

  “True,” Cavanaugh said, so briskly that Theresa winced. He didn’t understand. Didn’t he have a family, some sort of foundation he’d be reluctant to leave? “Did she seem angry about it?”

  “No, not at all. Just nervous. She also, I think, would have preferred to stay home with her little boy instead of working. She said something about ‘at least until he started kindergarten.’ I could understand that, too. The first years are so important.”

  “So her son is in a new house, a new city, and then has to start day care, too,” Cavanaugh said, showing more sensitivity than he had a moment before. “That probably worried her.”

  “It was a lot of changes at once. Scary but exciting. She really is a sweet girl—an artist, too, likes to paint, and I told her about our art museum. I remember she joked that her son is taking after her and draws constantly, sometimes on the walls.” She chuckled again at the memory. “I think that’s all I can tell you. Why are you so interested in Jessica?”

  “We believe she’s one of the hostages.” Cavanaugh pointed at the flat-screen, its images flickering silently on the tabletop. “Can you tell us if that’s her, on the left?”

  The blood drained from the woman’s face to see her coworkers crouched on the marble floor, guns pointed at their bodies. “Oh, my Lord.”

  “No one is hurt, and I’m sure we can get them out safely. But does that look like Jessica Ludlow?”

  She squinted. “Yes, I’m sure. She has the baby with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re wondering that ourselves. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Hessman—”

  Theresa interrupted. “What time does she start work?”

  “Seven-thirty,” the woman answered without hesitation.

  Cavanaugh took a swig from his water bottle, allowing Theresa to continue her questioning.

  “What time does Mark Ludlow start work?” she asked.

  “Eight, usually. But a senior examiner…well…”

  “Doesn’t punch a time clock.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Hessman told her. “Some are more flexible, come in at eight-thirty or nine and stay later, but only a few. They’re all accountants, so they tend to be a bit regimented.”

  “Do you know what day-care arrangements she had for their son?”

  “No, I sure don’t.”

  Theresa mulled this over while Cavanaugh thanked the woman again. “This officer will see you out.”

  The room fell silent, except for the hum of distant cars and the terse, quiet exchanges from the staff offices. Then Theresa said, “Maybe they drive separately to work because she starts earlier. It still seems funny, considering the price of gas these days.”

  “Come here,” Cavanaugh said to her. He pushed an empty chair out from the desk, next to him. “Sit down. Need a bottle of water?”

  “No—yeah, actually. That would be good.”

  Irene pulled an Aquafina from a small cooler and passed it down.

  Cavanaugh handed it to her. “Or she drives separately because she drops the baby at day care. Are there still officers at the scene? We’ll have them ask the neighbors while they canvass.”

  Theresa soaked her hand with the bottle’s frigid conden
sation and rubbed it on the back of her neck, hot again from the six-flight jog. “They’re probably done.”

  “Jason, get Homicide. Have someone come over here with everything they found out about Ludlow. If they didn’t find the day care, send someone back to the neighborhood.”

  Theresa sipped, watching the TV screen. “This woman’s got a gun pointed at her little boy, and she doesn’t even know that her husband is dead.”

  “I haven’t lost a child on one of my jobs yet, and I don’t intend to start today.”

  “You haven’t lost anybody yet.” Jason stood as he dialed, adding to Theresa, “Chris has a perfect record. Two hundred and sixteen hostage situations ended without bloodshed.”

  “Not totally—there’s been some blood lost. But not fatally.”

  That should make me feel better, Theresa thought, but it doesn’t. He talks about loss of life as if it’s a running bet on a basketball team. As Jason walked off with his cell phone, she asked Cavanaugh, “How did you get into this line of work? How do you talk them into giving up when they have to know they’re going to go to jail?”

  “Mostly it’s about listening. You have to be a good listener. I’ll bet you would be good at it.”

  “Not me.” She shuddered. “I don’t want live people depending on me.”

  Cavanaugh laughed. “Dead ones are okay?”

  “Precisely. I could fail to solve their case, to get justice for them, but I can’t make them any more dead.” She finished the water. “That probably sounds wimpy, but I don’t care.”

  “It sounds sensible.”

  “You, on the other hand—do you ever have to decide who lives and who dies?”

  “Not in this case,” he said, neatly sideswiping the question. “The hostages are all together, and that simplifies matters. In domestics, particularly, you can have them scattered around in different rooms, so that at any given moment some are safe, some are not. We adjust our thinking accordingly.”

  If it came down to Paul, who had chosen to be in the line of fire by virtue of his profession, and a civilian, he would adjust his thinking accordingly. She needed to stay with Cavanaugh, to be sure that did not happen.