by Ed McBain
"Tell yo' boss send me somebody ain't a lyin' redneck bitch," Whittaker said. "You go tell him that, Georgia."
She waited.
She was afraid to move.
She took the walkie-talkie from her belt, pressed the Talk button.
"Observer Two," she said, "what've you . . . what've you got at the window?"
Her voice was shaking. She cursed her traitor voice.
There was a long pause.
"Hello, Observ . . ."
"Shooter's gone," a man's voice said. "Just the girl in it."
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"You sure?"
"Got my glasses on it. Window's clear." "Inspector?" she said. "Yeah, Georgia?"
"I think I'd better come in. I'm not gonna do any more good here." "Come on in," he said.
From where Mike Goodman stood with Brady and the assorted brass, he saw the Tac Team come up into firing position behind the inner-perimeter cars, saw Georgia sprinting back like a broken field runner toward the cover of Truck One, which Brady had set up as his command post. She was clearly frightened. Her face was a pasty white, and her hands were trembling. One of the ES cops handed her a cup of coffee when what she really needed was a swig of bourbon, and she sipped at it with the cup shaking in her hands, and told Brady and the ES commander and the chief of detectives and the chief of patrol that there were now at least two weapons in there, the nine-millimeter and an AK-47 that had almost taken off her head. She also told them the takers wanted a chopper and a jet to Jamaica . . .
"Jamaica?" Brady said.
. . . and that Whittaker didn't appreciate Southern belles doing the police negotiating, witness him having called her a redneck when her mother was a librarian and her father a doctor in Macon. The brass listened gravely and then talked quietly among themselves about the use of force. Georgia merely listened; she was out of it now.
Di Santis was of the opinion that they had probable cause for an assault. Given the priors on both perps and the strong possibility that they were the men who'd murdered the bakery-shop owner, he was willing to take his chances with a grand jury and a coroner's inquest if either of the perps got killed. Brady was concerned about the girl in there. So was Brogan.
Curran thought they should try a chemical assault, there being no gas-carrying vents to worry about the way there'd be
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in an apartment building, and anyway who cared if a fire started in an already condemned building? Brady and Brogan were still worried about the girl in there. Suppose those two punks began shooting the minute they let loose with the gas? Two assault weapons in there? The girl would be a dead duck. They decided to try another negotiator in the bushes there, see if they couldn't get somebody on that porch, talk some sense into those bastards.
Trouble was, Brady had already used up all his skilled negotiators who weren't on vacation, and the only people he had left were himself and his trainees. Ever ready to step into the role of fearless leader, Brady was willing to risk the AK-47 and whatever else they might throw at him, but Di Santis pointed out that the three negotiators who'd made the least headway there in the bushes had all been men and that it might be advisable to try another woman. Georgia agreed that a woman might have better luck with the young girl up there who, like it or not, was the mediator of choice until the two shitheads came around. That left either Martha Halsted or Eileen Burke. And since Eileen, through no choice of her own, had had previous experience on the door, it was decided they'd let her have another go at it. Brady sent Goodman over to Truck Two to fetch her.
"Inspector wants you to talk to you," he said.
"Okay," she said.
"You blowing him or what?" Martha asked.
"Stick it," Eileen said.
But as she walked away, she could hear Martha and the other trainees whispering. It didn't bother her anymore. Cops had been whispering behind her back ever since the rape. Whispering cops were more dangerous than The Preacher and his bullhorn.
The crowd was silent now, waiting for the next technical effect, this here movie was beginning to sag a little, ho-hum.
Even The Preacher seemed bored. He kept rattling his gold chains and scowling.
Brady and all the brass looked extremely solemn.
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"Hello, Burke," he said.
"Sir."
"Feel like working?" he asked, and smiled.
"No, sir," Eileen said.
The smile dropped from his mouth.
"Why not?" he said.
"Personal matter, sir."
