by Lisa Black
Don took up the train of thought. “They stole this car, then went to get Ludlow to tell them how to get into the bank. He didn’t cooperate, and they killed him and threw the murder weapon in the trunk, getting blood on the carpet. That’s why you didn’t find the weapon at the scene.”
Theresa sliced out the section of carpet with a sterile, disposable scalpel and dropped the piece into a manila envelope. “But they got rid of it before robbing the bank, because it’s not here now, and this jack hasn’t moved in five years, from the look of the rust and the spiders’ nests. Why take the time to remove evidence from a car that’s not yours when you’re probably going to dump it immediately after the robbery anyway?”
“They wanted to be careful.”
“If they were careful, they’d have had a better plan for getting in and out of that bank.” She recapped the scalpel and dropped it into her pocket. With luck, the prints she’d collected would match a set in their database. The blood could be analyzed later; right now they needed any leverage they could get to convince the robbers to give up peacefully. If they had already killed once, either Ludlow or the car’s owner, or both, it made them likely to do so again, but if they knew that CPD had a murder charge waiting for them, they would be less likely to let themselves be taken into custody. She slammed the trunk shut. “I’m done here. Can you get on the blood right away, including the swab from Ludlow’s house? And have Leo run the prints through AFIS.”
“Make the boss man do work?”
“If you have to administer coffee through an IV drip. Don’t let him weasel out of it. Don’t let him even hesitate.”
Don watched her, worry etching creases into his perfect skin. “Are you coming back with me?” he asked, in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer.
“Nope.” Theresa set off toward the sawhorses.
CHAPTER 3
8:30 A.M.
Paul took a moment to appreciate the architecture before facing his death. From his seat on the floor, he read an information plaque: The Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland was one of only twelve in the country. It was built in 1923 and resembled a Roman basilica; the marble on the lobby’s walls had come from Siena, Italy, and the vaulted ceiling was hand-painted in Florentine designs. The lobby seemed appropriately solemn, as the thick walls filtered out all noise from the surrounding city. It should have made one feel insulated and safe, inside with the armed guards and the air-conditioning and more money than he could fathom, all unknown quantities held at bay by the ancient brick. But now the lions had come within the village walls, and it might never be safe again.
The teller cages, with their old-fashioned iron grillwork, sat between the inner and outer walls of the lobby. The inner walls had huge windows, screened with more iron grillwork and each bearing the city seal of one of the twelve Federal Reserves. Unfortunately, the glass in these impressive windows was opaque. The robbers were safe from sniper fire anywhere in the lobby, except for a fifteen-foot-wide band directly in the center. The window over the East Sixth Street entrance was clear glass. Across from that entrance sat the information/security desk, and behind that desk ran an open hallway. Paul could only hope that security forces were massing at the other end of it.
Polished marble tiles on the floor reflected the occupants like a mirror, from the trembling receptionist huddled next to him to the pacing robber with the automatic rifle. A tall, wiry, light-skinned black, he paused directly before Paul.
Right in front of the clear window. If you’re out there, he thought to the police snipers, take the shot. But of course they wouldn’t, not while the second robber kept himself tucked farther down the lobby, protected by the opaque windows and invisible from the hallway. That one had blue eyes and blond hair, a faded tattoo on the side of his neck, and a sun-roughened complexion. He also had the husky build of a high-school football star gone slightly to seed, and he kept a black M4 carbine trained on the row of frightened humans.
Both suspects wore dark T-shirts and lightweight Windbreakers, the latter a suspicious garment in the summer heat. The taller one had a navy jacket over jeans, while the stockier blond wore a maroon zip-up with black trim and khaki pants.
The black one removed his sunglasses to look Paul over. “Who’re you?”
He had been waiting for this question. “I’m an examiner. I work on the third floor.” It seemed a more prudent answer than the truth, and Paul could only hope that if examiners did not work on the third floor, this man wouldn’t know that. Meanwhile he clenched the corner of his gray blazer between his thighs, to keep it from falling open to reveal his badge. The gun sat far enough back on his right hip to stay hidden, provided he didn’t move much.
His fellow hostages stared at him but said nothing. They could not look any more startled than they already did, so their expressions didn’t give him away. They didn’t know he was a cop—only the security guards knew that—but they had to know he didn’t work there. The security guards were at the end of the line, and the man with the gun did not look at them.
“Can you get into that vault?”
Paul didn’t have to fake a stammer in his response, since he had no idea what vault the man referred to. There didn’t not seem to be one within sight. “No—it’s not part of my job.”
Brown eyes studied him, but only briefly. Then the guy moved away, and the older black man next to Paul let out a relieved breath.
So far, so good. Stay calm and stay alive.
Of course, if they found out he was a cop, staying calm would not save him. Armed robbers didn’t like surprises, and they’d already had a number that morning. They must have expected the Fed to be like a neighborhood bank, with the cash at the forefront, physically present for the grabbing. Paul couldn’t blame them for their mistake; he also wondered why there’d been no one working at the antique teller windows. Instead the robbers were greeted with a handful of employees and no fewer than four armed guards in fatigues, one with a dog.
