by Ed McBain
"In this instance, we can bend the truth a little."
Goodman looked at him.
"Inspector," he said, "I think we may be confusing Detective Bur ..."
"I'm certainly not trying to confuse her," Brady said. "But I've got an eight-year-old girl in there with a crazy old man who wants a hooker or he's going to blow her away. Now do I give him a hooker or don't I? That's the only pertinent question at this moment in time."
"I'm not a hooker, sir," Eileen said.
"I realize that. But you're a police officer who's impersonated hookers in the past."
"Yes, sir, I have. The point is . . ."
"Are you willing to do so now?" Brady asked reasonably. "That's the point, Detective Burke. Are you willing to impersonate a prostitute in order to save that little girl's life?"
How about my life? Eileen thought.
"Sir," she said, "how do you suggest I get that shotgun away from him? Once I'm inside that apartment, and he realizes I'm a police negotiator and not a hooker, how do I get him to give up that shotgun?"
"Detective Halsted was willing to go into that apartment within the parameters we've set up," Brady said, hurling down the gauntlet: Are you as good a man as Halsted? Do you have cojones, Detective Burke? "She was willing to accept the challenge of negotiating with him from a position of extreme vulnerability. Now I understand the risks involved here, don't you think I understand the risks? I've been in this game a long time now ..."
Game, Eileen thought.
". . . and when I say I don't want anyone hurt, I mean anyone, not the taker, not his hostage, and certainly not any member of my team. I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't do myself..."
Then go do it yourself, Eileen thought.
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"... believe me, I'm as concerned for your safety as I would be for my own ..."
Go in there in drag ...
"But the situation has reached this point in time where we've got to make a decision. We've either got to satisfy the old man's desire or risk his killing that little girl. He's given us ten minutes, and eight of those minutes are already gone. So what would you like us to do, Detective?"
"Sir, you're asking me to go in there unarmed ..."
"That's what we promised, that's what we always promise. No guns, no one gets hurt."
"But he does have a gun, sir."
He happens to have a goddamn gun, sir.
"They always have guns," Brady said. "Or knives. They always have weapons of some sort, yes."
"A double-barreled shotgun, sir."
"Yes, that's the situation here," Brady said.
"I'd have to be crazy, right?" Eileen said.
"Well, that's for you to decide, that's the nature of the work." Brady looked at his watch. "What do you say, Burke, we're almost out of time here. Yes or no? Believe me, there are plenty of female police officers in this city who'd be happy to work with this team."
Female police officers, she thought.
Can you cut it or not, Detective Burke?
Are you a man or a mouse?
Bullshit, she thought.
"We negotiate before I go in," she said.
Brady looked at her.
"I work the door. The old man can believe what he wants, but nobody's going inside that apartment until he hands over the little girl and the shotgun. Take it or leave it."
He kept looking at her.
She figured whichever way this went, she'd be off the team tomorrow morning. Same as Mary Beth Mulhaney.
"Take it or leave it?" Brady said.
Or maybe off the team right this minute.
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"Yes, sir," she said. "Take it or leave it." Both you and the old man, she thought. "If anything happens to that little girl ..." Brady said, and let the sentence trail.
The old man thought the redhead was a vast improvement over the skinny one with the look of a mongrel. It was a pity she couldn't speak Spanish, but at his age he couldn't expect perfection. Enough that she had eyes as green as the sea and breasts as softly rolling as the hills of his native land. Freckles sprinkled like gold dust on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. A beauty. He was a very lucky man.
"We have to talk," she said. "My name is Eileen."
The door to apartment 5L was open just a crack, the night chain holding it. He could see her face and her body in the narrow opening. He knew she could see the shotgun against his granddaughter's ear. His finger was inside the trigger guard. There were two shells in the shotgun. His son always kept the shotgun loaded in the closet. This was a bad neighborhood now that all the strangers had begun moving in.
"What is there to talk about?" he asked.
"About my coming in there," she said.
She had been taught not to lie to them. She would try not to lie to him now. She would not say she was a hooker. But neither would she say she wasn't. It was an omission she could live with. Unless someone got hurt. Then she would never be able to live with it again.
"I can't come in there as long as you have that gun in your hands," she said.
In the crack between door and doorjamb, she could see him smiling wisely. A wrinkled old man with gray-white beard stubble, a terrified little dark-haired, dark-eyed girl on his lap, the double barrel of a shotgun against her head. If anything happened to that little girl . . .
"I'm afraid to come in there while you have that gun in your hands," Eileen said.
"Yes," the old man said.
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What the hell does that mean? she wondered.
"But that is precisely why they've sent you to me, verdadV he asked. "Because I have this gun in my hands."
Heavily accented English, but clearly understandable. And perfectly logical, too. The only reason they were submitting to the old man's wishes was that he had a gun. Give up the gun, he gave up his power to negotiate.
"Your granddaughter must be frightened, too," she said.
"I love my granddaughter," he said.
"Yes, but I'm sure she's terrified of that gun."
