by Jen J. Danna
Garcia glanced at Gemma, who read his tacit order loud and clear. She picked up her notes and pen and stood, offering Rowland her chair. Taking off her headphones and leaving them on the table, she went out into the main room, grabbed a spare chair, and pushed it into the vault, setting up a station for herself at the end of the table between Rowland and Taylor.
Garcia sat down and pulled his pad of paper and pen into position before him. “I’ll start the call. I know already we’re going to hit a major bump right away because he’s going to want to see you in person, and that simply isn’t going to happen.”
“If Charles’s life is at stake—”
“It will be more at stake if you’re standing there. If he wants to kill the first deputy mayor to make a point to you, what better way than right in front of you? This is us compromising—putting you in touch with him in a safe manner. He can’t harm you over the phone line. Yes, he has hostages, but we won’t be adding to the list of victims by sending in anyone but the A-Team. If you don’t agree with me, we’ll get the chief on the phone, and he’ll back me up.”
Rowland sat back heavily in the chair, reluctance coming off him in waves. “He would.”
“Then let’s get this started. Once I get him talking to you, I’ll stay on the line and will advise you as we go along. You’re not in this alone. We’ll all be here. McFarland, pass me a headset with a mic and then connect us to the mayor’s office.”
“Yes, sir.” McFarland handed Garcia a mic’d headset, waiting until he had it in place; then he dialed the call into the mayor’s office.
The phone rang twice before it was picked up. “Are you sending him in?”
Garcia held up a hand as Rowland opened his mouth to respond. “I have the mayor here with me. He has agreed to talk to you.”
“Then send him in and we’ll talk.”
Garcia’s gaze flicked up to meet Gemma’s.
Here we go.
“I have him here on the phone and he’s ready to talk to you.”
“That’s not what we agreed on.” The man’s words held a combination of fury and suspicion.
“Sure it is.” Garcia tapped an index finger beside a line in his notes. “I have it right here. You said, ‘I want the mayor.’ I found him and have him here for you.”
“I meant in person. You fucking knew that.”
His control is slipping.
But Garcia’s mild tone never wavered. “You never said you wanted to see him in person. And you know I can’t do that. The brass would never allow it. Getting him on the phone is a compromise.”
“I’ll give you a compromise.”
In the background came the sound of a scuffle, followed by the cry of a woman. “No! Don’t! I’ll do whatever you want.”
The bottom dropped out of Gemma’s stomach and she leaned down to hurriedly scratch out a note and then shoved it toward Garcia: Not Willan. Picked someone disposable. Careful.
Garcia nodded. “I need you to stand down.” His words were calm and measured, only his clenched fist betraying his tension at the chaos they heard.
Another terrified cry made Gemma scan her notes. Only three women: Clara, Janina, and Elizabeth. Who did he have? Her voice sounded young, but without more details about the hostages, it could be any of the three.
“Why would I do that?” It was a snarl. “I gave you what you wanted and you fucked me over.”
Garcia pinned Rowland with a sharp look and pointed first at him and then at the phone.
“No, he didn’t.” Rowland’s voice came out with a slight tremor. “He didn’t.” This time, his words were steadier. “I’m right here.”
“Mayor Rowland?”
“Yes, you asked to speak to me, and I’m here. You have my undivided attention, Mr. . . .”
Another cry, followed by a thump, and the sound of harsh, broken breathing came through the line, followed by a low murmur of voices.
Gemma pictured male hands pushing away a woman’s slender form, and her gasp of pain and fear as she overbalanced to tumble to the floor.
“That’s not important. I need to talk to you. You need to understand.”
“Help me understand. Then we can talk about releasing your hostages.”
“Come in here.”
“I can’t—”
“If you want to save lives, you will.” The hard edge was back in his words.
“I’m happy to talk to you like this. Tell me about what has you—”
“No! Garcia, you had a chance, now you’re done.”
A scream of terror stabbed across the line, making Gemma wince in pain.
Then silence as he cut the connection.
CHAPTER 8
“Get him back!” Garcia ordered.
McFarland was already dialing. But the phone simply rang and rang. Voice mail. Again. Voice mail.
After the third attempt, McFarland looked up. “He’s not picking up. On purpose. He knows it’s us.”
“Of course, he does.” Garcia pressed his balled fists to his temples. “Goddamn it, we need eyes in there. He could be killing them all and we’d have no idea.”
“That won’t happen unless Sanders and his team go in,” Taylor said, his voice calm.
“Given how the last five minutes have gone down, you know he’s going to push hard for that.” McFarland punched redial again and they all listened to the ringing again and again.
“We’re going to need proof of life again.” Garcia’s tone was sour.
“But not from you,” Gemma said. “Sir, let me talk to him.”
Garcia’s head snapped up. “You?”
“Yes. Your relationship with him is over. As far as he’s concerned, he fulfilled his end of the deal and you hung him out to dry.” She held out a hand to forestall his protest. “You know you did what you had to do, and so do I. But he’s not going to see it that way. We need to start over with him. Sometimes it’s the second negotiator who makes a better connection.”