Paul had reached the bank at a few minutes past eight, left the car at a meter around the corner, and entered the lobby directly behind an older black man in a green uniform, the man now seated on his right. He had immediately explained himself to the security guard in order to get through the metal detector, then headed for the receptionist’s desk. Before he could reach it, the black robber had led his partner into the bank, firing a shot into the ceiling to get everyone’s attention, nearly deafening them all. Paul had felt someone’s hands on his back even before he could turn toward the noise.
His neck still burned where the gun’s barrel had pressed into the flesh. The slightest twitch of a fingertip, depending on what sensitivity the trigger pull had been set to, and a round would rip though his arteries and spine so thoroughly that he’d be dead before he hit the floor. He didn’t dare breathe.
Paul had a solid body and good muscle form; he was not, he would have flattered himself, a man easily subdued. But he had not moved—he had only to shift his weight and the guy might feel the gun at Paul’s hip. The guards could not fire, not with him in the way, and Paul knew it to be illogical but felt deeply ashamed.
So this is what it’s like to be a victim. They’re right. It all does happen so fast.
The tall suspect had carried a duffel bag and shouted instructions for filling it with cash, but no one had listened. The fourth security guy, who had been next to the doors, darted outside, a response Paul didn’t understand; the slender robber fired at him, leaving a hole and a series of spiderwebs in one of the glass doors and assaulting anew their already-numbed ears.
The other three guards were now kneeling between the solid reception desk and the row of hostages. Two of the guards had their hands on their heads and murderous expressions on their faces. The third, the K-9 officer, had both hands on his dog, as instructed by the blond robber. The blond guy seemed more afraid of the dog than of the guards, and the K-9 guy seemed more concerned about his dog than about the hostages.
Paul turned his
head until he could count up the hostages out of the corner of his eye. Besides himself, the guy in the uniform, and the three security guards, he counted two. One man and one woman, each in neat office attire.
The tall one left the front door and faced them, holding the M4 at the ready. He nearly bounced as he walked, and Paul wondered if the manic energy came from adrenaline, drugs, or panic over a plan gone awry. Each source could be bad, all three together disastrous. “Bobby, go through and check both floors.”
“What?” The stocky blond didn’t care for the idea.
“There could be an army hiding in this place.” Paul could see his point. Two rows of teller cages faced each other in the south half of the lobby, and the area between the inner and outer lobby walls in the north half seemed to have been given over to educational displays. Past a sign reading THE LEARNING CENTER, Paul could see a tree stretching through both stories, with dollar bills attached to its branches. Both the educational area and the teller cages had a number of partitions, turning the place into a warren. Now Bobby’s partner used his M4 muzzle to gesture at the door in the north wall. “And make sure they can’t open that.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“Wedge it with something.” He spoke without taking his eyes off the people on the floor. Neither suspect had any particular accent. “And shoot first. Don’t bother with questions.”
That attitude did not bode well. Nor did using his partner’s name in front of the hostages. It sounded as if he didn’t expect any witnesses to survive the morning.
Paul pondered what to do. He didn’t care to sit there with his hands behind his head while Bobby shot a few secretaries. There were only two of them, against three officers and four civilians. We could take them.
And maybe get himself and a few other people killed in the process. That wouldn’t do for the department’s up-and-comer, the whiz kid whose clearance rate made his boss look not only good but great, the one who was supposed to have all the answers.
Funny, he had not yet thought about how the day would affect his career. Once upon a time, that had been all he thought of. Obsessing over his work had been the only way to stop obsessing over his wife’s death. But now he had Theresa.
Could he find an answer to this one, such a smart boy?
He heard muffled thuds as Bobby sped through the Learning Center. He would be passing by the clear outer windows…but no sniper’s bullet shattered the glass, not with his partner staying out of sight below, right outside the room with the money tree.
Bobby’s feet pounded downward into the southwestern section of the lobby.
Behind the grillwork labeled SAVINGS AND LOAN TRANSACTIONS, a woman screamed.
8:57 A.M.
“Where the hell is Cavanaugh?” one of the SRT cops demanded to know. He paced through the aisles of the public library, glancing at the books as if they might be armed.
Frank Patrick shrugged. He had never even met the great Chris Cavanaugh; he certainly had no idea what kept the city’s best hostage negotiator from the most spectacular robbery they’d had in ten years. All Patrick knew was, if anything happened to his partner, Theresa would kill him. She’d absolutely kill him.
And he could certainly kiss the Homicide chief’s slot good-bye.
The incident commanders had set themselves up on the History and Geography floor of the relatively new Louis Stokes Wing, directly across the street from the Federal Reserve, taking over the staff offices down to replacing the phone and moving the plants off the windowsills, which hadn’t pleased the librarians any. The snipers had already dispersed throughout the building, and Patrick hoped their services would not be needed.
He sought out a quiet corner for himself; as a mere detective, he would not be welcome in SRT’s insular bosom. At the south end of the floor, he found a cozy nook with painted ceilings and rows of books, though someone had beaten him to it.
