by Nora Roberts
“She wouldn’t go. And, baby girl, you wouldn’t like it if she did.”
“That’s beside the point. Itis. And I know I’m getting upset over something that isn’t any different than it was, really. Except the son of a bitch is marrying someone almost ten years younger than me, named Mizzy, and his daughter isn’t even an afterthought.”
“What was it my grandmother used to say? A skunk doesn’t change its stink. It’s a little crude, but it fits. His life’s about as deep as a puddle of spit—and that’s crude, too. She won’t care, Phoebe. Roy isn’t so much as a bump against Carly’s heart. You shouldn’t let him be one against yours.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. She never had enough of him to miss any of it.”
“But you did.”
“I had the illusion.” Phoebe scraped more ice cream from carton to spoon, studied it. Ate it. “Maybe that’s worse. He can’t help being what he is. Even if what he is is a goddamn skunk. Thanks.”
Roy wasn’t worth even her anger, Phoebe told herself as she went upstairs to shower. But the phone call had reminded her why romance was a slippery slope. Better, much better, to keep it all up front, keep it all simple. So no one got hurt.
It might be time to slow things down just a little with Duncan. She’d already made another date with him while the dream of the day had been on her. But that was fine. She’d just explain to him that she wasn’t looking for anything more than friendship, companionship and sex.
What man could argue with that?
19
By her request, Phoebe received notification when Charles Johnson’s body was cleared for release. Noting the information, she contacted the funeral home regarding viewings.
Controversy and public debate aside, she needed to pay her respects. She could do so discreetly, and briefly. It meant canceling her date with Duncan, but that might be for the best.
A little cooling-off time there, she decided. A little stop-and-think-it-through.
She made the call, and though it was cowardly, felt a trickle of relief when she got his voice mail.
“Duncan, it’s Phoebe. I have to cancel tonight, sorry. Something came…” Not fair, she reminded herself. He’d done nothing to deserve the “something came up” brush-off. “Actually, they’re holding a viewing for Charlie Johnson tonight, and I need to go. So I’ll need a rain check. We’ll talk later, all right? I’m just about on my way to a meeting.”
Ass-covering was de rigueur, and Phoebe couldn’t fault the department for going into circle-the-wagon mode. Or, she supposed, for looking for a reasonable scapegoat. She was fully prepared to defend her own actions and methods, if and when. She sat through the meeting with the crisis team, the chief and the representatives from IAB.
Questions were asked and answered. Her log was displayed, the situation tape replayed. She listened to her voice, to Commander Harrison’s, to Charlie’s and Opal’s, to the relays between her or the second negotiator and command, from command to members of the tactical team.
“Lieutenant Mac Namara clearly related the information that the HT agreed to surrender, was coming out unarmed. That information was received and acknowledged.” The chief lifted his hands. “There was no breakdown in communications. The tactical commander did not give the go, and the shots were not fired by any authorized member of the department.”
He paused. “The shots were fired from a weapon—recovered—not issued to any member of the crisis team, from a position where no member of said team was posted. Known members of the rival gang live in the building from where the shots issued, other known or suspected members reside inside the perimeter set during the crisis. These are facts. But there’s another. The perimeter was breached. And from that fact come more questions. Who and how and when? The breech opens the department up to criticism and speculation, and potentially to civil suits.”
“The who is being investigated,” Harrison began. He was a tough-looking man of considerable presence, with a deep basso designed for giving orders. “Every known gang member of the Lords and the Posse is being interrogated. It’s a long process, sir.”
“The how?” The chief looked directly at the tactical commander.
“The building was cleared in a floor-by-floor sweep.” Harrison got to his feet, stepped over to the diagram. “A three-man team entered the building here. Civilians were evacuated and moved outside the barricades. While this location wasn’t optimum for coverage of the hostage scene, members were posted on the roof and at this third-floor post. Other members were posted in the building directly south, as this location afforded the best visual of the liquor store from the front. Others were posted here, to cover the back. Here, the sides.
“Each building was cleared, or thought to be cleared, and the perimeters set and posted. There were disturbances here and here during the negotiations. Heckling and threats from some onlookers. And here, a physical altercation between local residents.”
He straightened stiffly as he turned. “It’s possible that someone slipped through during the incendiary first stage. More likely, in my opinion, someone already inside the building slipped into the vacated apartment and set up his sniper’s nest. The team’s objective was to get civilians to safety quickly. It’s not possible in these circumstances to spread the team thin enough to check every closet, under every bed. If someone was determined to evade detection, they could and would.”
“Someone armed with an AK-47?”
Harrison’s mouth tightened. “Yes, sir, as was the case.”
“Chief.” Phoebe caught Dave’s frown when she interrupted. “You said the questions were how, who, when. Respectfully, I think a vital question is why. We can speculate, given the gang violence, the weapon used, the fact that its serial number was filed off, a member—or sympathizer—of the east side Lords is responsible. But I’ve been back to the scene, and I stood in the window where those shots were fired. I’ve looked at the diagrams, read the reports, replayed the coms.”
“As have I,” the chief reminded her.
