The Novels of Nora Roberts Volume 1

by Nora Roberts

  “What is it?” Deanna turned off the tub and rose. Water streamed from her as she shook out a towel. She already knew he was leaving.

  “There’s a hostage situation over in Greektown.” With a quick flick of the wrist, he turned on the television even as he headed into the bedroom to drag on clothes. “It’s bad. Three people are already dead.”

  She shivered once. Then as quick, as brisk as he, she reached for her robe. She wanted to tell him she’d go with him. But of course she couldn’t. There were several hundred people waiting for her in the ballroom of an Indiana hotel.

  Why was she so cold? she wondered as she bundled hurriedly into her robe. He was already tucking a shirt into his slacks, as calmly as a man going to his office to work on tax forms. He’d survived air raids and earthquakes. Surely a skirmish in Greektown was nothing to worry about.

  “You’ll be careful.”

  He grabbed a tie, a jacket. “I’ll be good.” As she reached into the closet for the suit she’d chosen for her afternoon appearance, he spun her around for a kiss. “I’ll probably be back before you.”

  The worst kind of war was one with no front lines or battle plans. It was fueled on anger and fear and the blind need to destroy. The once-tidy restaurant with its pretty, striped awning and sidewalk tables was destroyed. Shards from the broken window sparkled like scattered gems over the sidewalk, The flap of the awning in the raw spring wind was smothered by the static-filled drone of police radios. Reporters held back by barricades swarmed like hungry wolves.

  There was another volley of gunshots from inside. And a long, terrified scream.

  “Jesus.” Sweat popped out on Curt’s brow as he held the camera steady. “He’s killing them.”

  “Get a shot of that cop there,” Finn ordered. “The one with the bullhorn.”

  “You’re the boss.” Curt focused in on a cop in a neon orange trench coat with a hangdog face and graying hair. Amid the screams and shouts, the weeping, the bitter threats and curses from inside the restaurant, the steely-eyed cop continued to talk in a soothing monotone.

  “Pretty cool customer,” Curt observed, then at a signal from Finn shifted, crouched to get a shot of the SWAT team taking position.

  “Cool enough,” Finn agreed. “If he keeps at it, they might not need the sharpshooters. Keep rolling. I’m going to see if I can work my way over and find out who he is.”

  The ballroom was filled to capacity. From where Deanna sat on the raised dais, she could see all three hundred and fifty people who had come to hear her talk about women in broadcasting. She was going to give them their money’s worth. She’d gone over her notes thoroughly once again on the drive from Chicago, letting her concentration lapse only when she caught a glimpse of Finn on the limo’s television.

  He was, as Barlow James would say, in his element. And, it seemed, she was in hers.

  She waited through the flattering introduction, through the applause that followed it, then rose and walked to the podium. She scanned the room, smiled.

  “Good afternoon. One of the first things we learn in broadcasting is that we work weekends. Since we are, I hope to make the next hour as entertaining as it is informative. That, to me, is television, and I’ve found it a very satisfying way to make a living. It occurred to me that as you are professionals, you wouldn’t have much opportunity to watch daytime TV, so I’m hoping to convince you to set your VCRs Monday morning. We’re on at nine here in Merrillville.”

  That earned Deanna her first chuckle, and set the tone for the next twenty minutes, until her speech segued into a question-and-answer period.

  One of the first questioners asked if Finn Riley had accompanied her.

  “I’m afraid not. As we all know, one of the boons, and the curses, of this business is the breaking story. Finn’s reporting on one right now, but you can catch him on In Depth Tuesday nights. I always do.”

  “Miss Reynolds, how do you feel about the fact that looks have become as much a part of the criteria for on-air jobs as credentials?”

  “I would certainly agree with network executives that television is a visual medium. To a point. I can tell you this: If in thirty years Finn Riley is still reporting, and considered a statesman, I’d not only expect but demand, as a woman, to be given the same respect.”

