A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  Within minutes, in response to Arnie’s officer-needs-assistance call, a thicket of LAPD black-and-whites obstructed both ends of the block. The FBI’s bullet-riddled Ford still sat in front of the barricaded apartment. Agent Marcus lay sprawled beside it, splayed out in a dark puddle of blood. Tinley had managed to squirm partway beneath the car on the other side, but hadn’t moved since. Withering gunfire from a third-floor window precluded any thought of a rescue. Filled with a feeling of helpless rage, Kane finally retreated to his own car.

  Upon arriving, he found Arnie talking on the radio, which had been patched through West L.A. Division communications to Sylvia Martin’s third-floor apartment. Cursing under his breath, Kane slid behind the steering wheel, feeling his temper unraveling as he listened to the ensuing conversation between Arnie and Escobar—most of which involved Escobar’s delivery of an impossible list of demands. By the time Escobar had concluded his unrealistic spew, Kane was seething. “Damn it, Arnie,” he said. “What do we do now?”

  Arnie hesitated, thumb over the transmit button. “We already did all we could,” he said reluctantly. “Now we stall and wait for backup. SWAT and a hostage negotiator will be here soon. Let them handle it.”

  “Wait for SWAT?” Kane snorted. “What about the fed out there under the car? He could be dead by the time they get here, if he isn’t already.”

  “I know that, Dan. It’s out of our hands.”

  Kane grabbed the radio mike. “Escobar? You there?”

  “What, pig?” Escobar’s voice crackled back.

  “This is Detective Kane. I just want to make certain we have all your demands straight. You want fifty thousand in cash, a helicopter to take you to the airport, and a plane gassed up and ready to go wherever you say. Sure you haven’t left anything out, dirtbag? How about a couple hookers, some chilled champagne, and maybe a nice blow job to top things off?”

  As Kane started to add something else, Arnie narrowed his eyes, signaling him to lighten up.

  “Listen, asshole,” Escobar replied. “I’m callin’ the shots here. Unless you want more people dead, you do what I say.”

  Kane glanced at Arnie.

  Arnie shook his head. “Let the SWAT negotiator deal with him, Dan.”

  Again, Kane spoke into the mike. “Okay, Mr. Escobar. We want the hostages alive, but no one here has authority to grant your demands. The brass is sending somebody down.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Meanwhile, how about letting us get those two guys off the street?”

  “No way. You get us outta here. Then you get your guys.”

  “Let me talk with one of the people you’re holding. If we’re going to deal, we have to know they’re all right.”

  “You ain’t talking to nobody.”

  “Let me see them, then. If they’re not alive, we have nothing to discuss.”

  After a moment the young Chicano male appeared in the window. Escobar stood behind him, holding a pistol to the boy’s head. Kane studied them through the binoculars. “Looks like the kid’s all right,” he said. An instant later he saw the boy grab for the gun.

  “Shit, the kid’s playing hero,” Kane groaned, dropping the mike and picking up the handset. Quickly, he switched back to their tac frequency. “Deluca, can you hear what’s going on?”

  Before Deluca could answer, the roar of a gunshot reverberated from the apartment. “Sounded like a shot,” Deluca’s voice came back an instant later.

  “No, shit,” Banowski broke in, his transmission static-filled but audible. “I could tell that from back here in the alley, and I didn’t need a parabolic mike to do it.”

  “Drop dead, Banowski,” Deluca shot back.

  Suddenly the third-floor window exploded. Splinters of window frame and shards of glass flew into the morning sunlight, driven by the body of the Chicano youth. Every eye on the street lifted in shocked silence to record his final flight to the sidewalk.

  Deluca’s voice came back over the radio a moment later. “They keep this up, they’re gonna run out of hostages.”

  “What’s going on in there now?” Kane asked, ignoring Deluca’s dark attempt at humor.

  “The kid’s girlfriend is crying,” Deluca responded. “The Martin woman’s yelling at Escobar for throwing the boyfriend out the window. He’s telling her to shut up. Nothing from the other guy.”

  “Any mention of the Bradley kid?”