“Then you’re aware, sir, there were dozens of police officers and personnel outside at any given time during those hours. Officers and personnel in the open from the angle of the sniper’s nest. Yet none of them was fired on. When Johnson was shot, not a single police officer was hit. Nearly every bullet went into Charles Johnson. I believe any of our tactical team would agree that’s some damn fine shooting.”
“Knew what he was doing,” Harrison agreed, meeting Phoebe’s questioning glance.
“As a negotiator, as someone who studies and deals with human behavior, I have to say it’s also some superior control.
“Why kill Charles Johnson?” she continued. “He was low rung in the Posse.”
“He’d made a stink on their turf,” the chief pointed out. “He was demanding their captain be brought to him. It’s disrespect.”
“Agreed. Agreed. So maybe one or more of them would try to take him down, try to make an example of him. But if one of them was already in the building, or otherwise breached it—armed—it also strikes as solid forethought. Planning, sir, not just a lucky opportunity.”
“A conspiracy theory, Lieutenant?”
She could hear the weariness in the chief’s voice. He was more politician than cop, Phoebe knew—and politicians don’t care for conspiracies. “Just speculation that there are other possibilities. Johnson may have been set up, goaded into going there. Someone outside either gang may have seen this incident as an opportunity to create chaos and dissent. Or—”
She broke off when the chief raised a hand. “Lieutenant, we’re trying to defuse a powder keg, not add fuel. There are a lot of questions to be answered. For now, the most important apply to our own responsibility. The logs, transcripts, statements and coms show that you upheld yours. Now.” He turned back to the crisis commander. “When the gunfire occurred…”
After the meeting, Phoebe went down to the firing range to work off some frustration. She set the targ
et, put on her ear protectors and fired a clip.
Then could only sigh at her scores. She set again, fired again.
“You’ve always been a crappy shot.”
Reviewing her grouping on the target, ear protectors lowered, Phoebe shrugged at Dave. “Extremely crappy. I don’t practice enough.”
“A good negotiator’s rarely going to have to draw, much less discharge, a weapon. Not when she listens and talks as well as you do. Which is why—since you do—I wonder what you were doing up there in that meeting.”
“Asking questions like someone taught me. Trying to make sure the focus isn’t so narrow we miss what may be outside the blinders. I don’t understand what happened out there, and I can’t just swallow the easy solution.”
“Has it occurred to you that you don’t understand, and you can’t swallow, because you did what you were supposed to do? You talked him down, talked him out. And you still lost him. You’ve been doing this long enough to know what an impact losing one has.”
As he spoke, he set himself up with a fresh target. Once he’d fired his clip, he and Phoebe studied his results together. “You’re a crappy shot, too.”
“Yeah, but you’re still crappier. How have you been sleeping?”
“Spotty. I know the signs, Dave. And yes, I have some of the classics—I feel let down, stressed, restless, irritable. But Iknow it, and I know why. What I don’t know is why that boy’s dead. That’s the reason I spoke up in the meeting.”
“Phoebe, the chief isn’t what we’d call a creative thinker. He’s more politician than cop—”
“I thought the same thing when we were up there. I guess we share more than crappy shooting.”
He let out a half laugh, rubbed her shoulder. “Well, believe me, he’s more concerned now with public relations and the possibility of civil liability than why a sixteen-year-old gangbanger’s dead.”
“You have ambitions for me.” She loaded another clip. “I know that, too, Dave. I appreciate it.”
“If I’ve got a legacy, it’s you and Carter.” Someone fired down the line, and the sound was harsh in contrast to his quiet voice. “When I’m ready to turn in my papers, I want to know you’re taking my desk.”
He’d wanted children; his wife hadn’t. Though he’d never told her, Phoebe knew it because she knew him. So she and Carter were his. “You’re worried if I speak up too often and don’t say what the brass wants to hear, I’m shooting myself in the foot. Which is something I believe I could manage in the literal sense as it’s fairly close range.”
“The chief wants this put to bed. If he has to sacrifice Harrison in the public arena, he will. He’d sacrifice you, but there’re no grounds. The simple fact is, Phoebe, logic and circumstances strongly support the idea that this was gang-related. A crime of opportunity and turf. That’s the drum that’s going to be beat.”
“Maybe someone should listen to what’s under the drum.” She lifted her weapon again and fired.
Stupid, Phoebe thought later. Stupid to push and prod where the only result was going to be annoyance to all parties. Politics and public relations were going to play this out, she reminded herself as she changed into a gray suit—black seemed too presumptuous somehow.
She had nothing to add to the mix that wasn’t already on record. Except for a few minutes before she’d taken over negotiations, and that horrible aftermath, she’d been inside the diner.
Nobody liked a Monday-morning quarterback, she told herself.
She would go to Charles Johnson’s viewing, then she would have to put it away. No comment, she promised herself, unless the department directed otherwise. What more did she have to say, in any case?
She pinned her hair back. Nothing would sober the color, she mused, but the style seemed more respectful than loose.
She stepped into the family parlor. Her mother was crocheting in front of the TV, and Carly was sprawled on the floor paging through a picture book. Puppies, Phoebe realized with a little sink in the belly.
“I’m heading out now. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
“Mama! Wait, Mama, look! Aren’t they cute?”
