Hostage

6

Friday, 6:17 P.M.

TALLEY

Two of Talley’s night-shift duty officers, Fred Cooper and Joycelyn Frost, rolled up in their personal cars. Cooper was breathless, as if he had run from his home in Lancaster, and Frost hadn’t even taken the time to change into her uniform; she had strapped her vest and Sam Browne over a sleeveless cotton top and baggy shorts that showed off legs as pale as bread dough. They joined Campbell and Anders in the street.

Talley sat motionless in his car.

When Talley rolled to a barricade-hostage situation with SWAT, his crisis team had included a tactical team, a negotiating team, a traffic control team, a communications team, and the supervisors to coordinate their actions. The negotiating team alone included a team supervisor, an intelligence officer to gather facts and conduct interviews, a primary negotiator to deal with the subject, a secondary negotiator to assist the primary by taking notes and maintaining records, and a staff psychologist to evaluate the subject’s personality and recommend negotiating techniques. Now Talley had only himself and a handful of untrained officers.

He closed his eyes.

Talley knew that he was in the beginning moments of panic. He forced himself to concentrate on the basic things that he needed to do: secure the environment, gather information, and keep Rooney cool. These three things were all he had to do until the Sheriffs took over. Talley began a mental list; it was the only way he could keep his head from exploding.

Sarah called him over his radio.

“Chief?”

“Go, Sarah.”

“Mikkelson and Dreyer got the security tape from the minimart. They said you can see these guys plain as a zit on your nose.”

“They inbound?”

“Five out. Maybe less.”

Talley felt himself relax as he thought about the tape; it was something concrete and focused. Seeing Dennis Rooney and the other subjects would make it easier to read the emotional content in Rooney’s voice. Talley had never bet a hostage on his intuition, but he believed there were subtle clues to emotional weakness-or strength-that an astute negotiator could read. It was something he knew. It was familiar.

His four officers were staring at him. Waiting.

Talley climbed out of his car and walked up the street. Metzger had a look on her face, the expression saying it was about goddamned time.

They needed a house in which to view the tape. Talley set Metzger to that, then divided more tasks among the others: Someone had to find out if the Smiths had relatives in the area, and, if so, notify them; also, they had to locate Mrs. Smith in Florida. The Sheriffs would need a floor plan of the Smith house and information on any security systems that were involved; if none were available from the permit office, neighbors should sketch the layout from memory. The same neighbors would be questioned to learn if any of the Smiths required life-sustaining medications.

Talley began to grow comfortable with the familiarity of the job. It was something that he’d done before, and he had done it well until it killed him.

By the time Talley finished assigning the preliminary tasks, Mikkelson and Dreyer had arrived with the tape. He met them at a large Mediterranean home owned by a bright sturdy woman who originally hailed from Brazil. Mrs. Pena. Talley identified himself as the chief of police and thanked her for her cooperation. She led them to the television in a large family room, where she showed them how to work the VCR. Mikkelson loaded the videotape.

“We watched the tape at Kim’s to make sure we had something. I left it cued up.”

“Did you pull up anything on Rooney from traffic or warrants?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dreyer opened his citation pad. Talley saw that notes had been scrawled across the face of a citation, probably while they were driving.

“Dennis James Rooney has a younger brother, Kevin Paul, age nineteen. They live together over in Agua Dulce. Dennis just pulled thirty days at the Ant Farm for misdemeanor burglary and theft, knocked down from felony three. He’s got multiple offenses, including car theft, shoplifting, drug possession, possession of stolen goods, and DUI. The brother, Kevin, did juvenile time on a car theft beef. At one time or another, both were in foster care or were wards of the state. Neither graduated from high school.”

“Any history of violent crimes?”

“Nothing in the record but what I said.”

“When we’re done here, I want you to talk to their landlord. Guys like this are always behind on the rent or making too much noise, so the landlord has probably had to jam them. I want to know how they reacted. Find out if they threatened him or flashed a weapon or rolled over and made nice.”

Talley knew that a subject’s past behavior was a good predictor of future behavior: People who had used violence and intimidation in the past could be expected to react with violence and threats in the future. That was how they dealt with stress.

“Find out from the landlord if they have jobs. If they work, ask their employers to come talk to me.”

“Got it.”

Mikkelson stepped away from the VCR.

“We’re ready, Chief.”

“Let’s see it.”