"Are you a goddamn police officer, or what are you?" Brady said, flaring.
"Steve Carella's a personal friend," she said. "I know him . . ."
"What the hell. . .?"
"... I know his wife, I know his . . ."
"What the hell has that got to . . .?"
"I'm afraid I'll screw up, sir. If those men get away . . ."
"Inspector?"
They all turned.
Carella and Wade were standing there.
"Sir," Carella said, "we have an idea."
The crowd had begun chanting, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," breaking the word in two, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," urging the two men trapped in that house to break Dolly in half the way they'd broken the word, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er."
If Dolly heard what the crowd was chanting, she showed no sign of it. She sat in the window Uke some pale and distant Lily Maid of Astolat, waiting for a knight to come carry her away. There were no knights out here tonight, there were no blue centurions, either. There was only a group of trained policemen hoping that their organization, discipline, teamwork - and above all patience - would resolve the situation before somebody inside that house exploded.
The two men in there were criminals, and in Brady's experience criminal takers were easier to handle than either political terrorists or psychotics. Criminals understood the art
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of the deal; their entire lives were premised on trade-offs. Criminals knew that if you said you couldn't trade for weapons, you meant it. If the taker had a .45 in there, for example, he knew you weren't going to trade him an MP-83 for one of the hostages. And if you told him you'd never let him have another hostage, he knew you meant that, too. If he said, for example, he wouldn't hurt anybody if only you'd send somebody in to cook his meals or wash his clothes, he knew you wouldn't do that. There was a bottom line, and he knew exactly what it was, and he knew he'd look stupid or unprofessional if he tried to trade beyond that line. A criminal could even understand why his request for beer or wine or whiskey would be refused; he knew as well as you did that this was a dangerous situation here, and alcohol never made a bad situation better. A criminal understood all this.
And probably, somewhere deep inside, he also knew this wasn't going to end on a desert island with native girls playing ukeleles and stringing flowers in his hair. He knew this was going to end with him either dead or apprehended. Those were the only two choices open to him. Deep down, he knew this. So the longer a negotiation dragged on, the better the chances were that a criminal's common sense would eventually prevail. Make the deal, go back to the joint, it was better than being carried out in a body bag. But the situation here was volatile, and Brady had no real conviction that the men inside there would ever be ready to talk sense. The best he was hoping for was that Eileen would be able to make a little more progress than any of the other negotiators had.
"Dolly?"
Blank stare, looking out at the lights as if hypnotized by them, the chanting wafting on the night air from across the street, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," urging men who needed no urging at all.
"My name is Eileen Burke, I'm a Police Department negotiator," she said.
No answer.
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"Dolly? Could you please tell Mr Whittaker I'd like to talk to him?"
"He don't wanna," Dolly said.
"Yes, but that wa
s when the other negotiator was here. Tell him there's a new ..."
"He still don't wanna."
"If you could please tell him ..."
"Tell me yourself."
Looming in the window again. Tall and glowering, the white T-shirt stained with sweat, the AK-47 in his hands.
"Mr Whittaker," she said, "I'm Eileen Burke, a Police De . . ."
"The fuck you want, Burke?"
"You were talking earlier about a helicopter ..."
"Tha's right. Stan' up an' lemmee see you. Can't see nothin' but the top of your head and your eyes."
"You know I can't do that, Mr Whittaker."
"How come I know that, huh?"
"Well, you've been shooting at anything that moves out here ..."
"You got somebody trainin' in on me?" he asked, and suddenly ducked behind the window frame.
On the walkie-talkie to Brady, a sharpshooter in position said, "Lost him."
"You wanna talk some more," Whittaker said, "you come up here on the porch, stan' here front of the winnder."
"Maybe later," she said.
'"Cause I ain't givin' nobody a clear shot at me, tha's for sure."
"Nobody's going to hurt you, I can promise you that," Eileen said.
"You can promise me shit, Red."
"I don't like being called Red," she said.