  Finn wasn’t thinking about the future. He was too involved in the present. Using wile, guile and arrogance, he’d managed to gain a position beside the hostage negotiator, Lieutenant Arnold Jenner. Jenner still held the bullhorn but had taken a short break in his appeal to his quarry to release the hostages.

  “Lieutenant, the word I’ve gotten here is that Johnson—that’s his name, isn’t it, Elmer Johnson?”

  “It’s the one he answers to,” Jenner said mildly.

  “He has a history of depression. His VA records—”

  “You wouldn’t have access to his medical records, Mr. Riley.”

  “Not directly.” But he had contacts, and he’d used them. “My take on this is that Johnson served in the military and has been troubled since his discharge in March of last year. Last week he lost his wife and his job.”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “I get paid to be. He went into this restaurant at just past ten this morning—that’s about three hours ago—armed with a forty-four Magnum, a Bushmaster, a gas mask and a carbine. He shot and killed two waiters and a bystander, then took five hostages, including two women and a twelve-year-old girl, the owner’s daughter.”

  “Ten,” Jenner said wearily. “The kid’s ten. Mr. Riley, you do good work, and usually I enjoy it. But my job right now is to get those people out of there alive.”

  Finn glanced over, noting the position of the sharpshooters. They wouldn’t wait much longer. “What are his demands? Can you tell me that?”

  It hardly mattered, Jenner decided. There had been only one, and he hadn’t been able to meet it. “He wants his wife, Mr. Riley. She left Chicago four days ago. We’re trying to locate her, but we haven’t had any luck.”

  “I can get it on the air. If she catches a bulletin, she may make contact. Let me talk to him. I might be able to get him to bargain if I tell him I’ll put all my people on it.”

  “You that desperate for a story?”

  Insults were too common in his line of work for Finn to take offense. “I’m always ready to bargain for a story, Lieutenant.” His eyes narrowed as he measured the man beside him. “Look, the kid’s ten. Let me try.”

  Jenner believed in instinct, and he also knew, without a doubt, that he couldn’t hold the situation from flash point much longer. After a moment, he handed Finn the bullhorn. “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.”

  “Mr. Johnson. Elmer. This is Finn Riley. I’m a reporter.”

  “I know who you are.” The voice came out, a high-pitched shriek through the broken glass. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “You were in the Gulf, right? I was too.”

  “Shit. You figure that makes us buddies?”

  “I figure anybody who did time over there’s already been to hell.” The awning flapped, reminding him of the road to Kuwait, and the sparkle of pink sequins. “I thought maybe we could make a deal.”

  “There ain’t no deal. My wife gets here, I let them go. She doesn’t, we’re all going to hell. For real.”

  “The cops have been trying to reach her, but I thought we could put a new spin on it. I’ve got a lot of contacts. I can get your story national, put your wife’s picture on television screens from coast to coast. Even if she isn’t watching, someone who knows her is bound to be. We’ll put a number on, a special number where she can call in. You can talk to her, Elmer.”

  That was good, Jenner decided, even as he braced to rip the bullhorn from Finn’s hands if the need arose. Using his first name, offering him not only hope but a few minutes of fame. His superiors might not approve, but Jenner thought it could work.

  “Then do it!” Johnson shouted out. “Just fucking d
o it.”

  “I’ll be glad to, but I can’t unless you give something back. Just let the little girl come out, Elmer, and I’ll plug your story across the country within ten minutes. I can even fix it so you can get a message to your wife. In your own words.”

  “I’m not letting anybody out, except in a body bag.”

  “She’s just a kid, Elmer. Your wife probably likes kids.” Christ, he hoped so. “If you let her go, she’ll hear about it, and she’ll want to talk to you.”

  “It’s a trick.”

  “I’ve got a camera right here.” He glanced toward Curt. “Is there a TV in the bar in there?” he called out.

  “What if there is?”

  “You can watch everything I do. Everything I say. I’ll have them put me on live.”

  “Then do it. Do it in five minutes, fucking five minutes, or you’re going to have another body in here.”