“I agree with you, Capello.” Taylor sat forward in his chair, intensity radiating from him. “We need a fresh voice. But it should be me. I have more experience and a stronger voice of authority.”
“But that’s just it,” she argued. “He’s having a problem with authority. You need me because I’m a woman.”
Garcia started to say something, then caught himself, and considered her thoughtfully while the phone rang futilely in the background of their headsets. “You think he’ll see you as weak? A pushover?”
She nodded. “He’s older, and I get a vibe from him that says he’s old school. Old Testament even, given the ‘on the side of the angels’ reference. He strikes me as an ‘eye for an eye’ type of guy. I bet he’s also the type whose wife stayed home and raised the kiddies while he brought home the bacon. The type of man who thinks today’s women are rising above their own station. Which we all know is BS”—she gave Taylor a side-eyed glance—“but I think that’s his take on it. And he’ll lump me into that category.”
“He’s wrong.”
“Thank you, sir. But he won’t know that until it’s too late.”
“We’ll use his own prejudice against him. I like it. Taylor, we’re going to hold you in reserve for now, but if this backfires on us, I want you ready to step in.”
With a curt nod, Taylor sat back in his chair, the expression on his face clearly stating he wasn’t pleased, but he acquiesced to the decision structure.
Garcia swung around to McFarland. “We need to get through to him.”
“Trying, sir,” McFarland grated between gritted teeth.
Garcia cleared the chair for Gemma and they switched headsets and places. “Now, if we could only—” Garcia cut off abruptly at the click on the other end of the line.
“I’ll talk to you when I’m good and ready, Garcia, and not a second be—”
“I’m not Garcia.” Gemma purposely kept her voice quiet and nonconfrontational as she pulled her legal pad and pen toward her. Kept her tone light, femi
nine.
“Who’s this?”
“NYPD Detective Gemma Capello.”
There were several seconds of silence, broken only by a low background keening; then he said, “Capello.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gemma imagined the conference room. She saw shelves lined with books and legal decisions surrounding a long conference table. A faceless man stood at the head of the table, his back to the open door. Hostages huddled at the far end of the room, trying to put as much distance between them and their captor as possible.
Her heart racing too fast, so fast her lungs couldn’t keep up, and feeling on the edge of hyperventilation. Hostages huddling together, drawing comfort from the stranger beside them who had suddenly become the second most important person in the room. Fear keeping her immobilized, her eyes fixed on the fathomless hole at the end of the gun pointed at them. Her father had taught her respect for firearms and how to handle them safely. But he’d also taught her they were killers in the wrong hands.
Like right now.
“What do you want, Capello?”
“To talk to you.”
Another pause. “That’s all?”
“I think that’s a good place to start. What can I call you?”
His laugh was harsh and derisive. “I’m not telling you my name.”
She echoed his laugh with one of her own, one she hoped sounded brainless and bubbly. At McFarland’s raised eyebrows, she rolled her eyes. “I didn’t ask for your name, I asked what I could call you. ‘Hey, you’ doesn’t seem polite. Surely, there must be something I can call you?”
Rowland stared at her in confusion, but Garcia was nodding because he could see exactly what she was doing. Establish a connection by offering assistance and a friendly ear, get the suspect talking, start to build a bond. Nothing else could proceed without those bedrock steps.
“Henry? James? Bart?” She randomly threw out names. “Darren? Steve? Patrick?”
“That’ll do,” the man interrupted. “Or you’ll be at this for hours.”
“Wonderful.” Gemma let her smile infuse her tone as she wrote the name down on her pad of paper in block letters and underscored it with a single bold line. “Patrick. Now, you know I have to ask after the hostages. We heard a scream when you hung up. I need to speak to Clara, Janina, and Elizabeth.”
“Why would I do that? Garcia asked for that last time and then didn’t follow through.”
“You’re not dealing with Garcia. You’re dealing with me.” She glanced at Garcia and shrugged her apology. “And he might not have been, but I’ll be straight with you. If I say a thing will happen, it will. Talk to me. Tell me what you need. I’m listening.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me, does your daddy approve of your career?” The man’s tone implied he was talking to a small child.
There it was, the old-school misogyny. She’d nailed his personality. “He does. Look, Patrick, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. You’re holding all the cards. You’re the one who orchestrated this situation perfectly. You’re calling the shots. I can provide what you need up to a certain point. But to do that, I need the hostages in one piece. All of them.” She paused for emphasis, hoping her words would also give Willan some comfort. “If not, there’s nothing I can do to help you. So, again, I need to speak to Clara, Janina, and Elizabeth.”
“And then what?”
“And then we’ll get the mayor back here”—out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rowland jerk in surprise—“and then you can have the conversation you want. That’s what started all of this, isn’t it? Something bad happened? Something that pushed you to take this kind of step so you could have a conversation with the mayor?”
“I want a face-to-face conversation.”
“I promised you honesty, Patrick. I’m not going to hoodwink you. You threatened to kill the first deputy mayor, so there’s no way the NYPD will allow Mayor Rowland to set foot into City Hall. I can’t promise you a face-to-face meet, but I can arrange a phone conversation. And then we’ll go from there. Is that fair? I can tell you right now, you won’t get a better offer.”