Carly scrambled up to hold out the book. The page was full of irresistible balls of fur and adorability. “They are, sweetie. They couldn’t be cuter. But they also need to be fed and watered and walked, and cleaned up after, and trained, and—”
“But you said someday we could get a puppy.”
“I saidmaybe someday.” And only after she’d been worn down to a nub by pleading glances from those big blue eyes. “And I’m just not sure it’s someday yet. I can’t talk about it now because I have to go. And this isn’t going to be just my decision. I’m at work all day and you’re in school, so I need to discuss this with Gran and Ava before we get close to thinking about it. Where is Ava?”
“Book club.” Essie gave Phoebe a puzzled look. “She mentioned it at dinner.”
“Oh, of course she did. Slipped my mind.” No, Phoebe admitted. She hadn’t heard a word anyone had said at dinner. Apparently she hadn’t just stopped active listening but listening at all. Time to pull it back together. “You be good for Gran.” Phoebe bent to kiss the top of Carly’s head. “I’ll be back before long.”
As she walked out she heard Carly using her slyest, most sugarcoated tone. “Gran, you like puppies, don’t you?”
It should’ve been funny. She wished she could see it as funny. But all she could think about as she headed downstairs was that Carly was going to manipulate the other two adults in the house until they ended up with some shoe-chewing, puddle-making, middle-of-the-night-whimpering canine.
Sheliked dogs, damn it. But she just wasn’t ready to take on another responsibility.
She knew Ava planned to take her son on a trip out West this summer. She deserved it, absolutely. And it meant ten days where there was no one around to run to the store, the bank, the dry cleaner’s, to haul Carly, todo all the endless errands.
She already had an active seven-year-old and an agoraphobic to tend to. Phoebe didn’t think it made her a heartless monster not to want to add a puppy to the mix.
But, of course, she felt like one, so when she opened the front door to go out, her scowl was already full-blown.
Duncan came up the last step to the portico. “That’s timing.”
“What are you doing here? You didn’t get my message? I’m sorry, but—”
“No, I got it. I’m going with you.”
“To the funeral home?” Shaking her head, she closed the door firmly behind her. “No, you’re not. Why should you? You didn’t know him.”
“I know you, and you shouldn’t go alone. Why should you?”
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“A reason you could, but not why you should. If it irritates you so much to have me along, you’ll just have to pretend I’m not there. You don’t go into something like this by yourself. That’s stupid, and you’re not.”
Phoebe yanked out her sunglasses, shoved them on. “Simple competence and responsibility aren’t stupidity, thank you very much.”
“Okay.” Hair trigger, he thought again. Why did he like that about her? “Do you want to stand out here debating the issue, or do you want to go do this thing?”
“I’m not going to drive up to this poor boy’s viewing in a Porsche and walk in with some rich guy in Armani.”
“First.” He stepped aside, gestured. There was a black sedan of some sort at the curb. “Second, this is Hugo Boss, or maybe Calvin Klein. I can’t keep that sort of thing straight—so now that I think about it, it may be Armani. And I may be rich but I grew up not two spits from where that kid spent his short sixteen years. Not in a mansion on Jones. So don’t call the pot, honey.”
She stared a moment, then shook her head. “A few minutes ago something that should’ve made me laugh just couldn’t. Now this just strikes me as funny. Or maybe it’s just ridiculous.”
She reached forward, flipped back the side of his jacket to
find the label. “I was right about the designer. Never test the mother of a mini-fashionista.”
“Points for you.”
“No, for you.” Irritable and let down, she thought. Yes, she knew the signs. “Thanks for coming to go with me. I was keeping the mad on the front burner so I wouldn’t feel too much of the sad. And I neglected to remember one thing.”
“Which one thing?”
“This isn’t about me.” She stepped down. “So, you’ve got a shiny black sedan. Sort of dignified.”
“I thought about bringing the pickup, but that seemed wrong. And the SUV’s just too big.” He shrugged as he opened the car door. “I’m a guy. I have cars. It’s what we do.”
“As I have a car that is well on its way to becoming a heap, I appreciate being able to go in one of your manly fleet.” She put a hand on his over the door handle. “I’m used to going alone, and I suppose that leads me to think I should. But I don’t always want to, and I also appreciate you figuring that out before I did.”
Because she looked as if she needed it, Duncan leaned down to touch his lips to hers. “I’m making a study of figuring you out.”
The funeral home was small, the parking lot already crowded with cars and people. Phoebe saw reporters on the edge of the property. Some were doing interviews, others trying to hunt them up.
“Probably another way in,” Duncan commented.
Avoiding the press was priority one, so she’d already prepared for it. “There’s a side door, I checked. I thought I’d slip in and out that way. Five minutes. There’ll be representatives from the department here. That’s SOP on a homicide—and in this case, it’s image, too. I’m not officially here.”
“Got it.” He found a place on the street, then glanced down at her heels. “Can you hike a block in those?”
“I’m a girl. It’s whatwe do.”
When they were on the sidewalk and he took her hand, she looked up at him. And for the second time since she’d met him, Phoebe thought,Oh, well. Damn.