  “Call the desk,” Finn shouted. “Patch me in. Set up for live now.” Then he turned back to Jenner.

  “You’d make a pretty good cop—for a reporter.”

  “Thanks.” He handed Jenner the bullhorn. “Tell him to send her out while I’m on the air, or I go to black.”

  In precisely five minutes, Finn faced the camera. Whatever his inner turmoil, his delivery was calm and well paced, his eyes cool. Behind him was the shattered exterior of the restaurant.

  “This morning in Chicago’s Greektown, this family-run restaurant erupted with violence. Three people are known dead in the standoff between police and Elmer Johnson, a former mechanic who chose this spot to take his stand. Johnson’s only demand is contact with his estranged wife, Arlene.”

  Though he sensed activity behind him, Finn’s eyes stayed fixed on the camera’s light.

  “Johnson, well armed, is holding five hostages. In his appeal to—”

  There was a scream from behind him. Finn shifted instantly to give Curt room to tape.

  It happened quickly, as if all the waiting hours had been focused on this one moment. The child, trembling and weeping, stepped outside. Even as the shadow of the awning fell over her face, a wild-eyed man sprinted out, screaming as he hurtled toward escape. The rash of gunfire from the restaurant propelled the man forward, off his feet. It was Jenner, Finn saw, who scooped the child aside even as Johnson stumbled to the door.

  The sniper’s bullet plowed through Johnson’s forehead.

  “Oh man.” Curt kept repeating the words over and over under his breath as he held the camera steady. “Man, oh man, oh man.”

  Finn only shook his head. The burning in his left arm made him glance down curiously. Brows knit, he touched the hole in his sleeve. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  “Well, hell,” he murmured. “I got this coat in Milan.”

  “Shit, Riley.” Curt’s eyes bulged. “Shit. You’re hit.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t feel any pain yet, only dull annoyance. “You just can’t patch leather, either.”

  On Monday, as soon as the morning show was taped, Deanna stood in the center of her office, her eyes glued to the TV screen. It seemed unbelievable that she could hear Finn’s voice supplying the details over the special report.

  She saw the scene as he had, the shattered glass, the bloodied body. The camera bobbled and swung as the sniper fired. Her heart jerked as she heard the pop and ping of bullets.

  Through it all, Finn’s voice remained calm, cool, with an underpinning of fury she doubted any of his viewers were aware of. She stood, a fist pressed to her heart as the camera zoomed in on the child, weeping in the arms of a rumpled man with graying hair.

  “Deanna.” Jeff hesitated in the doorway, then crossed the room to stand beside her.

  “It’s horrible,” she murmured. “Unbelievable. If that man hadn’t panicked and run out that way, if he hadn’t done that, it might have turned out differently. That little girl, she could have been caught in the cross fire. And Finn . . .”

  “He’s okay. Hey, he’s right downstairs. Back on the job.”

  “Back on the job.”

  “Deanna,” he said again, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “I know it must be tough for you. Not only knowing it happened, but actually watching it.” He walked over and switched off the set. “But he’s okay.”

  “He was shot.” She whirled away from the blank screen and struggled for composure. “And I was in Indiana. You can’t imagine how horrible it was to have Tim come into the ballroom and tell me he’d seen it on the limo’s set. And to be helpless. Not to be there when they took him to the hospital.”

  “If it upsets you this much, and you asked him, he could get a desk job.”

  For the first time all morning she gave him a genuine smile. “Things don’t work that way. I wouldn’t want them to. We’d better get back to work.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze before rounding her desk. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Hey. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Everybody stays late tonight,” Angela announced at an emergency staff meeting. “Nobody leaves until we lock in this show. I want a panel, and I want it hard-line. Three from this white supremacist group, three from the NAACP. I want radicals.” She sat behind her desk, her fingers drumming on the surface. “Make sure each side gets at least a dozen tickets, so they can seed the audience. I want to blow the roof off.”

