The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “I spoke with the attorney you hired on Joe’s behalf. He seems very competent.”

  “And then some. So…I wanted to ask you if I should visit Suicide Joe—”

  “Excuse me? Suicide Joe?”

  “Sorry, we got to calling him that last night. It stuck in my head. Should I visit him, or is it better for him if I step back?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like we were pals or anything. But yesterday’s loop keeps running through my head.”

  “It’s more to the point what’s running through his.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I had this dream.”

  “Did you?”

  “I was the one sitting out on the ledge in my underwear.”

  “Boxers or briefs?”

  It made him laugh. “Boxers. Anyway, I was sitting on the ledge and you were sitting there with me.”

  “Are you feeling suicidal?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “It’s called transference. You’re putting yourself in his place. It was a traumatic experience, for you as well as Joe, even though it ended well.”

  “Have you ever had one that didn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, and didn’t ask for details. “What do you call me having you stuck in my mind? Wishful thinking?”

  “That would depend on what you’re wishing for.”

  “I started to Google you.”

  She sat back now, raised her eyebrows.

  “I thought, sure it’s a shortcut, a curiosity-satisfying one. But sometimes you want to go the long way around. You get to find out about somebody from the source, maybe over some type of food or drink. And if you’re wondering, yes, I’m hitting on you.”

  “I’m a trained observer. I don’t have to wonder when I know. I appreciate the honesty, and the interest, but—”

  “Don’t say ‘but,’ not right off the bat.” He bent down, picked up a hairpin that must have fallen out of her hair earlier, handed it to her. “You could consider it a public service. I’m the public. We could exchange life stories over that some sort of food and drink. You could name the time and the place. We don’t like what we hear, what’s the harm?”

  She dropped the hairpin in with her paper clips. “Now you’re negotiating.”

  “I’m pretty good at it. I could just buy you a drink. That’s what—thirty minutes? A lot of people spend more time than that picking out a pair of shoes. Half an hour after you’re finished work, or off-duty, whatever you call it.”

  “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

  “Any night in the foreseeable future you don’t have plans?”

  “Plenty of them.” She swiveled gently back and forth in her chair, studying him. Why did he have to be so cute, and so appealing? She really didn’t have time for any of this. “Tomorrow night, nine to nine-thirty. I’ll meet you at your bar.”

  “Perfect. Which bar?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don’t want to go to Dunc’s—weird after yesterday, and it’s loud and full of guys arguing over sports. Swifty’s.”

  “You own Swifty’s?”

  “Sort of. You’ve been there?”

  “Once.”

  His brows drew together. “You didn’t like it.”

  “Actually, I did. I didn’t like my companion.”

  “If you want to pick somewhere else—”

  “Swifty’s is fine. Nine o’clock. You can spend part of the thirty minutes explaining how you ‘sort of’ own a couple of bars and an apartment building.”

  He used the smile again when she rose to signal his time was up. “Don’t change your mind.”

  “I rarely do.”

  “Good to know. See you tomorrow, Phoebe.”

  A mistake, she told herself when she watched him walk away. It was probably a mistake to make any sort of a date with a lanky, charming man with soft blue eyes, especially one who had those little tugs going on in her belly when he smiled at her.

  Still, it was only half an hour, only a drink.

  And it had been a long time since she’d carved out half an hour to make a mistake with a man.

  Phoebe dragged into the house just after seven with a bag of groceries, a loaded briefcase and a serious case of frazzled nerves. The car she wasn’t at all sure she could replace had limped to a shuddering halt a block from the station house.

  The cost of having it towed would eat a greedy chunk of the monthly budget. The cost of having it repaired made the possibility of bank robbery more palatable.

  She dumped her briefcase just inside the door, then stood staring around the elegant and beautiful foyer. The house, for all its grandeur, cost her nothing. And though nothing was a relative term, she knew even if it were possible to move, she couldn’t afford it, on any terms. It was ridiculous to live in a damn mansion and not know how to manage to pay to repair an eight-year-old Ford Taurus.