"No, she's all right. You're all right, aren't you, querida?" he said to the girl, and chucked her under the chin with his free hand. "Besides, I will let her go when you come in here," he said. "That is our understanding, eh? You come in, I let her go. Everybody's happy."
"Except me," she said, and smiled.
She knew she had a good smile.
"Well, I certainly don't want to make you unhappy," the old man said flirtatiously. "I will certainly do my best to make you happy."
"Not if you have a gun in your hands. I'm afraid of guns."
"Once you're in here," he said, "I'll let the little girl go. Then we can lock the door, and I'll put down the gun."
Oh, sure, she thought, Fat Chance Department.
"I'll make you very happy," he said.
Oh yes, she thought, I'm sure.
"Listen to me," she said. Her voice lowering conspira-torially. "Why don't you send out the little girl?"
Hostage first, weapon later.
All according to the book.
"When you come in, she goes out," he said. "That was the deal."
"Yes, but when they made the deal, they didn't know I'd be so afraid of guns."
"A pretty girl like you?" he said, flirtatiously again. "Afraid of a little gun like this one?"
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Gently, he nudged his granddaughter's temple with the barrel of the shotgun. The girl winced.
Don't let it go off, Eileen thought. Please, God.
"I really am afraid," she said. "That's why, if you send her out, we can talk about the gun. Privately. Just the two of us."
"Tell me what else we will do privately."
"First send out the little girl," Eileen said.
"No. You come in here, and then you can tell me what we'll do privately."
"Why don't you take the chain off the door?" she said.
"Why should I?"
"So I can see you better."
"Why do you want to see me?"
"It's just difficult to talk this way."
"I find it very easy to talk this way," he said.
You stubborn old bastard, she thought.
"Don't you want to see me better?" she asked.
"Yes, that would be nice."
"So take off the chain," she said. "Open the door a little wider."
"Are you a policeman?" he asked.
Flat out.
So what now?
"No, I'm not a policeman," she said.
The absolute truth. A police woman, yes. A police person, yes. But not a police man. She guessed she could live with that.
"Because if you're a policeman," he said, "I'll kill the little girl."
Which she could not live with.
"No," she said again, "I'm not a policeman. You said you wanted a woman ..."
"Yes."
"Well, I'm a woman."
In the wedge between door and jamb, she saw him smile again.
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"Come in here and show me what kind of woman you are," he said.
"For me to come in, you have to take the chain off the door."
"Will you come in then?"
"I'll come in if you take the chain off the door ..."
She hesitated.
"And let the little girl come out..."
She hesitated again.
"And put down the gun."
Silence.
"Then I'll come in," she said.
Another silence.
"You want a lot," he said.
"Yes."
"I'll give you a lot," he said, and winked.
"I hope so," she said, and winked back.
Double meanings flying like spears on the sultry night air.
"Open your blouse," he said.
"No."
"Open your blouse for me."
"No."
"Let me see your breasts."
"No," she said. "Take off the chain."
Silence.
"All right," he said.
She waited. He leaned forward. Did not get out of the chair. The little girl still on his lap. The shotgun still to her head. His finger still inside the trigger guard. Leaned forward, reached out with his left hand, and slid the chain along its track until it fell free. She wondered if she should shove the door inward, try knocking him off the chair. He was so old, so frail. But the shotgun was young, the shotgun was a leveler of age.
Gently, with the toe of her foot, she eased the door open just a trifle wider. She could see the old man more completely now, a blue wall behind him deep inside the apartment, blue wall and blue eyes and gray hair and grizzled gray beard. He
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was looking directly into her eyes, an anticipatory smile on his face.
"Hello," she said.
"You're even prettier than I thought," he said.
"Thank you. Do you remember our deal?"
"Yes, you're coming in here."
"Only after you let the little girl go and put down the gun."
"Yes, I know."
"So do you want to let her go now?"
"How do I know. . .?"
"You have my word."
"How do I know you'll come in here to me?"
"I said I would. I gave you my word."
"And are you a woman of your word?"
"I try to be."
Which meant she would break her word if he made the slightest move to harm either her or the little girl. She was unarmed . . .
That's what we promise. No guns, no one gets hurt. . .
. . . but there were backup cops to her right, and all she had to do was signal for them to storm the door. She hoped the old man would not do anything foolish.
"So let her come out now, okay?" she said.
"Pamela?" he said. And then, in Spanish, "Do you want to go outside now, queridal Do you want to leave Grandpa here with the nice lady?"
Pamela nodded gravely. Too terrified to cry or to show relief. She knew this was her grandfather, but she also knew this was a gun. It was difficult for her to reconcile the two. She nodded. Yes, I want to go outside. Please let me go outside, Grandpa.
"Go on then," he said in English, and looked to Eileen for approval.
Eileen nodded.
"Come on, sweetheart," she said, and extended her arms to the little girl. "Come on out here before your grandfather changes his mind."