The screen flickered as the tape engaged. The bright color image of a daytime Spanish-language soap opera was replaced by the soundless black-and-white security picture of Junior Kim’s minimart. The camera angle revealed that the camera was mounted above and to the right of the cash register, showing Junior Kim and a small portion of the clerk’s area behind the counter. The counter angled up the left side of the frame, the first aisle angled along the right. The camera gave a partial view of the rest of the store. Small white numbers filled a time-count window in the lower right of the screen.

Mikkelson said, “Okay. Here they come. The guy we think is Rooney entered a few minutes ago, then left. Here where the tape picks up, it’s maybe five minutes later.”

“Okay.”

A sharp-featured white male matching Dennis Rooney’s description opened the door and walked directly to Junior Kim. A larger white male with a broad face and wide body entered with him. The second man’s hair was shaved down to his scalp in a fuzz cut.

“Is that Rooney’s brother?”

“The third guy is about to come in. The third guy looks like Rooney.”

A third white male stepped inside before Mikkelson finished. Talley knew the third man was Rooney’s brother from the resemblance, though Kevin was shorter, thinner, and wearing a Lemonheads T-shirt. Kevin waited by the door.

Talley studied their expressions and the way they carried themselves. Rooney was a good-looking kid, with eyes that were hard but uncertain. He walked with an arrogant, rolling gait. Talley guessed that he was posturing, but couldn’t yet tell if Rooney was posturing for others or himself. Kevin Rooney shuffled from foot to foot, his eyes flicking from Dennis to the gas islands outside the store. He was clearly terrified. The larger man had a wide flat face and expressionless eyes.

“We have an ID on the big guy?”

“No, sir.”

“Was the camera hidden?”

“Hanging off the ceiling big as a wart on a hog’s ass, and these guys didn’t even bother to wear masks.”

Talley watched the video without a feeling of connection. During his time on LAPD he had seen three or four hundred such videos, all showing robberies gone bad just the way this one was about to go bad, and only one out of twenty perpetrators had bothered to don a mask. Mostly, they didn’t care; mostly, they didn’t think about it; geniuses didn’t go into crime. Only the first tape had shocked him. He was still a probationary officer, twenty-two years old and fresh from the academy. He had watched a thirteen-year-old Vietnamese girl walk into a convenience store just like this one, shoot the elderly African-American clerk in the face at point-blank range, then turn her gun on the only other person in the store, a pregnant Latina named Muriel Gonzales who was standing next to her. The pregnant woman had fallen to her knees, thrusting her hands up as she begged for her life. The Vietnamese shooter touched the gun to Muriel Gonzales’s forehead and let off a shot without hesitation, then calmly walked around behind the counter and cleaned out the cash register before walking out of the store. When she reached the door, she hesitated, then returned to the counter, where she stole a box of Altoids. After that she stepped over Muriel Gonzales and left. Seeing those murders had left Talley so shaken that he had spent the next two months thinking about resigning.

The events in Kim’s Minimart happened as quickly: Rooney lifted his shirt to expose a gun, then vaulted over the counter. Kim stood with a gun of his own. Talley was relieved that Rooney had told the truth about Kim having a gun. It wouldn’t help Rooney in court, but Talley could use what he was seeing to play on Rooney’s sense of being the victim of bad luck. That was all Talley cared about right now, finding things he could use to manipulate Dennis Rooney.

The struggle between Rooney and Junior Kim lasted only seconds, then Kim staggered backward, dropped his pistol, and slumped against the Slurpee machine. Rooney was clearly surprised that Kim had been shot. He jumped back over the counter and ran to the door. The larger man didn’t move. Talley found that odd. Kim had just been shot and Rooney was running, but the third man just stood there. Junior Kim’s pistol had landed on the counter. The third man tucked it into his waist, then leaned over the counter, resting his weight on his left hand.

Mikkelson said, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s watching Kim die.”

The big man’s pasty Pillsbury Doughboy face creased.

Mikkelson said, “Jesus, he’s smiling.”

Talley’s back and chest prickled. He stopped the tape, then rewound it until the unknown subject leaned forward on his hand.

“We need to confirm that the younger guy is Kevin Rooney, and we need to ID the third subject. Make hard-copy prints from the tape. Show them to Rooney’s landlord, his neighbors, and the people at his job. We might get a fast ID on the third guy that way.”

Mikkelson glanced at Dreyer uncertainly.

“Ah, Chief, how do we make prints from the tape?”