  Surrounded by antiques, by art, by silver and crystal, by beauty and grace—none of which she could sell, hock or trade. To live in what could be construed as luxury, and have a tension headache over a goddamn car.

  Leaning back against the door, she shut her eyes long enough to remind herself to be grateful. There was a roof over her head, over her family’s head. There always would be.

  As long as she followed the rules laid down by a dead woman.

  She straightened, buried the anxiety deep enough so it wouldn’t show on her face. Then she carried the grocery bag through the house to the kitchen.

  There they were. Her girls. Carly at the kitchen table, tongue caught in her teeth as she struggled over homework. Mama and Ava at the stove putting finishing touches on dinner. Phoebe knew the rule of thumb was that two women couldn’t share a kitchen, but these two managed just that.

  And the room smelled of herbs and greens and females.

  “I told y’all not to hold dinner for me.”

  As Phoebe stepped in, all three heads turned. “Mama! I’m almost done with my spelling.”

  “There’s my girl.” Setting the bag on the counter as she went, Phoebe walked over to give Carly a smacking kiss. “Bet you’re hungry.”

  “We wanted to wait for you.”

  “’Course we waited.” Essie moved close to rub a hand down Phoebe’s arm. “You all right, baby girl? You must be so tired, having the car go out like that.”

  “I wanted to take out my gun and shoot it, but I’m over it now.”

  “How’d you get home?”

  “I took the CAT, which is what I’ll be doing until the car’s fixed.”

  “You can use mine,” Ava told her, but Phoebe shook her head.

  “I’d feel better knowing there’s a car available here at home. Don’t worry. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “You go on and wash up.” Essie waved her away. “Then sit right down at the table. Everything’s ready, so you go on.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She winked at Carly before slipping out to the powder room off the parlor.

  More to be grateful for, she reminded herself. There were dozens of tasks and chores she didn’t have to heap on her plate because her mother was there, because Ava was there. A thousand little worries she could brush aside. She wasn’t going to let herself get twisted inside out over something as annoying as transportation.

  She studied her face in the mirror as she dried her hands. She looked tired, and tight, she admitted. There would surely be lines on her face in the morning that hadn’t been there yesterday if she didn’t relax a little.

  And at thirty-three, there would be lines sneaking in anyway. Just a fact of life.

  But she was having a big glass of wine with dinner regardless.

  It did relax her, as did the pretty food prepared by hands other than her own, the soft light, the easy music of female voices.

  She listened to Carly talk about her school day, and her mother talk about the book she was reading.

  “You’re so quiet,
Phoebe. Are you just tired out?”

  “A little,” she said to Ava. “Mostly I’m just listening.”

  “Because we can’t keep quiet for five minutes. Tell us something good that happened today.”

  It was an old game, one her mother had played with them as long as Phoebe could remember. Whenever something hard or sad or irritating happened, Essie would ask them to tell her something good.

  “Well, let’s see. The training session went well.”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  “Then I guess satisfying the prosecutor with my testimony in court this afternoon doesn’t count either.”

  “Something good that happened to you,” Essie reminded her. “That’s the rule.”

  “All right. She’s so strict,” Phoebe said to make Carly grin. “I don’t know if it’s good, but it’s different. I had a good-looking man come into my office.”

  “It only counts if he asked you out to dinner,” Ava began, then gaped at Phoebe’s expression. “You have adate ?”

  “Well, for God’s sake, don’t say it as if we’ve just discovered a new species.”

  “It’s practically as rare. Who—”

  “And it’s not a date. Not really. The suicide I talked down yesterday? This is the man who he used to work for. He just wants to have a drink.”

  “Ava said it had to be dinner to count,” Carly reminded her.

  “He brought up dinner, we negotiated it to drinks. Just half an hour tomorrow.” She tapped Carly’s nose. “After your bedtime.”

