by Robert Crais
“You know that I do.”
“I want a helicopter with a full tank of gas to take us to Mexico. If I get the helicopter, you get these people.”
During his time with SWAT, Talley had been asked for helicopters, jet aircraft, limousines, buses, cars, and, once, a flying saucer. All negotiators were trained that certain demands were non-negotiable: firearms, ammunition, narcotics, alcohol, and transportation. You never allowed a subject the hope of escape. You kept him isolated. That was how you broke him down.
Talley responded without hesitation, making his voice reasonable, but firm, letting his tone assure Rooney that the refusal wasn’t the end of the world, and wasn’t confrontational.
“Can’t do that, Dennis. They won’t give you a helicopter.”
Rooney’s voice came back strained.
“I’ve got these people.”
“The Sheriffs won’t trade for a helicopter. They have their rules about these things. You could ask for a battleship, but they won’t give you that, either.”
When he spoke again, Rooney sounded weaker.
“Ask them.”
“It can’t even land here, Dennis. Besides, Mexico isn’t freedom. Even if you had a helicopter, the Mexican police would arrest you as soon as it landed. This isn’t the Old West.”
Talley wanted to change the subject. Rooney would brood about the helicopter now, but Talley thought that he could give him something else to think about.
“I saw the security tape from the minimart.”
Rooney hesitated, as if it took him a moment to realize what Talley was saying, then his voice was anxious and hopeful.
“Did you see that Chinaman pull a gun? Did you see that?”
“It played out just the way you said.”
“None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled that gun. I damn near shit my pants.”
“Then none of this was premeditated. That’s what you’re saying here, right? That you didn’t premeditate what happened?”
Rooney wanted to be seen as the victim, so Talley was sending the subtle message that he sympathized with Rooney’s situation.
“We just wanted to rob the place. I’ll admit that. But, fuck, here comes the Chinaman pulling a gun. I had to defend myself, right? I wasn’t trying to shoot him. I was just trying to get the gun away so he couldn’t shoot me. It was an accident.”
The adversarial edge disappeared from Rooney’s voice. Talley knew that this was the first indication that Rooney was beginning to see Talley as a collaborator. Talley lowered his voice, sending a subtle cue that this was just between them.
“Can the other two guys hear me?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I understand that they might be there with you, so you don’t have to respond to what I’m about to say, Dennis. Just listen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you’re worried about what will happen to you because the officer was shot. I’ve been thinking about that, so I’ve got a question. Was anyone else in there shooting besides you? Just a yes or no, if that’s all you can say.”
Talley already knew the answer from Jorgenson and Anders. He let the question hang in the air. He could hear Rooney breathe.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t your bullets that hit the officer. Maybe it wasn’t you who shot him.”
Talley had gone as far as he could. He had suggested that Rooney could beat the rap by shifting the blame to one of the other subjects. He had given Rooney a doorway out. Now, he had to back off and let Rooney brood over whether or not to step through.
“Dennis, I want to give you my cell phone number. That way you can reach me whenever you want to talk. You won’t have to shout out the window.”
“That’d be good.”
Talley gave him the number, told Rooney that he was going to take another break, then once more backed his car out of the cul-de-sac. Leigh Metzger was waiting for him on the street outside of Mrs. Peña’s home. She wasn’t alone. Talley’s wife and daughter were with her.
Santa Monica Hospital Emergency Room
Santa Monica, California
Fifteen years ago
Officer Jeff Talley, shirtless but still wearing his blue uniform pants even though they are ripped and streaked with blood, notices her calves first. He is a sucker for shapely calves. Talley is sitting on a gurney in the emergency room, his torn hand packed in a bowl of ice to reduce the swelling and kill the pain while he waits for them to take him to X-ray. His partner, a senior patrol officer named Darren Consuelo, is currently locking Talley’s gun, radio, Sam Browne, and other equipment in the trunk of their patrol car for safekeeping.
The nurse comes out of a door across the room, lost in whatever she’s scribbling on the clipboard, dressed in white with a pale blue apron, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The calves get him first because they are not hidden by the clunky white stockings that nurses often wear; they are sleek, strong, and fiercely brown from much time in the sun. She has legs like a gymnast or sprinter, which Talley likes. He checks her out: tight ass, trim body, shoulders broad for her small stature. Then he sees her face. She appears to be about his age, twenty-three, twenty-four, something like that.
“Nurse?”
He winces when she glances over, trying to look like he’s suffering intense pain. In truth, his hand is numb.
She recognizes the LAPD pants and shoes, smiles encouragingly.
“How’s it going, Officer?”
She is not a beautiful woman, but she is pretty with healthy clean skin, and an expression of kindness that moves him. Her eyes glow with a warmth that fills him.
“Ah, Nurse—”
He reads her name tag. Jane Whitehall.
“Jane … they were supposed to bring me to X-ray, but I’ve been out here forever. Think you could check for me?”
He makes the grimace again, impressing her with his suffering.
“I know they’re backed up tonight, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s wrong?”