Talley cursed under his breath. In Los Angeles, an officer would take the tape to the Scientific Investigations Division in Glendale, then return an hour later with however many prints were needed. Talley thought that the Palmdale PD probably had the necessary equipment to do that job, but Palmdale was a long drive in Friday-night traffic.

“You know the computer store in the mall?”

“Sure. They sell PlayStations.”

“Call first. Tell them we have a VHS videotape and ask if they know how to grab and print a frame. If they can, take it there. If they can’t, call the camera store in Santa Clarita. If they can’t help, call Palmdale.”

Talley pointed out the unknown subject’s hand resting on the counter. He turned to Cooper and Frost.

“See here where he put his hand? I want you two to meet the Sheriff’s homicide team at Kim’s, and tell them about this. They’ll be able to lift a good set of prints.”

“Yes, sir.”

Talley told them to get to it, then headed back out to the street and climbed into his car. He considered his impressions of Rooney from the videotape and from their conversation. Rooney wanted to be “understood,” but he also wanted to be seen in exaggerated heroic terms: tough, manly, and dominant. Talley decided that Rooney was a low-self-esteem personality who craved the approval of others while seeking to control his environment. He was probably a coward who covered his lack of courage with aggressive behavior. Talley decided that he could use Rooney’s needs to his advantage. He checked his watch. It was time.

Talley opened his phone and punched the redial button. The phone in Smith’s house rang. And rang. On the tenth ring, Rooney still hadn’t answered. Talley grew worried, imagining a mass murder though he knew it was more likely that Rooney was just being a dick. He radioed Jorgenson.

“Jorgy, anything happening at the house?”

Jorgenson was still hunkered behind his car in the body of the cul-de-sac.

“Nada. It’s quiet so far. I would’ve called you if I heard anything.”

“Okay. Stand by.”

Talley pressed the redial button again. This time he let the phone ring an even dozen times before he closed the phone. He went back on the radio.

“You hear anything from the house?”

“I thought I heard the phone ringing.”

“See any movement?

“No, sir. It’s quiet as a clam.”

Talley wondered why Rooney was refusing to answer the phone. He had seemed agreeable enough during their first contact. Talley keyed his radio again.

“Who’s on with the CHiPs?”

The California Highway Patrol officers had been used to supplement his own people on the perimeter of the house. They worked off their own communication frequency, distinct from the Bristo freq.

“I am.”

“Tell them to advance to the property lines. I don’t want them exposed to fire, but I want Rooney to see them. Put them at the east and west walls, and at the back wall.”

“Rog. I’ll take care of it.”

If Rooney wouldn’t answer the phone, Talley would force Rooney to call him.

DENNIS

The money changed things. Dennis couldn’t stop thinking about the money. It no longer was enough to escape; he was frantic to take the money with him. Dennis brought Mars to the closet, letting him see the boxes of cash that crowded the closet floor. Dennis laid his hands on the cash to savor the velvety feel. He lifted a pack of hundred-dollar bills to his nose and riffled the bills, smelling the paper and ink and the sweet human smell of cash. He tried to guess the number of bills in the pack. Fifty, at least; maybe a hundred. Five thousand dollars. Maybe ten thousand. Dennis couldn’t stop touching the money, feeling it; softer than any breast, silkier than a woman’s thigh, sexier than the finest ass.

He grinned up at Mars so wide that his cheeks cramped.

“There’s gotta be a million dollars here. Maybe more. Look at it, Mars! This place is a bank!”

Mars barely glanced at the money. He went to the back of the little room, looking at the ceiling and the floor, tapping the walls, then studied the monitors. He pushed the boxes aside with his feet.

“It’s a safety room. Steel door, reinforced walls, all the security; it’s like a bunker. If anyone breaks into your house, you can hide. I wonder if they have sex in here?”

Dennis was irritated that Mars showed so little interest in the cash. Dennis wanted to dump the cash into a huge pile and dive in naked.

“Who gives a shit, Mars? Check out this cash. We’re rich.”

“We’re trapped in a house.”

Dennis was getting pissed off. This was the life-altering event that Dennis had always known was waiting for him: This house, this money, here and now-this was his destiny and his fate; the moment that had drawn him all the years of his life, plucked at him to take chances and commit outrageous acts, made him the star in the movie of his own life-all along it had been pulling him forward to the here and now, and Mars was harshing his mellow. He shoved a pack of cash into his pocket and stood.