Gemma could practically hear the man grinding his teeth in frustration as he weighed his options. “Fine.” The word was clipped.
“Wonderful!” Gemma poured every bit of enthusiasm she had into the single word. “Let me talk to the girls. Then I’ll call back in a few minutes, once we get the mayor back in the room.”
He didn’t say another word, but after a few seconds, she heard the low rumble of the man’s voice and a scuffle of movement, followed by a tremulous female voice. “H-hello?”
“This is Detective Gemma Capello of the NYPD Hostage Negotiation Team.” All traces of lightness were gone. The hostages needed to hear the strength of the team fighting for them, and Gemma was their voice. “Who’s this?”
“Janina Lee.”
“Janina, have you been hurt?” Gemma used the familiarity of the woman’s first name to build a bond of trust in as few words as possible. “Are you all right?”
“That wasn’t me. That was Clara. I’m okay.”
“Thank you. Hold on, Janina, we’re going to get you out of there. Please pass on the phone.”
The next voice was preceded by ragged, watery breaths.
Clara.
“This is Clara. Clara Sutton.” The woman’s voice was only the thread of a whisper, but it was coherent.
“Clara, this is Detective Gemma Capello of the NYPD Hostage Negotiation Team. Are you hurt?”
A whimper was the only response.
“Can you describe your injuries?”
“Hit me. With his gun. Across my cheek.”
Gemma beat back the fury that rose like a wave. Pistol-whipped. But still talking and coherent, so likely not concussed or with a broken jaw or cheekbone, which is probably better than Greenfield. “Clara, we’re going to get you out of there. Stay strong.”
Gemma took the murmured response as an affirmative and then asked that the phone be passed on to Elizabeth.
After assuring herself the last female hostage was okay, Gemma hung up and stared thoughtfully at the phone. That had gone better than she expected.
Suspicion reared its ugly head. Why had it gone better than expected?
What had she missed?
CHAPTER 9
“Why didn’t you let me talk to him?”
The mayor’s question pulled Gemma’s thoughts from her contemplation. “I’m giving him the impression he’s in charge, when, really, we are—we control when the calls go through and who talks. And I wanted to give him a few minutes to think over that call, and to feel confident in how it went. What he perceives as a weakened position might make him desperate. A position of control may make him more likely to deal with us and consider any offers fairly.” She sat back in her chair, pushing her headset down to hang around her neck, and turned to her team. “But there’s something . . .”
Garcia looked at her sharply. “What?”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure. Something about that conversation is bothering me. Something I’m picking up, but can’t put my finger on yet. Did anyone else get anything from it?”
“Besides his slightly placating attitude that they stuck him with a woman?” McFarland asked. “Not that he ‘little lady’d,’ you or anything obvious, but it was in his tone. You told him you were a detective, but he may think you’re freshly minted.”
“In which case, he’s not carefully considering the situation,” Taylor interjected. “This is likely the most important hostage situation in the city all year. He started with a lieutenant, so we aren’t going to follow up with a cadet.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Gemma countered. “He’s old school. Those are the guys who will ‘little lady’ you. And he didn’t. But I feel like something important is just out of reach.” Gemma turned to Rowland. “Which means you’re up, sir.”
“Any new instructions?” Rowland asked.
“Lieutenant Garcia laid it out for you before. The only thing I can add is to avoid being the ‘voice of authority.’ You may run this city, but you don’t run this incident. We need you to step back from that. I didn’t get the impression from you that you recognized his voice?”
“No.”
“Then call him by the first name he’s assumed and let him call you by yours. That will put you on a more even playing field in his mind. Otherwise, just listen very closely to everything he says. And we’ll be here to advise during the whole call.” She pulled her headset back into place and nodded at McFarland. “Put us through.”
The suspect picked up on the third ring. “Is the mayor there?”
Gemma motioned to Rowland. Go ahead.
“I’m here. Is this Patrick?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, Patrick. Please call me Kevin. I understand you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yes.”
“Before we start, I’d like to talk to First Deputy Mayor Willan.”
Gemma’s head whipped sideways to face him, but Rowland was staring unblinkingly at the table in front of him.
“That’s how you’re going to start? With a demand?”
“I’m happy to talk to you. I just need to make sure Charles is okay.”
Silent seconds ticked by as Gemma’s heart rate picked up. She glanced at Garcia and recognized the lockjawed expression. Her lieutenant wasn’t happy. He’d given the mayor instructions, and the mayor had done what he damn well pleased.
“Fine.” The man’s answer carried a note of suppressed anger. “Wait a second.”
The thump of the handset being dropped on the desk was followed by mumbled voices. Then there was the sound of something heavy falling and a ragged exhalation, as if the man had pushed Willan into a chair near the phone.
The handset was fumbled; then a new voice came over the line. “Hello?”
The mayor slumped back in his chair, relief etched on his florid face. “Charles, it’s Kevin. Are you okay?”