He lifts his hand from the pink ice. The fleshy pad on the inside of his third finger is ripped and torn. The edges of the laceration are blue from the cold, but the bleeding has mostly stopped.
Nurse Whitehall grimaces sympathetically.
“Ow. That’s nasty.”
Talley nods.
“I chased a rape suspect into a backyard in Venice, where the guy sicced his pit bull on me. I’m lucky I’ve still got a hand.”
Nurse Whitehall carefully places his hand back into the ice. Like her eyes, her touch is warm and certain
“Did you catch him?”
“Yes, ma’am. He went down hard, but he went down. I always get my man.”
He smiles, letting her know that he is kidding her, and she returns his smile. Talley thinks that he is making great headway, and is about to tell her that he has just been accepted to become a Special Weapons and Tactics officer when Consuelo comes plopping around the corner with a Diet Coke and two PayDay candy bars. Consuelo, like always, smells of cigarettes.
“Jesus, you’re still sittin’ there? Haven’t they snapped the picture yet?”
Talley takes the Diet Coke, wishing that Consuelo would go back to the candy machine. He wants to be alone with the nurse.
“They’re backed up. You can hang out in the coffee shop, you want. I’ll find you when I’m done here.”
Nurse Whitehall smiles politely at Consuelo.
“I’ll see where we are with the X-ray.”
Consuelo grunts, gruff and pissed off about having to spend his day in the emergency room.
“While you’re back there, snag a load of klutz pills for this guy, extra strength.”
Quickly, Talley says, “I’ll find you in the coffee shop.”
Nurse Whitehall cocks her head, clearly wondering what Consuelo means.
“Were you with him when the pit bull attacked?”
“That what he told you happened
to his hand?”
Talley feels the flush creep up his neck. He meets Consuelo’s eyes with a silent plea for help.
“Yeah, Consuelo was there. When we collared the rapist in Venice.”
Consuelo bursts out laughing, spraying peanuts and caramel all over the gurney.
“A rapist? A pit bull? Jesus, lady, this dumb putz slammed his finger in the car door.”
Consuelo walks away, gurgling his smoker’s laugh.
Talley wants to crawl under the gurney and disappear. When he looks at Nurse Whitehall again, she is staring at him.
Talley shrugs, trying to make a joke.
“I thought it was worth the shot.”
“That really how you hurt your hand, you caught it in a car door?”
“Not very heroic, is it?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go.”
Nurse Whitehall walks three steps away, stops, turns back, and looks at him with an expression of profound confusion.
“I must be out of my mind.”
She kisses him just as two doctors and another nurse step off the elevator. Talley pulls her close, kissing her deeply, just as he does again that night after their date at the Police Academy’s Rod and Gun Club, and every night thereafter. From the instant he sees the warmth in her eyes, Jeff Talley is in love.
Three months and one day later, they marry
TALLEY
Talley felt embarrassed and angry with himself. He had been so consumed that he had forgotten about Jane and Amanda. He checked the charge on his cell phone battery, then pocketed the phone and joined them.
Amanda looked like her mother: both were short, though Amanda was a bit taller, and both were thin. They shared what Talley felt was their most telling feature: faces so expressive that they were open doors to their hearts. Talley had always been able to see whatever Jane felt; in the beginning when the feelings were good, this was good; but toward the end, the open reflections of pain and confusion added to a load he found impossible to bear.
Talley kissed his daughter, who was as responsive as a wet towel.
“Sarah told us that there are men with guns barricaded in a house! Where are they?”
Talley pointed toward the cul-de-sac.
“Just around the corner and up that street. You see the helicopters?”
The helicopters made it hard to hear.
Amanda’s eyes were wide and excited as she looked around at the police cars, but Jane looked drawn with dark rings circling her eyes. Talley thought that his wife looked tired. He felt a stab of guilt and shame.
“You been working overtime?”
“Not so much. Two nights a week.”
“You look tired.”
“Does it make me look older, too?”
“Jesus, Jane, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, her expression saying that they were covering familiar ground.
Rather than stand outside, Talley brought them into the house. Mrs. Peña’s kitchen was filled with the rich smells of brewing coffee and cheese enchiladas. She had put out pitchers of water and cans of soft drinks, insisting that the officers help themselves, and now she was cooking.
Talley introduced Jane and Amanda to Mrs. Peña, then led them into the family room. The big television was playing live coverage of the scene. Amanda went to the television.
“Sarah said they have hostages.”
“They have a father and two children. We think that’s all, but we don’t know. One of the kids is a girl. About your age.
“This is so cool. Can we go see the house?”
“No, we can’t go up there.”
“But you’re the chief of police. Why not?”
Jane said, “It’s a crime scene, Mandy. It’s dangerous.” Talley turned to his wife.
“I should’ve called, Jane. This thing broke just after we spoke, then everything was happening so fast that I didn’t even think of it. I’m sorry.”
Jane touched his arm.
“How are you doing?”
“I think the guy’s going to come around. I’ve been on the phone with him; he’s scared, but he’s not suicidal.”