“Mars, listen, we’re going to take this with us. We’ll put it in something. They must have suitcases or plastic bags.”

“You can’t run with a suitcase.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s going to be heavy.”

Dennis was getting more pissed off. He slapped Mars in the chest. It was like slapping a wall, but Mars averted his eyes. Dennis had learned that Mars would go along if you knocked the shit out of him.

“We can carry it, we can even stuff it up our asses, but we’re not leaving here without it.”

Mars nodded, rolling over just as Dennis knew he would.

“I’m glad you found the money, Dennis. You can have my share.”

Mars was depressing him. Dennis told Mars to go back to the office to make sure Kevin wasn’t fucking up. When Mars left, Dennis felt relieved; Mars was fucking weird and getting weirder. If he didn’t want the money, Dennis would keep it all for himself.

He searched through the other closets in the bedroom until he found a black Tumi suitcase, the kind with a handle and wheels. Dennis filled it with packs of hundreds; worn bills that had seen a lot of use, not a crisp new note among them. When the suitcase was full, Dennis wheeled it into the bedroom and parked it on the bed. Mars was right: He didn’t know how he was going to get out of here lugging that big-ass case. He wouldn’t be able to sneak out a window and run through backyards, but they had two cars and three hostages. Dennis refused to believe that he had come this close to his destiny to let it slip away.

Dennis returned to the office and found Mars watching the television. Mars turned up the volume.

“It’s on every channel, dude. You’re a star.”

Dennis saw himself on television. The newspeople had cut one of Dennis’s old booking photos into the upper right corner of the screen. It was a shot that made him look like Charles Manson.

The picture changed to an aerial view of the house they were in. Dennis saw police cars parked in the street and two cops hunkered behind the wheels. A hot newschick was saying how Dennis had recently been released from the Ant Farm. Dennis found himself grinning again. Something smoky rushed through Dennis’s veins just as it did when he got away with stealing a car: part anger and rage, part rush, part a groovy feeling like the whole fucking world was giving him high fives. Here he was with a million bucks for the taking, here he was on television. It was the big FUCK YOU to his parents, to his teachers, to the cops, to all the shitbirds who had kept him down. FUCK! YOU! He had arrived. He felt real. It was better than sex.

“Yeah! Fuckin’ YEAH!”

He went to the door.

“Kevin! Come see this!”

The phone rang, spoiling the magic of the television. That would be Talley. Dennis ignored it, and returned to the television. The helicopters, the cops, the reporters-everyone was here because of him. It was The Dennis Rooney Show, and he had just figured out the ending: They would use the kids as hostages and boogie to the border in that big flashy Jaguar with the helicopters broadcasting every moment of the trip on live TV.

Dennis slapped Mars on the arm.

“I got it, dude. We’ll use the Jaguar. We’ll take the cash and the two kids, and leave their father here. The cops won’t mess with us if we have those kids. We can boogie straight down to TJ.”

Mars shrugged blandly, his voice as quiet as a whisper.

“That won’t work, Dennis.”

Dennis grew irritated again.

Why not?”

“They’ll shoot out the tires, and then a police sniper will put a bullet in your head from a hundred yards away.”

“Bullshit, Mars. O. J. Simpson drove around for hours.”

“O. J. Simpson didn’t have hostages. They won’t let us leave with these children. They’ll kill us, and we won’t even see it coming.”

The picture shifted again to an aerial view of the minimart surrounded by Highway Patrol cars. The view slowly orbited the cars. The movement made Dennis feel sick, like riding in the backseat of a car. He watched the cops crouched behind their cars, and worried that Mars was right about the snipers. That was just the kind of chickenshit double cross the cops would pull.

Dennis was still thinking about it when Kevin screamed from his position by the French doors.

“Dennis! There’s cops all over the place out here! They’re coming!”

Dennis forgot the snipers and ran to his brother.

TALLEY

Talley was in the cul-de-sac, waiting behind his car, when Dennis began shouting from the house. Talley let him rant, then opened his phone and called.

Dennis answered on the first ring.

“You fuck! You tell those fuckin’ cops to move back! I don’t like’m this close!”

“Take it easy, Dennis. Are you saying that you don’t like seeing the officers on the perimeter?”

“Stop saying whatever I say back to me! You know what I mean!”

“I do that to make sure I understand you. We can’t afford to misunderstand each other.”

“If these bastards try to come in here, people are gonna die! Everybody’s gonna die!”