  “Is he cute?” Ava demanded.

  The wine and the company had done its job. Phoebe flashed a grin. “Really cute. But I’m just meeting him for one drink. Over and out.”

  “Dating isn’t a terminal disease.”

  “Listen to who’s talking.” Phoebe forked up a bite of chicken and looked at her mother. “And listen to who’s not. Mama?”

  “I was just thinking how nice it would be if you had somebody to go out to dinner with, to the movies, to take walks with.” She laid a hand over Phoebe’s. “Only time there’s a man’s voice in this house is when Carter’s over, or a repairman comes in. What’s this really cute man do?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, not altogether sure.” She sipped more wine. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  Whenever she was home and could manage it, Phoebe liked to tuck Carly into bed. With her little girl at seven and counting, Phoebe knew the tucking-in stage wouldn’t last much longer. So she prized it.

  “Past your bedtime, my cutie.” Phoebe bent to kiss the tip of Carly’s nose.

  “Just a little bit past. Can I stay up until any-o’clock on Friday night?”

  “Hmm.” Phoebe brushed her hand over Carly’s curls. “Any-o’clock could be arranged. Let’s see how you do on your Friday spelling test.”

  Bright-eyed with the idea, Carly pushed to sitting, gave a butt bounce. “If I get a hundred, can we rent a DVD, have popcornand stay up till any-o’clock?”

  “That’s a lot of reward.” Gently, firmly, Phoebe put the heel of her hand to Carly’s forehead and nudged her back down. “You have an arithmetic test on Friday, too, don’t you?”

  Carly’s gaze went to her Barbie sheets. “Maybe. It’s harder than spelling.”

  “I always thought so, too. But if you do well on both your tests, we have a deal on the DVD, the popcorn and the any-o’clock. You get some sleep now, so your brain’s ready to study tomorrow.”

  “Mama?” Carly said when Phoebe turned off the bedside lamp.

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Do you miss Roy?”

  Not Daddy, Phoebe thought. Not Dad, not even—very often—my father. It was a pitiful commentary. Phoebe sat on the side of the bed, stroked her fingers over Carly’s cheek. “Do you?”

  “I askedyou. ”

  “So you did.” And honesty was a linchpin of her relationship with her little girl. “No, sweetie, I don’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Carly—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t miss him either, and it’s okay. I was just wondering because of what Gran said at dinner about having somebody to take walks with and stuff.”

  “I can take walks with you.”

  Carly’s pretty mouth curved. “We could take a walk on Saturday. A long walk. Down to River Street.”

  On to the ploy, Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “We arenot going shopping.”

  “Looking isn’t shopping. We can just look and not buy anything.”

  “That’s what you always say. And River Street’ll be jammed with tourists on Saturday.”

  “Maybe we should just go to the mall then.”

  “You’re tricky, kid, but you can’t win this one. No shopping this weekend. And no talking your grandmama into buying you something online either.”

  Now Carly rolled her eyes. “Okay.”

  With a laugh, Phoebe snuggled down for a major hug. “Boy, oh boy, I sure do love you into little, bitty pieces.”

  “I sure do love you. Mama, if I get A’s on my nextthree spelling tests, can I—”

  “Negotiations are closed for the night, and so, Carly Anne Mac Namara, are you.”

  She tapped a finger to her lips as she rose. And when she went out, she left the door open a couple of inches so the hallway light slanted in, the way her baby liked it.

  She needed to get her work started. There was a good two hours of it waiting for her. But instead of angling toward her home office, Phoebe veered off toward her mother’s sitting room.

  Essie was there, as she was most evenings, crocheting.

  “Got an order for a christening gown,” Essie said, looking up with a smile as her fingers continued to ply thread and hook.

  Phoebe moved over, sat in the pretty little tapestry chair that matched the one her mother used. “You do such beautiful work.”