  “Yeah. Not where they are holding him or anything, but they’re definitely our guys.”

  Without a word Kane yanked the keys from the ignition, walked to the back of the car, and opened the trunk.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Arnie.

  Kane pulled his Kevlar body armor from the trunk. “I thought I’d work my way around to the alley, pay Banowski a visit,” he answered.

  “Let SWAT handle it, Dan.”

  Kane squinted down the street. “Tinley will probably bleed out before they get here, if he hasn’t already. And don’t forget the Bradley boy. No way those scumbags are going to give him up now. They just killed an FBI agent, maybe two, not to mention the boyfriend. There’s nothing in it for them now.”

  “So what can you do?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to try something. Warn Banowski I’m on my way. I’d hate to catch him napping.”

  “Right. Hey, Dan?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just be careful.”

  Minutes later Kane arrived in the alley. John Banowski, a large, heavyset man with a wrestler’s going-to-fat physique and a crew-cut hairstyle that hadn’t changed since high school, lumbered from an unmarked Dodge, joining Kane in the shadow of a storage shed behind the brick apartment building. Both men studied the structure. Reinforced steel mesh covered every opening on the first and second floors. There appeared to be no way in—no unbarred window, service door, or fire escape. Nothing.

  “Place is built like a stockade,” observed Banowski. “They’ve got the shades drawn in Martin’s apartment. I haven’t seen anything going on up there since we got here,” he added.

  “How many other tenants on the third floor?”

  “Hard to tell. Two, maybe three. A while back I saw an old lady sticking her head out a window at the far end. Why?”

  “I want to know what to expect when I get there.”

  “When you get there? What are you gonna do, sprout wings?”

  “Something like that. Just keep me covered. Once I’m inside, let Arnie know what’s going on. And tell him not to let anybody come up till I signal.”

  Banowski shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not thinking of climbing up there?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Damn, Kane. Ever wonder why people think you’re such a hot dog?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You’d better,” said Banowski, regarding Kane with a look of both puzzlement and respect.

  Carefully staying out of view of the third-floor corner window, Kane crossed the alley, wishing he felt as certain of himself as he’d led Banowski to believe. Keeping his back to the wall, he worked his way over to a 6-inch cast-iron standpipe that ran up the outside of the building. He tested it. Deciding it felt solid, he kicked off his shoes. A moment later he grabbed the pipe, placed a foot on the bricks on either side, and started up.

  Using a climbing technique called a lieback, Kane walked up the vertical surface by supporting his weight on the balls of his feet, leaning back on his hands to maintain friction. It was a quick and efficient way to ascend, but as he moved up, Kane felt his hands rapidly tiring. Forty feet up, fingers cramping, sweat stinging his eyes, he began to question the wisdom of his attempt.

  All at once the pipe shifted.

  Jesus, it’s coming loose!

  Kane froze, fearing any movement might dislodge the pipe. He peered up, noticing the bolts securing the standpipe to the top of the building had almost worked their way free of the concrete.

  Wit
h a chill Kane realized that the higher he climbed, the more he would stress the loosened bolts. He glanced at the street below, considering a retreat. Rejected it. His hands would give out long before he got there.

  The fourth-floor windows lay six feet higher. The one nearest the pipe looked old, the caulk on the panes curling like dried mud.

  By now Kane’s right leg had begun to shake. Praying the bolts would hold, he gingerly moved up. Then, using a slight hopping motion, he inched his toes onto the windowsill, running over the move in his mind.

  No time. Do it.

  Taking a deep breath, Kane released the pipe with his left hand. As he began to swing backward away from the pipe, his fingertips found the edge of the window opening, slipped … held. He pressed until the bones of his fingers made solid contact with the brick. Then, with a grimace, he transferred weight to his foot on the ledge, quickly reversing his right-handed grip on the pipe to keep from peeling off.

  Heart slamming in his throat, Kane hung for a terrible, sickening instant, fighting the fatal urge to lean into the bricks. Seconds passed. Balanced between the window in front and a crippling drop behind, he held on. Carefully, he inched his toes farther onto the ledge. Next he brought over his other foot. Knowing he would get only one chance, he leaned back as far as his handholds would allow and then propelled himself toward the glass, letting go with his left hand at the same time.