“No one is going to hurt you, Dennis. I told you that before. Now give me a minute to see what’s going on out here, okay?”

Talley hit the mute button on his phone.

“Jorgy, are you on with the perimeter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are they on the walls where we placed them?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got two north on Flanders, and two more in each of the rear yards on either side. They’re on the wall.”

Talley turned off the mute.

“Dennis, I’m checking into it, okay? Tell me what you see.”

“I see fuckin’ cops! I’m looking right at’m. They’re too close!”

“I can’t see them from out here behind my car. Help me, okay? Where are they?”

Talley heard muffling sounds, as if Rooney was moving with the phone. Talley wondered if it was a cordless. Like all hostage negotiators, he hated cordless and cell phones because they didn’t anchor the subject. You could fix a hardwired phone’s location. Then you knew the subject’s location whenever you had him on the line. If you launched a tactical breach, knowing the subject’s location could save lives.

Rooney said, “All the way around, goddamnit! These bastards over here at this white house. They’re right on the goddamn wall! You make them get back!”

Talley hit the mute button again. The white house was a sprawling contemporary to Talley’s left. A brushed-steel gate crossed the front drive. The house on the east side to Talley’s right was dark gray. Talley counted to fifty, then opened the cell line again.

“Dennis, we got a little problem here.”

“Fucking right we got a problem. Make’m get back!”

“Those officers are Highway Patrolmen, Dennis. I’m with the Bristo Camino Police Department. They don’t work for me.”

“Bullshit!”

“I can tell you what they’re going to say.”

“Fuck what they say! If they come over that wall, people are going to die! I’ve got hostages in here!”

“If I tell these guys that you’re being cooperative, they’ll be more inclined to cooperate with you. You understand that, don’t you? Everyone out here is concerned that the civilians in there with you are okay. Let me speak with Mr. Smith.”

“I told you they’re fine.”

Talley sensed that everything inside wasn’t as Rooney claimed, and that concerned him. Most hostage takers agreed to let their hostages say a few words because they enjoyed taunting the police with their control of the hostage; it made them feel powerful. If Rooney wouldn’t let the Smiths talk, then he must be frightened of what they might say.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Dennis.”

“Nothing’s wrong! I’ll let the sonofabitch talk when I get good and goddamned ready. I’m in charge of this shit, not you!”

Dennis sounded so stressed that Talley backed off. If anything was wrong in the house, he didn’t want to make the situation worse. But having pressed Rooney for a concession, he had to get something or he would lose credibility.

“Okay, Dennis, fair enough for now, but you’ve still got to give me something if you want the patrolmen to back off. So how about this: You tell me who you have in there. Just tell me their names.”

“You know who owns the house.”

“We heard that those kids might have some friends over.”

“If I tell you, will you get these assholes to back off?”

“I can do that, Dennis. I just got word from their commander. He’ll go along.”

Rooney hesitated, but then he answered.

“Walter Smith, Jennifer Smith, and Thomas Smith. There’s no one else in here.”

Talley muted the phone again.

“Jorgy, tell the CHiPs to back off the wall. Tell them to find a position with a view of the house, but they can’t be on the wall. Have them do it now.”

“Rog.”

Talley waited as Jorgenson spoke into his mike, then he went back to his phone.

“Dennis, what do you see?”

“They’re pulling back.”

“Okay. We made it work, me and you. We did something here, Dennis. Way to go.”

Talley wanted Rooney to feel as if they had accomplished something together. Like they were a team.

“Just keep them away. I don’t like them that close. They come over that wall, people are going to die in here. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m not a guy you can fuck with.”

“I’ll give you my word about that right now. We’re not coming in there. We won’t come over that wall unless we think you’re hurting someone. I want to be up front about that. If it looks like you’re going to hurt those people, we’ll come in without warning.”

“I’m not going to hurt anyone if you stay away. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s the way to play it. Just be cool.”

“You want these people, Talley? You want them safe and sound? Right now?”

Talley knew that Rooney was about to make his first demand. It could be as innocent as a pack of cigarettes or as outrageous as a phone call from the President.

“You know that I do.”

“I want a helicopter with a full tank of gas to take us to Mexico. If I get the helicopter, you get these people.”

During his time with SWAT, Talley had been asked for helicopters, jet aircraft, limousines, buses, cars, and, once, a flying saucer. All negotiators were trained that certain demands were non-negotiable: firearms, ammunition, narcotics, alcohol, and transportation. You never allowed a subject the hope of escape. You kept him isolated. That was how you broke him down.