  “I enjoy it. Satisfying. I know it doesn’t bring in a lot of money, Phoebe, but—”

  “Satisfying’s most important. The people who buy your work, why, they’re buying heirlooms. They’re lucky. Mama, Carly asked about Roy.”

  “Oh?” Essie’s hands stilled now. “Is she upset?”

  “No. Not at all. She wanted to know if I miss him. I told her the truth, that I don’t, and I have to hope that was the right thing.”

  “I think it was, if you’re asking me.” Concern filled Essie’s eyes. “We’ve had us some lousy luck with men, haven’t we, baby girl?”

  “Oh yeah.” Leaning back, Phoebe let her gaze wander to the ceiling, the beautiful plaster work of an old, grand home. “I’m wondering if I shouldn’t cancel this sort-of date I’ve got tomorrow.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “We’re doing all right, aren’t we? Carly’s happy. You’ve got your satisfying work, I’ve got mine. Ava’s content—though I do wish she and Dave would stop pretending, now that they’re both single, that they’re not attracted to each other. So, why mix anything else in with having drinks in some pub with a man I don’t even know?”

  “Because you’re a lovely young woman, with so much of her life ahead of her. You’ve got to step out of this henhouse sometimes. Which may sound silly, coming from me, but it’s true.” Essie’s hands started moving again. “The last thing I want is for you to start boxing yourself in, holing up in this place we’ve made here. You have that drink and that conversation tomorrow with this good-looking man. That’s an order.”

  Amused, Phoebe angled her head. “So it’s do what you say, not what you do?”

  “Exactly. Mother’s privilege.”

  “I guess I will, then.” She rose, walked to the door, turned back. “Mama? No online shopping for Carly this weekend.”

  “Oh?” The single syllable resounded disappointment.

  “Mother’s privilege,” Phoebe echoed, then headed off to work.

  3

  Phoebe took her place at the front of the room. She had twenty-five cops in this training session, a mix of uniforms and plainclo
thes of varying ranks.

  A good portion of them, she knew, didn’t want to be there.

  “Today, I’m going to talk about the tactical role of the negotiator in a crisis or hostage situation. First, are there any questions regarding yesterday’s session?”

  A hand shot up. Phoebe swallowed her instinctive annoyance. Officer Arnold Meeks, third-generation cop. Bullheaded, belligerent and bigoted, in Phoebe’s opinion, with a thick layer of macho over it.

  “Officer Meeks?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His smile usually started out as a smirk, and often stayed there. “You talked down a jumper the other day, St. Patrick’s Day?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, ma’am, I was interested in some of the particulars, seeing as we’re in this training session with you. Now, I was curious, as it appears you broke some of the rules of negotiation during this incident. Unless being FBI-trained, as you are, things are different for you. Is that the case?”

  Her early federal training would always rub some of the rank and file the wrong way. They’d just have to live with it. “Which rules did I break, Officer Meeks?”

  “Well, ma’am—”

  “You can use my rank, Officer, as I do yours.”

  She watched annoyance flicker over his face. “The subject was armed, but you engaged him face-to-face, without cover.”

  “That’s correct. It’s also correct that a negotiator should avoid, if possible, any face-to-face with an armed subject. However, circumstances may call for it, and we’ll be covering that area of crisis situation in the role-playing sessions in the second half of this course.”

  “Why—”

  “I’m getting to that. In my opinion, the incident on St. Patrick’s Day called for a face-to-face. In point of fact, most jumpers respond better to this method. The subject had no history of violent behavior, and had not fired the weapon. In a situation such as the one on St. Patrick’s Day, I, as negotiator, had to assess and weigh the advantages and disadvantages of going face-to-face. In my opinion, the advantages far outweighed the risks. As we’ve already covered the other considerations regarding face-to-face in a previous session—”

  “Ma’am—Lieutenant,” Arnie corrected, with just enough hesitation to make sure she knew it was deliberate. “Is it also correct you provided the subject with alcohol?”