  He punched as he swung inward. Surprisingly, the glass didn’t break. Instead, the entire window flew into the room, the weathered framework splintering under his fist. Kane’s arm shot through. As his momentum stalled and he started to topple backward, he grabbed the inside edge of the wall.

  A moment later he was in.

  Kane glanced around the fourth-floor apartment in which he found himself. It appeared to have been unoccupied for some time. A rat’s nest of old clothing left by some former tenant cluttered one corner, platter-sized chunks of plaster had peeled from the ceiling, and the room stank of urine, rodent droppings, mold, and age. He had never been more happy to be anywhere in his life.

  Withdrawing his automatic, Kane moved to the door. He listened, then eased it open. Outside, a deserted hallway ran in either direction. To the right, a window looked out on the street below. Doors, elevator, and a stairwell to the left.

  Kane slipped into the corridor, heading for the stairs. Moving silently, he stepped onto the upper landing and glanced down the central shaft.

  Nothing.

  He descended quietly, staying to the outside of the treads. As he neared the third floor, he heard the unmistakable scratch of a match.

  Halfway down the hall, the large man who’d arrived with Escobar stood beside the window, facing the street. A cigarette drooped from his lips. In the backlight his figure appeared shrouded in a nimbus of smoke. Kane noticed an Ingram Mac-11 .380 machine pistol hanging loose in his right hand. Three extra clips were carefully lined up on the floor.

  Kane braced his Beretta against the stairwell corner. His finger tightened on the trigger. Head or heart? He thought about the Mac-11, able to spit six rounds per second. Even a perfect shot to the heart gave a man a few moments before he dropped. The head. He hesitated, then relaxed tension on the trigger, resisting the temptation to end it right then.

  “Police. Freeze,” he said softly.

  The man stiffened. His shoulders pinched. He spun, dropping to the right, rolling, his hand bringing up the pistol …

  As the Mac-11 began its deadly stutter, Kane’s first shot penetrated the man’s chest a handbreadth below his neck. The second blew off the back of his skull.

  “Ogden? What’s goin’ on?” a voice yelled from a partially open door at the end of the hall.

  Kane backed into the stairwell, training his gun on the corner apartment. Answer or not? Chance it. “Nothin’,” he grunted.

  “What the hell are you shootin’ at, then?”

  Kane left the stairwell and moved silently down the hall, Beretta extended in both hands.

  “Ogden?”

  Kane ran the final few feet and kicked open the door. He dived to the left, instantly taking in his surroundings.

  Escobar by the window. Woman beside him. Gun.

  “Police!” he yelled. “Drop it!”

  Escobar looked up, his eyes widening as he saw a massive red-haired man burst into the room. Instinctively, he pulled Sylvia Martin in front of him and raised his pistol.

  Ignoring Sylvia’s terrified scream, Kane squeezed off a round. The shot missed Sylvia by inches, catching Escobar in the right shoulder. His pistol clattered to the floor. Bellowing in pain, Escobar clutched his arm, which now appeared attached to his body mainly by the thin fabric of his shirt. The woman glared at Kane. “You cocksucker, you coulda shot me!” she screamed.

  “Keep talking. It’s not too late.”

  Sylvia looked into the pale, dangerous eyes of the man before her and decided to save her complaints for later.

  Kane motioned to the center of the room. “Both of you on the floor. Now.”

  His face pale with shock, Escobar stumbled behind Sylvia to the middle of the room. Blood had already soaked through his shirt and was running in bright rivulets from his fingers to the filthy, threadbare carpet. “I need a doctor,” he moaned.

  “Down.”

  Escobar and Martin dropped facedown on the floor. Kane handcuffed the woman. After retrieving Escobar’s pistol, he glanced over at the couch and addressed the young Chicano girl they had taken hostage. “You live in this building?”

  She nodded, eyes wide with fright.

  “Where?”

  “Next floor down, apartment 2-C.”

  “Go there and wait. Some men will come for you.”