“I’m not asking about the situation, Chief. I mean you.”
She glanced at her hand on his arm, then looked up at him again.
“You’re shaking.”
Talley stepped away just enough so that her hand fell. He glanced past her at the big television. He could see Jorgenson hunkered behind his radio car.
“The Sheriffs are taking over as soon as they get here.”
“But they’re not here. You are. I know what this does to you.”
“They’ll be here when they get here. I’m the chief of police, Jane. That’s it.”
She stared at him the way she did when she was looking for meaning beyond his words. It used to infuriate him. Where Jane’s face was a mirror to every emotion she felt, his face was flat and plain and revealed nothing. She had often accused him of wearing a mask, and he had never been able to explain that it wasn’t a mask. It was a tightly held control that kept him from falling apart.
He looked away again. It hurt to see her concern.
“All right, Jeff. I’m just worried about you, is all.”
Talley nodded.
“You guys should have dinner up here before you head back. Let some of the traffic bleed out. Maybe that Thai place. You like that place, don’t you?”
Jane grew serious, then nodded.
“We could do that. There’s no point in rushing home.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to just drop her off at your place so she has to sit there all alone, so how about she and I go eat, then we’ll both stay over. We’ll rent a movie. If this thing blows over tonight, you and Mandy could be laughing about it tomorrow this time.”
Talley felt embarrassed. He nodded, but the nod was a stall because he didn’t know what to say. He noticed that Jane had dyed her hair a new color. She had colored it the same rich chestnut for as long as Talley could remember, but now it was a deep red so dark that it was almost black. Her hair was cut shorter, too, almost a boy cut. Talley realized then that this woman deserved more than he would ever be able to give her. He told himself that if he cared for her and for whatever they once had, he had to set her free, not curse her with a man whose heart had died.
“What?”
He looked away again.
“You and I need to talk.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared up at him until a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. He could tell that she was frightened.
“All right, Jeff.”
“The Sheriffs will be here soon. When they get set up, I’ll hand off the phone, and then I should be able to leave.”
She nodded.
Talley wanted to tell her then. He wanted to tell her that she was free, that he wouldn’t hold her back any longer, that he finally knew that he was beyond redemption, but the words wouldn’t come and their absence left him feeling cowardly.
He told Metzger to escort his wife and daughter out of the development, then he went back to his car to wait for the Sheriffs in the dimming light.
7:02 P.M.
Santa Clarita, California
Six miles west of Bristo Camino
Chili’s Restaurant
GLEN HOWELL
Glen Howell didn’t have to warn his people to keep their voices down; they were surrounded by middle-class vanilla families come to sop up cut-rate frozen shrimp and fried cheese on their Friday night out; people Glen Howell thought of as zombies; irritated men and women at the end of another pointless week, pretending that their screaming, out-of-control, overfed children weren’t monsters. Welcome to suburbia, Howell thought, and you can stuff it up your ass.
Howell didn’t let the four men and two women get booze, or food that was made to order. He didn’t have time to hustle after the parolee cooks in the kitchen, and booze would
put his people to sleep. He needed them sharp. Howell had called in each of the six himself, running each name past Sonny Benza personally. They were longtime associates who could do what needed to be done without drawing attention to themselves, and they could do it quickly. From what Howell was learning, speed was going to be everything. Speed, and a total domination of the local scene. He accepted the fact that he would not sleep again until this was over.
Ken Seymore, who had spent the past two hours pretending to be a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, was saying, “They requested a full crisis response team from the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. The Sheriffs are on the way now, but there’s been some kinda problem, so they’ve been delayed.”
Duane Manelli fired off a question. Manelli spoke in abrupt bursts, the way an M16A2 coughed out three-shot groups.
“How many people is that?”
“In the Sheriff’s team?”
“Yeah.”
When Duane Manelli was eighteen years old, a state judge had given him the choice between going into the service or pulling twenty months for armed robbery. Manelli had joined the army, and liked it. He spent twelve years in the service, going airborne, ranger, and finally special forces. He currently ran the best hijack crew in Sonny Benza’s operation.
Seymore found his notes.
“Here’s what we’re looking at: A command team, a negotiating team, a tactical team—the tac team includes a perimeter team, the assault team, snipers, and breachers—and an intelligence team. Some of these guys might double up on what they do, but we’re looking at about thirty-five new bodies on the scene.”
Somebody whistled.
“Damn, when those boys roll, they roll.”
LJ Ruiz leaned forward on his elbows, frowning. Ruiz was a quiet man with a thoughtful manner who worked for Howell as an enforcer. He specialized in terrorizing bar owners until they agreed to buy their booze from distributors approved by Benza.
“What’s a breacher?”
“If they gotta blow open a door or a window or whatever, the breachers set the charge. They go to a special school for that.”
Howell didn’t like that many more policemen coming in, but they had expected it. Seymore had reported that, so far, the federal authorities hadn’t been requested, but Howell knew that the odds of this would increase as time passed.