"Tough shit what you like or don't like."
She wondered if she'd made a mistake. She decided to pursue it. At least they were talking. At least there was the beginning of a dialogue.
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"When I was a kid, everybody called me Red," she said.
He said nothing. Face half-hidden behind the window frame. Dolly sitting there all eyes and all ears, this was the first interesting story she'd heard all night long.
"One day, I cut off all my hair and went to school that way . . ."
"Oh Jeez!" Dolly said, and brought her hand to her mouth.
"Told the kids to call me Baldy," Eileen said, "told them I preferred that to Red."
Behind the window frame, she could hear Whittaker chuckling. The story was a true one, she hadn't made it up. Cut off all her goddamn red hair, wrapped it in newspaper, her mother was shocked, Eileen, what have you done?
"Cut off all my hair," she said now, just as she'd said all those years ago.
"You must've looked somethin'," Dolly said.
"I just didn't like being called Red," she said reasonably.
"Cut off all your hair, wow."
"Cut it all off."
"Boy oh boy," Dolly said.
Whittaker still hadn't said anything. She figured she'd lost him. Got a few chuckles from him, and then it was right back to business.
"So whut you like bein' called?" he asked suddenly, surprising her.
"Eileen," she said, "how about you? What shall I call you?"
"You can call me a chopper," he said, and burst out laughing.
Good, he'd made his own joke. Variation on the old "You can call me a taxi" line, but at least he hadn't said "You can call me anything you like so long as you don't call me late for dinner." And they were back to the chopper again. Good. Trade-off time. Maybe.
"A chopper's possible," she said, "but I'd have to talk to my boss about it."
"Then you go talk to him, Eileen."
"I feel pretty sure he can arrange it. . ."
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"I sure hope so, Eileen." "But I know he'd expect..."
'"Cause I'm gettin' pretty goddamn impatient here . . ." "Well, this is really the first time ..." ". . . an' I'd hate to see anythin' happen to this little girl here, hmm?"
"I'd hate to see anything happen to anybody, believe me. But this is the first time you and I have really talked, you know, and ..."
"Why don't you come up here on the porch?" he said.
"You think I'm crazy?" she said.
He laughed again.
"No, come on, I won't hurt you. I mean it, come on."
"Well..."
"Come on."
"How about I just stand up first?"
"Okay."
"But you'll have to show me your hands. Show me there's nothing in your hands, and I'll stand up."
"How I know what you got in your hands?"
"I'll show you my hands, too. Here, see?" she said, and raised both hands above the porch deck and waggled all the fingers. "Nothing in my hands, okay?"
"How you know I won't show you my hands and then dust you anyway? Jus' pick up the piece again an'..."
"Well, I don't think you'd do that. Not if you promise me."
The first time she'd heard this in class, she'd thought it was ridiculous. You asked a terrorist to promise he wouldn't blow you away? You asked some nut just out of the loony bin to promise he wouldn't hurt you? She had been assured over and over again that it worked. If they really promised you, if you got them to say the words "I promise you," then they really wouldn't hurt you.
"So can I see your hands?" she asked.
"Here's my hands," he said, and stepped around the window frame for just an instant, waggling his fingers the way she just
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had, and then ducking back out of sight again. She thought she'd seen a grin, too. "Now stan' up," he said.
"If I stand up, will you promise you won't hurt me?"
"I promise."
"You won't hurt me?"
"I promise I won't hurt you."
"All right," she said, and stood up.
He was silent for a moment, looking her over. Fine, she thought, look me over. But this isn't the old man all over again, you aren't eighty-four years old and senile, you're a killer. So look me over all you like but . . .
"Put your hands on the windowsill where I can see them, okay?" she said.
"Matter, don't you trust me?" he said.
"I trust you, yes, because you promised me. But I'd feel a lot better if I could see your hands. You can see mine," she said, holding them out in front of her and turning them this way and that like a model for Revlon nail polish, "so you know I'm not going to hurt you, isn't that right?"