Talley responded without hesitation, making his voice reasonable, but firm, letting his tone assure Rooney that the refusal wasn’t the end of the world, and wasn’t confrontational.

“Can’t do that, Dennis. They won’t give you a helicopter.”

Rooney’s voice came back strained.

“I’ve got these people.”

“The Sheriffs won’t trade for a helicopter. They have their rules about these things. You could ask for a battleship, but they won’t give you that, either.”

When he spoke again, Rooney sounded weaker.

“Ask them.”

“It can’t even land here, Dennis. Besides, Mexico isn’t freedom. Even if you had a helicopter, the Mexican police would arrest you as soon as it landed. This isn’t the Old West.”

Talley wanted to change the subject. Rooney would brood about the helicopter now, but Talley thought that he could give him something else to think about.

“I saw the security tape from the minimart.”

Rooney hesitated, as if it took him a moment to realize what Talley was saying, then his voice was anxious and hopeful.

“Did you see that Chinaman pull a gun? Did you see that?”

“It played out just the way you said.”

“None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled that gun. I damn near shit my pants.”

“Then none of this was premeditated. That’s what you’re saying here, right? That you didn’t premeditate what happened?”

Rooney wanted to be seen as the victim, so Talley was sending the subtle message that he sympathized with Rooney’s situation.

“We just wanted to rob the place. I’ll admit that. But, fuck, here comes the Chinaman pulling a gun. I had to defend myself, right? I wasn’t trying to shoot him. I was just trying to get the gun away so he couldn’t shoot me. It was an accident.”

The adversarial edge disappeared from Rooney’s voice. Talley knew that this was the first indication that Rooney was beginning to see Talley as a collaborator. Talley lowered his voice, sending a subtle cue that this was just between them.

“Can the other two guys hear me?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“I understand that they might be there with you, so you don’t have to respond to what I’m about to say, Dennis. Just listen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re worried about what will happen to you because the officer was shot. I’ve been thinking about that, so I’ve got a question. Was anyone else in there shooting besides you? Just a yes or no, if that’s all you can say.”

Talley already knew the answer from Jorgenson and Anders. He let the question hang in the air. He could hear Rooney breathe.

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t your bullets that hit the officer. Maybe it wasn’t you who shot him.”

Talley had gone as far as he could. He had suggested that Rooney could beat the rap by shifting the blame to one of the other subjects. He had given Rooney a doorway out. Now, he had to back off and let Rooney brood over whether or not to step through.

“Dennis, I want to give you my cell phone number. That way you can reach me whenever you want to talk. You won’t have to shout out the window.”

“That’d be good.”

Talley gave him the number, told Rooney that he was going to take another break, then once more backed his car out of the cul-de-sac. Leigh Metzger was waiting for him on the street outside of Mrs. Pena’s home. She wasn’t alone. Talley’s wife and daughter were with her.

Santa Monica Hospital Emergency Room

Santa Monica, California

Fifteen years ago

Officer Jeff Talley, shirtless but still wearing his blue uniform pants even though they are ripped and streaked with blood, notices her calves first. He is a sucker for shapely calves. Talley is sitting on a gurney in the emergency room, his torn hand packed in a bowl of ice to reduce the swelling and kill the pain while he waits for them to take him to X-ray. His partner, a senior patrol officer named Darren Consuelo, is currently locking Talley’s gun, radio, Sam Browne, and other equipment in the trunk of their patrol car for safekeeping.

The nurse comes out of a door across the room, lost in whatever she’s scribbling on the clipboard, dressed in white with a pale blue apron, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The calves get him first because they are not hidden by the clunky white stockings that nurses often wear; they are sleek, strong, and fiercely brown from much time in the sun. She has legs like a gymnast or sprinter, which Talley likes. He checks her out: tight ass, trim body, shoulders broad for her small stature. Then he sees her face. She appears to be about his age, twenty-three, twenty-four, something like that.

“Nurse?”

He winces when she glances over, trying to look like he’s suffering intense pain. In truth, his hand is numb.

She recognizes the LAPD pants and shoes, smiles encouragingly.

“How’s it going, Officer?”

She is not a beautiful woman, but she is pretty with healthy clean skin, and an expression of kindness that moves him. Her eyes glow with a warmth that fills him.

“Ah, Nurse-”

He reads her name tag. Jane Whitehall.