  She stabbed a finger at her head researcher. “We’ve got some statistics here in New York. Get me some of the relatives.”

  “Some of them might not be easy to persuade.”

  “Then pay them,” she snapped. “Money always turns the tide. And I want some tape, as graphic as possible, from rallies. Some witnesses to racially motivated crimes, perpetrators would be better. Promise that we’ll protect their identities. Promise them anything, just get them.”

  When she fell into silence, Dan gave a nod that signaled the end of the meeting. He waited until the door was closed again.

  “You know, Angela, you could be walking on thin ice here.”

  Her head snapped up. “You sound like Lew.”

  “I’m not advising you against doing it. I’m just suggesting that you watch out for the cross fire.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” She’d seen Finn’s report, as had nearly every other American with a television set. Now she was going to outdo him as well as Deanna. “We need something hot, and the timing couldn’t be better. The country’s in an uproar about race, and the city’s a mess.”

  “You’re not worried about Deanna Reynolds.” He smiled, knowing he had to defuse the tantrum he saw building in her eyes.

  “She’s climbing up my back, isn’t she?”

  “She’ll slip off.” He took her rigid hands in his. “What you need now is a boost in publicity. Something that will focus the public’s attention on you.” He lifted her hand, admiring the way the sun dashed off the diamonds in her watch. “And I’ve got an idea how to do it.”

  “It better be good.”

  “It’s more than good, it’s inspired.” He kissed her hand, watching her over her knuckles. “The American public loves one thing more than they love hearing about graft and sex and violence. Weddings,” he said as he drew her gently to her feet. “Big, splashy weddings—private weddings dotted with celebrities. Marry me, Angela.” His eyes were soft. “I’ll not only make you happy, I’ll see to it that your picture’s on every major newspaper and magazine in the country.”

  The flutter of her heart was quick. “And what would you get out of it, Dan?”

  “You.” Reading her clearly, he lowered his head to kiss her. “All I want is you.”

  On the second Saturday in June, Angela donned a Vera Wang shell-pink gown of silk, encrusted with tiny pearls. Its sweetheart neckline framed a flattering hint of her rounded breasts, its full, elaborate skirt accented her tiny waist. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a fingertip veil and carried a bouquet of white orchids.

  The ceremony took place in the country home she’d pur
chased in Connecticut, and was attended by a stellar guest list. Some were pleased to be there, drawn either by sentiment or the notion of having their name and photo included in the press releases. Others came because it was easier to accept than to face Angela’s fury later.

  Elaborate gifts crowded the large parlor and, under uniformed guard, were on display for the select members of the press. No one seeing all this, Angela thought, would doubt how much she was loved.

  The reception spilled out into the rose garden, where a champagne fountain bubbled and white doves cooed.

  When the event was buzzed incessantly by helicopters crammed with paparazzi, she knew it was a success.

  Like any new bride, she glowed. The sun glinted off the five-carat diamond gracing her left hand as she posed with Dan for photos.

  She told the reporters, regretfully, that her mother, her only living relative, was too ill to attend. In reality she was tucked in a private clinic, drying out.

  Kate Lowell, looking young and fresh in a billowing sundress, kissed Angela’s cheek for the benefit of the cameras. Her long red-gold hair flowed down her bare back, melted copper over sun-kissed peaches. She had a face the camera worshiped, ice-edged cheekbones, full lips, huge gold eyes. The image was completed by a sinuous body, killer legs and a rich infectious giggle.

  Kate Lowell could have become a star on the sole basis of her glorious physical attributes. She certainly had done her share of commercial endorsements. But she had something more: talent and charm that burned every bit as hot as her box-office appeal. And ambition that seared through both.

  She enchanted the photographer by shooting him a dazzling smile, then turned the other cheek for Angela. “I hate your guts,” she said softly.

  “I know, darling.” Beaming, Angela slipped her arm around Kate’s waist, fingers digging ruthlessly into flesh as she turned her best side to the camera. “Smile pretty now, show why you’re the number-one female box-office draw.”