The Negotiator

by Dee Henderson

  “Ten.”

  “Call me then, and I’ll fill you in on anything else I’ve found. I’m meeting my sister and her husband for a late lunch, but I’ll be here in the morning.”

  “I’ll call you. Go home.”

  The order made him smile. Normally only his sister bothered to fuss about such things. “Soon. Good night, Kate.”

  Three

  There was no place like home. Kate walked in the front door of her apartment Wednesday night, kicked it shut, and gave a welcome sigh of relief. A long day at work had resulted in more questions than answers. Nothing about this case with Henry Lott was proving simple to solve. She had tossed in the towel half an hour ago, shoved work in her briefcase, and said good night to Graham. The second day soreness made movement painful and nagged a headache to life.

  The rich smell of flowers lingered heavy in the still air in the apartment. Stephen had brought the flowers over after he dropped her off at work. The window air-conditioner unit in the bedroom rumbled to life, breaking the silence and stirring the air. Kate found the sound comforting.

  The apartment was not large, but it was sufficient for her needs. She had taken her time to make it her own space, create herself a much-needed haven. The place was warm, comfortable, cozy. Her sister Lisa called it beautiful. Kate had tried. Hardwood floors. Plush furniture. Bold fabric on wingback chairs. She needed someplace in her life where she could relax.

  Kate dropped her gym bag by her bedroom door and nudged off her tennis shoes. She went looking for dinner, too tired to really care what she found.

  A new note under the smile face magnet on the refrigerator caught her attention. “Ice cream in the freezer, caramel sauce in the refrigerator.” Bless you, Lisa.

  Dessert sounded good.

  She fixed a sundae, licking the spoon as she walked back to the living room. She pushed the play button on her answering machine as she walked by.

  Reporter. Reporter. Yet another reporter. It was time to change her unlisted number again; it always managed to eventually leak. She was faintly surprised they hadn’t staked out her apartment.

  She flipped through two days worth of mail—bills, magazines, junk mail. The bills she dropped on the small desk, the magazines went on the coffee table, and the rest she tossed without opening.

  Marcus.

  Kate paused to listen. Good, his flight was due in Sunday afternoon.

  Reporter.

  The next message stopped her in her tracks. “Hello, Kate O’Malley. I’ve been looking for you, and what do I see—you made the news last night. We’ll have to meet soon.”

  It was not a voice she recognized. Puzzled, she played the message again. The words were innocuous, but the tone wasn’t. She did not want to meet this guy. His voice had a sinister edge. Probably someone recently released from jail. She sighed and ejected the cassette. She would make a copy of the tape, as she did with all questionable calls. There were several dozen in the archives.

  It fit the kind of day it had been.

  She opened her briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out the work she had brought home. Henry Lott’s financial records. Dave had sent copies over that morning. She closed the briefcase so she didn’t have to look at the copies of the negotiation tapes. Listening to hours of dialogue, knowing she had failed to resolve the situation short of a tactical conclusion, was not something she wanted to face tonight.

  She turned on the television to catch the late news.

  The third news story was another segment on the bank incident yesterday. She had hoped it would have a one-day shelf life.

  Kate watched tonight’s clip, knowing in advance that it was going to make her mad. Reporter Floyd Tucker and the police department mixed together like oil and water. This was one of his more blatant accusations of police incompetence. Two of the hostages claimed the police had put their lives at risk. A former member of the National Association of Hostage Negotiators critiqued what was known about the case and declared the tactical conclusion to be a use of excessive force.

  She shut off the television and tossed the remote control on the table. “Floyd, your expert lost 28 percent of his hostages during the three years he worked in Georgia.” She wished Floyd would become some other city’s menace, but no one else would hire him.

  The police PR department declared the case under review. Floyd made a big deal of that fact. Kate wished he were at least an accurate reporter. A review was always done when a tactical response was taken. She wasn’t looking at spending her weekend working for the pleasure of it.

  She had dreamed about the bank last night, had watched the bomb go off in her hands. She didn’t need the news to remind her. The news story would create more work for her. Case notes were never easy to write when a tactical conclusion was required. It became a psychological assessment of Henry Lott—observations, rationale, an after-the-fact review of the tapes. She would be questioned on her decision; and the more complete she could make her case notes, the less time she would be under scrutiny. These notes would be read more widely than most. The bank’s insurance company was already hounding her boss to produce the report.

  The phone rang.

  She considered ignoring it, then realized she had failed to replace the cassette in the answering machine.

  “Hello?”

  “I guess I don’t need to ask if you saw the news.”

  Kate relaxed. Dave. “Floyd Tucker is not on my Christmas card list.”

  “I can see why. It was a very unflattering piece. Ignore him.”

  She wedged the phone against her shoulder as she got up and rummaged through the desk drawer to find another tape for the answering machine. “With pleasure. How was lunch with your sister?”

  “Considering the shock I gave her yesterday, not bad.”

  “It’s always hard on those who have to wait and worry, who can’t affect the outcome.”