Patrick didn’t know him. A skinny guy young enough to be his son, he seemed to be the calmest guy in the building. He wore a polo shirt and jeans, but with a vest that read POLICE on the back, and he’d set a telescope next to the floor-to-ceiling window in the east wall, aimed at the entrance to the Federal Reserve. “Who’re you?” Patrick asked.
“My name’s Jason. I’m Chris Cavanaugh’s researcher.”
“A what?” Some kind of egghead? That’s all we need.
“Researcher. Hostage rescue works as a team. Chris is the negotiator—”
“I know that,” Patrick snapped. “I mean, I know how SRT works. You have a negotiator to talk, a guy to keep track of the details, and a commander to make the decisions.”
“And me. I run back and forth looking stuff up and finding out what I can about these guys or what they want. The scribe writes down all the details—that would be Irene Hardstead over there, guiding all the bigwigs into the staff offices so they can figure out who’s going to be the commander. It’s usually the chief,” he added, meaning the chief of police, “though this is not a usual situation.”
“Why aren’t you in there with them?”
Jason unpacked a plastic crate onto one of the cleanly designed reading tables. The nook had been claimed. “We need a quiet area, and a large group of cops are never quiet.”
Patrick noted that the walls of the staff office area were silver metal topped with patterned glass, with a two-foot gap above that. “It might not be quiet anyway. What do you mean, usually the chief?”
“The police chief isn’t here. He’s at that luncheon address by the secretary of state. Going to sit right next to the lady. I think those guys across the street could have taken the entire Indians lineup hostage and the chief still ain’t going to give that up. We have the assistant chief, Viancourt.”
In his heart of hearts, Patrick let out a quiet moan. Through luck, amiability, and a complete lack of any law-enforcement skills whatsoever, Viancourt had been kicked upstairs over and over until he landed on the chief’s doorstep, friendly as a puppy and about as effective. But even a puppy can outstay its welcome, and rumor had it that Viancourt would be replaced in the next year if he couldn’t learn to do more than interview well. “Crap.”
At his side, Jason consoled, “It’s an empty point anyway. The FBI has priority.”
Great, the Feebs. He’d prefer Viancourt, but no one would be asking his opinion on the chain of command. All hell had broken loose at Superior and East Sixth, and the top brass of three police agencies had closeted themselves in a conference room to hold a pissing contest over jurisdiction. Patrick turned to more proactive matters. “Why haven’t we sent a phone in there?”
“We don’t need to—there’s phones in that lobby. Half the time they call us before we call them, believe it or not. But it’s usually best if Chris talks to them first.”
“And just where is Chris? At a book signing? Or maybe filming another segment on Channel Fifteen?”
“He’s on his way,” Jason answered smoothly, no doubt used to this kind of jealousy from cops, cops who didn’t have Chris Cavanaugh’s ability to self-promote. Patrick could only wish it were jealousy. If Cavanaugh could get Paul out of there alive, Patrick would happily volunteer to drive him to the TV station. He bent his head to the telescope eyepiece.
“Hey.”
Patrick looked up. A uniformed cop stood next to a section plaque reading GENEALOGY AND HERALDRY.
“Are you Patrick?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a lady here who needs to see you. Come on,” he prompted over his shoulder, guiding his charge forward. “She says she’s—”
“I know her,” Patrick assured him. “You find anything in the car, Tess?”
CHAPTER 4
9:04 A.M.
“Remarriage,” she had said to Paul only two weeks earlier, “is ‘the triumph of hope over experience.’”
“Says who?”
“Dr. Samuel Johnson.”
“Then perhaps I should hold on to this check.” He had dangled the piece
of colored paper over the railing, letting the loose end flutter. The ship beneath their feet rocked gently in the waves. The Goodtime II ran charters and lunch cruises, and they were booking it for their wedding reception. They had discussed all its features with the manager and now stood at its bow, letting the crisp, slightly fishy air caress them. The heat wave had not yet hit, and the sun felt good as it bounced off both the water and the glass pyramid of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Hope over experience. Paul had lost his first wife to acute myeloid leukemia, a disease that attacked with such speed and ferocity that grief arrived before shock had settled in. Theresa had lost her husband to another woman, and then a different other woman, and then several more other women until she’d lost track.
Their experiences had been different, but she believed that their hope remained the same. That this time no lies would be told, mistakes would not be repeated, the fates would give them a break; this time it would work.
She had pulled the check from his fingers. “Let’s give the man his money.”
Now she could glimpse the blue water only by pressing her cheek to the library window and peeking straight north along the narrow street. The pier sat two city blocks from them, the wedding date two months. Both seemed impossibly far away.
She looked down cautiously, afraid she might see Paul’s broken body on the sidewalk, but the buffer zone between the two buildings remained calm. If it weren’t for the eerily empty street, the day would appear to be following business as usual.
“We evacuated this half of the library, in case they come out shooting.” Her cousin Frank did not ask how she felt, or tell her not to worry, or even look up from the telescope. Like Don, he knew better than to disturb her preternatural self-control. “Ticked off a lot of students and homeless people. And her.” He hitched a thumb toward an older woman in a well-cut suit; she hefted a flat-screen monitor onto the reading table as a young man filled the surface with telephone equipment. “The head librarian of the reference wing. She hasn’t shushed me once, though.”