  The girl looked apprehensively past Kane into the hallway.

  Kane’s tone softened. “He’s gone. It’ll be okay, I promise. Just go.”

  As soon as she’d left, Kane backed to the window. “Deluca, if you’re recording, shut it off,” he said aloud. “Get the FBI guys off the street, but don’t come up till I signal.” Peering down, he spotted Deluca’s thumbs-up from the storefront.

  Kane returned to the center of the room and turned Escobar over with his foot. “I’m sure you know from watching TV that I’m supposed to arrest you now and read you your rights,” he said. “I’m not going to do that just yet. Know why?”

  Escobar stared stubbornly at the ceiling, his face covered with sweat. The bleeding in his shoulder appeared to have increased. “Kiss my ass, cop. Get me a doctor. I’m bleedin’ to death here.”

  “Maybe you will,” said Kane. “That depends on you.”

  Escobar shook his head, still staring at the ceiling. “Like I said, kiss my ass.”

  Kane glared down. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  Escobar’s eyes traveled the room in a fruitless search for some means of escape. He found none. Finally he looked at Kane.

  Kane stared back, his eyes veiled and callous, seeming to take in the man on the floor without feeling anything at all. “I’ll make this easy, so even a punk like you can understand,” he said, his voice chillingly flat. “You’re going down for the two feds you and your pal shot out there on the street, along with the guy you tossed out the window. But before we get to that, you and I are going to have a talk. Nothing you say at this point can be held against you or used in a court of law. No attorneys will be present, so anything that takes place will just be between us. Now, here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to ask you a question. And you’re going to answer.”

  “We don’t gotta say nothin’,” Escobar croaked, his eyes darting to Martin for support.

  Kane nudged him sharply with his foot. “I told you to look at me.”

  Escobar groaned. Reluctantly, he returned his gaze.

  “That’s better. Now, what did you say?”

  “I … I said we don’t gotta tell you nothin’.”

  “Wrong,” Kane said softly. “Listen up, dirtbag. I’m going to
ask my question now. I’m only going to ask it once. And if I don’t like your answer, you’re going to find out just how wrong you are. Ready?”

  Escobar swallowed nervously.

  “Where’s the kid?”

  3

  Friday night at the Pizza Hut in Malibu was even more frenetic than usual, the atmosphere resounding with a deafening mix of childish laughter, enthusiastic yelps, and piercing squeals. Adding to the chaotic ambience, uniform-clad members of two Little League teams had taken possession of a video arcade lining the far wall, generating a mind-numbing din of electronic blips, beeps, and bongs—the consummate accompaniment for the confusion and disorder that had achieved dominion just after six p.m. All in all, a perfect setting for the birthday party of a nine-year-old boy.

  Immersed in the kinetic bedlam, following the seemingly universal law that all preadolescent boys prefer running to walking in the company of their peers, Nate Kane stampeded among the tables with a group of friends, their feet churning sawdust on the floor into a collage of skids and swirls.

  “Nate,” he heard his mother call as he rounded the pinball arcade, intent on catching up with one of his buddies.

  “What?” he yelled across the room.

  “Bring everyone to the table, please. We’re almost ready for the cake.”

  Reluctantly, Nate led his noisy band back to the table, reoccupying the deserted chairs across from Allison and her friend McKenzie Wallace, whose family lived down the beach from the Kanes. The two girls had been conversing quietly between themselves most of the evening, for the most part ignoring the rest of the party. As he sat, Nate noticed that Allison, as usual, seemed to be doing most of the talking. He also noticed that although McKenzie pretended to be listening to his sister’s monologue, when Allison wasn’t looking McKenzie was stealing covert glances down the table at Travis.

  Curious, Nate reached for one of the last remaining slices of pizza and moved closer.

  “ … and although in Misery King doesn’t switch perspectives halfway through like Fowles did, he does a terrific job of taking the basic idea and making it his own,” Allison was saying. “Heck, no one creates in a vacuum, especially a writer, so—” She paused, finally noticing McKenzie’s clandestine glances at Travis. “Mac, do you want to continue our conversation or just make doe eyes at my zit-faced brother?”