  “Yes. Sara has been there before. She’s tough. I think you would like her.”

  “Probably. I like her brother.”

  “Flirting, now flattery. You’re good for my ego.”

  She could hear the amusement in Dave’s voice. This was the third time he had deflected a comment rather than follow up on it. She was glad he wasn’t taking her too seriously. He was too much a threat to her peace of mind, and she didn’t have time for a relationship. But an interaction like this—lighthearted, fun—was okay. She could live with the line he was drawing. Her heart had been mangled enough in the past. She settled back on the couch. “I think I had best change the subject. Thanks for sending over the information this morning.”

  “I hope some of it will be useful. I hear Manning found more dynamite.”

  “A partially filled crate in the crawl space under Henry’s home. ATF has the crate numbers to trace, but the markings are old. It will take them some time.”

  She had spent the day working with Manning trying to figure out where it had come from. Henry wasn’t talking. Wilshire Construction, the most obvious place it could have been obtained, claimed nothing was missing from its inventory. Did Henry have help obtaining the explosives? It was a critical question to get answered. She hoped she would find a clue in the financial data spread out before her.

  “Did you see his correspondence with the bank?” She pushed the papers around until she found copies of the letters she sought.

  The letters found in his home were enlightening. The correspondence stretched back about eight months and had gone as high as the bank owner, Nathan Young, although it was doubtful Mr. Young had ever seen the letter. The reply to that letter had come from a vice president, Mr. Peter Devlon.

  The correspondence on one hand suggested a willingness by the bank to work with Henry, and on the other hand took a very hard-line stance. It looked like First Union Bank and the corporate offices had been acting at cross-purposes. It was clear Henry had felt he was being jerked around.

  “They were faxed over a short time ago. Henry had been building toward t
he crisis for some time.”

  Because of the damage to the bank, employees had not been allowed back inside the building yet. Kate still hadn’t seen the bank’s version of the mortgage dispute. “I’m thinking about paying the bank president, Nathan Young, a visit. Ask him about the letters, follow up on that foreclosure rate trend you noticed.”

  “I would enjoy tagging along for that visit.”

  “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Did you work all day?”

  “Yes.” She stretched out on the couch and leaned her head back against the padded armrest. Talking to Dave at the end of the day was a nice way to end the evening.

  “Want to cash in that rain check? I’ll bring over a pizza.”

  She looked at the bowl of ice cream and smiled. She was not going to feel guilty. “I’m lousy company at the moment. I’ve still got work to do.”

  “All the more reason to accept. If you’re going to work on at home, you should at least have company. I’m a good sounding board.”

  After telling Stephen and Lisa she was looking forward to a quiet evening, the realization she didn’t want to spend the evening alone surprised her. “What do you like on your pizza? I’ll order one from Carla’s down the street.”

  “Make it with onions so I’ll only be tempted to kiss you good night.”

  Her heart fluttered hard, then settled. She couldn’t prevent the soft laugh at his rueful tone and carefully chosen words. “You would have to disarm me first anyway. I don’t date cops.”

  “And here I thought that was my line.”

  Her amusement deepened. “Do you have my address?”

  “And your phone number.”

  “Cute. Come over and I’ll put you to work.”

  “Expect me in twenty-five minutes.”

  Kate called Carla’s and placed an order for a large supreme pizza.

  She had a cop coming over to share a pizza. Not exactly a common occurrence.

  She had her Cliffs Notes reasons for why she didn’t date cops: two people with pagers, long uncontrollable work hours, the dangers in each job. She didn’t need to be smothered by someone trying to keep her safe. She had also learned with time that while it was wonderful to have someone available to talk with who understood her job, that also meant there was no place to escape work. And underneath those answers was the real reason she rarely shared—she wanted to date someone safe. Cops were interesting, made good friends, but were far from safe. Cops brought the stress of their jobs home with them. She certainly did. That was a bad recipe for a good marriage.

  She looked around the room, tired enough she was going to ignore the urge to straighten the clutter. It probably wouldn’t hurt to change though. The jeans and top she wore had been pulled from her gym bag this morning. Groaning at the pain in her shoulder, Kate pushed herself off the couch. She was avoiding taking a painkiller and was paying for that stubbornness.

  Her bedroom looked Southern, from the rich rose pattern in the wallpaper to the thick cream carpet under her bare feet. The bed was made; the sheets turned down over the comforter.

  She found a white button-down shirt in the closet. She had probably swiped it from either Stephen or Marcus; it was several sizes too big. She slipped it on over a blue T-shirt and turned up the sleeves to above the elbows. There was little that could be done with her hair. She ran a brush through it and clicked off the bathroom light.

  She was searching out plates and napkins in the kitchen when there was a knock on the door. After checking that Dave was alone, she turned the locks and opened the door. “What’s this?” She grinned. He came bearing gifts.

  “A hostess gift, so I’ll get invited back.”