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Pamela scrambled off his lap and out into the hall. Eileen clasped her into her arms, swung her around, and planted her securely in the arms of an Emergency Service cop, who swooped her up and hurried off down the hall with her. Now there was only the old man and his gun.
No bargaining power anymore. If they wanted to blow him away, they could do so without any fear that a hostage was at risk. But that wasn't the name of the game. And she had given him her word.
"Now put down the gun," she said.
He had swung the shotgun toward the opening in the door. It sat in his lap, his finger still inside the trigger guard, the barrels angled up toward Eileen's head. From where he was sitting, he could not see the policemen in the hallway to her right. But he knew someone had taken the girl, he knew she had passed the girl on to someone, he knew she was not alone.
"Who's out there with you?" he asked.
"Policemen," she said. "Do you want to put down the gun, Mr Valdez?"
"Do they have guns, these policemen?"
"Yes."
The truth. Tell him the truth.
"If I put down the gun, how do I know they won't shoot me?"
"I promise you we won't hurt you."
A slip.
We.
Identifying herself as a cop.
But he hadn't caught it.
Or had he?
"I promise you none of the policemen out here will hurt you."
Correcting it. Or compounding it. Which? How smart was he? Blue eyes studying her now, searching her face. Could he trust her?
"How do I know they won't shoot me. I made . . ."
"Because I..."
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". . . a lot of trouble for everybody," he said.
"Yes, you did. But I promise they won't shoot you. No one will hurt you if you put down the gun. I promise you. I give you my word."
"Will they forget the trouble I made for everybody?"
She could not promise him this. There'd be the weapons charge, that wasn't a toy gun in there. And God knew what other charges there'd be on top of that. He wouldn't walk away from this clean, that wasn't the way it worked, the promises didn't extend that far. He was only a senile old man, true, who thought he was still six years old and playing doctor under the coconut palms - but he'd broken the law, broken several laws, in fact, and these were policemen here, sworn to uphold those laws.
"They'll help you," she said. "They'll try to help you."
Which was true. Psychiatric observation, therapy, the works, whatever seemed indicated.
But the shotgun was still in his lap, angled up at her.
"Come on," she said, "let's put down the gun, okay?"
"Tell them I want to see them. The policemen in the hall."
"I don't have any authority to tell policemen what to do."
"Ask them," he said. "Do you have authority to ask them?"
The smile on his face again.
Was he toying with her?
"He wants to see who's out here," she shouted down the hall to Brady, who was standing behind four Emergency Service cops with riot guns in their hands and sidearms strapped to their waists. The ES cops were all wearing ceramic vests. So what do you say, Inspector? she thought. Want to come in the water?
That's what we promise. No guns, no one gets hurt.
Except that now it was show time.
"Let him see you," Brady said to the ES men.
They lumbered down the hall in their heavy vests, toting their heavy guns, lining up against the wall behind Eileen, where the old man could see them.<
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"Are there any others?" he asked.
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"Yes, but not right here," she said. "All the way down the hall."
"Tell them to put down their guns."
"I can't give them orders," Eileen said.
"Tell the other one. The one you were talking to."
Eileen nodded, turned away from the door, and shouted, "Inspector Brady!"
"Yes?"
"He wants them to put down their guns."
Silence.
"Or I'll shoot you," the old man said.
"Or he'll shoot me," she called to Brady, and then smiled and said to the old man, "You wouldn't do that, would you?"
"Yes, I would," he said, returning the smile.
"He means it," she shouted down the hall.
Behind her, the ES cops were beginning to fidget. Any one of them had a clear shot at the old bastard sitting there in full view with the shotgun in his lap. If they put down their guns, as he was now asking them to do, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't start blasting away. A ceramic vest was a very handy tool in a situation like this one, but you couldn't pull a ceramic vest over your head. If he cut loose at this range, nobody outside that door was safe. The ES cops were hoping this dizzy redhead and her boss knew what the hell they were doing.
"Put down your guns, men," Brady called.
"Now just a second, Bill!" another voice shouted.
Deputy Inspector John Di Santis, in command of the Emergency Service, and coming from behind Brady now to stand beside him in the hallway. Eileen could hear them arguing. She hoped the old man's ears weren't as good as hers. Di Santis was saying he was willing to go along with all this negotiating shit up to a point, but that point did not include standing four of his men against a wall for a firing squad. Brady answered him in a voice Eileen could not hear. Made aware, Di Santis lowered his voice, too. Eileen could not hear what either of them were saying now. Their whispers cascaded
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down the hallway. White-water whispers. Inside the apartment, the old man was watching her. She suddenly knew that he would in fact shoot her if the men behind her didn't put down their guns.
"What do you say, Inspector?" she called. "The man here's getting itchy."
Valdez smiled.
He knew what itchy meant.
She smiled back.
Little joke they were sharing here. The man's getting itchy, he's going to blow off my goddamn head, aren't you, darling? Smiling.
"Inspector?"
The whispers stopped. Eileen waited. Somebody - either her or the old man or one or more of the cops standing behind her - was going to get hurt in the next few seconds, unless . . .