"It is."
Still not stepping out from where he was hidden.
"So how about showing me the same consideration?" she said.
"Okay, here's my hands," he said, and moved into the window frame beside Dolly and grabbed the sill with both huge hands.
"Clear shot," the sharpshooter said into his walkie-talkie. "Shall I take him out?"
"Negative," Brady told him.
"What I'd like to do now," Eileen said, "is go back to my boss and ask him about that helicopter."
"Sure is red" Whittaker said, grinning.
"Yeah, I know," Eileen said, shaking her head and smiling back at him. "I'm pretty sure he can get you what you want, but it might take some time. And I know he'll expect something from you in return."
"Whutchoo mean?"
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"I'm just saying I know what he's like. He'll get you that helicopter, but one hand washes the other is what he's going to tell me. But let me go talk to him, okay? See what he says."
"If he s'pects me to let go Dolly, he's dreamin'. Dolly stayin' with us till we on that jet."
"What jet?"
"Dolly tole you we . . ."
"No, not me. Maybe she told the other negotiator."
"We want a jet to take us to Jamaica."
Eileen was thinking he'd been standing there in the window for the past three, four minutes now, a clean shot for any of the Tac Team sharpshooters. But Sonny was still somewhere in the darkness of that room. And Sonny was strapped with a nine-millimeter auto.
"Why Jamaica?" she asked.
"Nice down there," he said vaguely.
"Well, let me talk to him, okay? You're asking for two things in a row now, and that's gonna make it a little harder for me. Let me see what I can do, okay?"
"Yeah, go ahead. An' tell him we ain't foolin' aroun' here."
"I will. Now Mr Whittaker, I'm gonna turn my back
on you and walk over to the truck there. Do I still have your promise?"
"You have my promise."
"You won't hurt me."
"I won't hurt you."
"I have your promise then," she said, and nodded. "I'll be back as soon as I talk to him."
"Go ahead."
She turned away, giving him no reason to believe she was frightened or even apprehensive, turned and began walking swiftly and deliberately toward the Emergency Service truck, the word police in white across the back of her blue poplin jacket, trying not to pull her head into her shoulders, thinking nonetheless that any minute now a spray of bullets would come crashing into her spine.
But Whittaker kept his promise.
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It was Carella who'd reahzed the perps had blindsided themselves. Boarded up the windows on three sides of the house. And if all those windows were boarded, they couldn't see out. Which meant that three sides of the house were accessible to the police. This was what he'd told Brady.
They had finally got a floor plan from the realty company that had sold the house to a Mr and Mrs Borden some twelve years ago, long before a housing development had been planned for the area. It looked like this:
Outside entry down to cellar
Back stairs from cellar
According to Dolly, when the owners of the house converted from a private residence to a rooming house, the living
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room and dining room were both refurnished as bedrooms, and what had once been the sitting room was now a sort of public room with a sofa, two easy chairs, and a television set on a stand. The kitchen and its adjoining pantry and laundry room - what had originally been called the sink room - were the only rooms on this floor of the house that remained as they'd been since its construction back before the turn of the century. There was only one large bathroom in the house, on the second floor.
At the rear of the house, there was an outside entry that led down to the cellar.
Carella pointed this out, too.
One of those sloping things that kids just loved to slide down, two doors on it that opened upward and outward like wings. Observer number four, working the inner perimeter at the rear of the house, reported that whereas the window to the left - his left - of the cellar doors had been boarded over, the doors themselves seemed not to have been touched. They were fastened by a simple padlock in a hasp.
It was Carella's thought that if they could get into that cellar, they could then come up the stairs to the kitchen entry and move through the house to where Sonny and Whittaker were holding the girl in the front room. From either of the doorways that opened into that room, they would have a clean shot at anyone inside, including whoever might be backed against the rear wall, as they suspected Sonny was.