  She untied the ribbon on the sack. Red cherries. Hershey’s Kisses. A paperback mystery she had mentioned yesterday. They weren’t expensive gifts, but it had taken thought to make the purchases. She sampled one of the cherries, closing her eyes to savor the taste. It was sweet, juicy— delicious. “You’ll get invited back.”

  He rocked back on his heels and chuckled. “Good.”

  She waved her hand. “Go on into the living room; make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Iced tea?”

  “Tea would be great.”

  Nodding, she put the gifts on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator to pour him a glass of tea.

  Hostess gifts. The guy had class. She slid a finger over the cover of the book, reading the jacket text. She was already looking forward to reading the book.

  “Here you go.” She carried his glass of iced tea as well as the bag of Hershey’s Kisses into the living room.

  “Thanks. You have a beautiful home.”

  “I like it. It’s my own little peaceful world.” She had turned on the stereo shortly before he arrived; music filled the room. The roses from Marcus were prominently displayed on the end table. She filled the candy dish with the chocolates. “Thanks again for the gifts.”

  He smiled. “I wanted something as a thank-you, and you were already swimming in flowers.” He settled comfortably on the couch. Picking up her bowl from the table, he raised his brow and gave her a wicked grin. “Ice cream, Kate?”

  She had forgotten to return the bowl to the kitchen. She took it from him, feeling the blush his comment generated heat her face. “Guilty. I started with dessert.”

  “A great way to break the stress of the day.”

  A knock on the door saved her from having to come up with a comeback. “Pizza, coming up.”

  The pizza was fresh from the oven, piping hot, and the cheese still bubbling. She made a place for it on the coffee table. Choosing to leave the couch to Dave, she settled into the wingback chair across from him.

  The pizza tasted great. She had been hungrier than she realized.

  “This is excellent,” Dave commented after a few bites.

  “I’ve settled more than one dispute in the neighborhood over a pizza from Carla’s.”

  “I can see why.” He reached for a second piece. “Why don’t you take something to kill that headache?”

  That sharp eye made her uncomfortable. “I will if it lasts.”

  “Were you born stubborn?”

  It was a teasing question, but the memories of voices from the past made her headache jump in intensity. “Probably.”

  He studied her thoughtfully, nodded, then turned his attention to the papers beside the pizza box. “Tell me what you’re working on.”

  She was grateful for the change in subject. “I’m still trying to get a handle on the explosives, the detonator, any of the components. Henry had to get them somewhere. We need to know where and if he had help.”

  Dave scanned the printouts, set down his plate, and wiped his hands. He moved from the couch to the floor; pushed the coffee table down another foot. He started laying out the reports by date in a semicircle around him. “Let’s see if we can track his movements, find out if Henry traveled.”

  It was a good approach. Kate wished she had thought of it. She reached for the stack of pages Dave offered, then looked at him when she realized he wasn’t letting go.

  “Add hard on herself to stubborn.” He smiled. “Would you relax and let others help? Piecing together puzzles is my full-time job.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He released the papers and frowned. “This case really shook you up, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t like the ones that I dream about.”

  “How bad?”

  She shook her head, declining to answer. “Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

  “The general pattern first; did he travel much, where to.”

  Kate settled back in the chair and started to work. The quietness was broken only by the sound of pages turning. It was a comfortable silence. She looked up after a bit to watch Dave, focused on the task in front of him. He had been serious about coming over to help.

  The phone rang. Dave looked up.

  “The machine will get it; I�
�m screening calls.”

  He nodded and resumed turning pages.

  She heard her own voice end and the beep that followed it. “Hello, Kate. I taped the news tonight.”

  Her hand curled the paper she held; she had heard that voice earlier in the evening. She took a deep breath, and the calm, detached front that hallmarked her work slid into place. Give me a clue I can work with.

  “Sounds like you have trouble coming your way. Soon it will be more than you can handle.”

  The tape clicked off on an amused, deep laugh.

  She forced herself to mark her place with a pen, set down the printouts, and not let that voice invading her home get to her. It went with her job. The courts had reversed the truth-in-sentencing law, and the number of inmates being released swelled daily. This sounded like another one determined to harass her.

  “I can see why you screen calls.”

  She could tell from Dave’s expression that he was concerned. Having someone else showing a protective streak put her in an uncomfortable position. “Once a month on average, someone I need to avoid finds the number.”

  “That’s a very high incident rate.”

  She bit her tongue not to reply it wasn’t his concern. He didn’t mean to step on a sore spot. She changed out the tape as she had done with the first one. She would keep screening calls. When she never answered, most callers stopped harassing her machine after a week. If this caller persisted, it would not be the first time she had requested a tap on her own phone line. “Most call just to show they can find the number,” she finally replied. “The persistent callers get traced and dealt with. If there’s an obvious threat, it bumps to my boss to decide how to handle it. Those are rare.”

  “When did you last change your phone number?”

  “Dave—”

  He held up his hand. “Sorry, consider it unasked. But if you do want some suggestions someday, I could probably make a few. Protecting people is what I do for a living.”

  “Really?”