“Jane … they were supposed to bring me to X-ray, but I’ve been out here forever. Think you could check for me?”

He makes the grimace again, impressing her with his suffering.

“I know they’re backed up tonight, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s wrong?”

He lifts his hand from the pink ice. The fleshy pad on the inside of his third finger is ripped and torn. The edges of the laceration are blue from the cold, but the bleeding has mostly stopped.

Nurse Whitehall grimaces sympathetically.

“Ow. That’s nasty.”

Talley nods.

“I chased a rape suspect into a backyard in Venice, where the guy sicced his pit bull on me. I’m lucky I’ve still got a hand.”

Nurse Whitehall carefully places his hand back into the ice. Like her eyes, her touch is warm and certain

“Did you catch him?”

“Yes, ma’am. He went down hard, but he went down. I always get my man.”

He smiles, letting her know that he is kidding her, and she returns his smile. Talley thinks that he is making great headway, and is about to tell her that he has just been accepted to become a Special Weapons and Tactics officer when Consuelo comes plopping around the corner with a DietCoke and two PayDay candy bars. Consuelo, like always, smells of cigarettes.

“Jesus, you’re still sittin’ there? Haven’t they snapped the picture yet?”

Talley takes the Diet Coke, wishing that Consuelo would go back to the candy machine. He wants to be alone with the nurse.

“They’re backed up. You can hang out in the coffee shop, you want. I’ll find you when I’m done here.”

Nurse Whitehall smiles politely at Consuelo.

“I’ll see where we are with the X-ray.”

Consuelo grunts, gruff and pissed off about having to spend his day in the emergency room.

“While you’re back there, snag a load of klutz pills for this guy, extra strength.”

Quickly, Talley says, “I’ll find you in the coffee shop.”

Nurse Whitehall cocks her head, clearly wondering what Consuelo means.

“Were you with him when the pit bull attacked?”

“That what he told you happened to his hand?”

Talley feels the flush creep up his neck. He meets Consuelo’s eyes with a silent plea for help.

“Yeah, Consuelo was there. When we collared the rapist in Venice.”

Consuelo bursts out laughing, spraying peanuts and caramel all over the gurney.

“A rapist? A pit bull? Jesus, lady, this dumb putz slammed his finger in the car door.”

Consuelo walks away, gurgling his smoker’s laugh.

Talley wants to crawl under the gurney and disappear. When he looks at Nurse Whitehall again, she is staring at him.

Talley shrugs, trying to make a joke.

“I thought it was worth the shot.”

“That really how you hurt your hand, you caught it in a car door?”

“Not very heroic, is it?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go.”

Nurse Whitehall walks three steps away, stops, turns back, and looks at him with an expression of profound confusion.

“I must be out of my mind.”

She kisses him just as two doctors and another nurse step off the elevator. Talley pulls her close, kissing her deeply, just as he does again that night after their date at the Police Academy’s Rod and Gun Club, and every night thereafter. From the instant he sees the warmth in her eyes, Jeff Talley is in love.

Three months and one day later, they marry

TALLEY

Talley felt embarrassed and angry with himself. He had been so consumed that he had forgotten about Jane and Amanda. He checked the charge on his cell phone battery, then pocketed the phone and joined them.

Amanda looked like her mother: both were short, though Amanda was a bit taller, and both were thin. They shared what Talley felt was their most telling feature: faces so expressive that they were open doors to their hearts. Talley had always been able to see whatever Jane felt; in the beginning when the feelings were good, this was good; but toward the end, the open reflections of pain and confusion added to a load he found impossible to bear.

Talley kissed his daughter, who was as responsive as a wet towel.

“Sarah told us that there are men with guns barricaded in a house! Where are they?”

Talley pointed toward the cul-de-sac.

“Just around the corner and up that street. You see the helicopters?”

The helicopters made it hard to hear.

Amanda’s eyes were wide and excited as she looked around at the police cars, but Jane looked drawn with dark rings circling her eyes. Talley thought that his wife looked tired. He felt a stab of guilt and shame.

“You been working overtime?”

“Not so much. Two nights a week.”

“You look tired.”

“Does it make me look older, too?”

“Jesus, Jane, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, her expression saying that they were covering familiar ground.

Rather than stand outside, Talley brought them into the house. Mrs. Pena’s kitchen was filled with the rich smells of brewing coffee and cheese enchiladas. She had put out pitchers of water and cans of soft drinks, insisting that the officers help themselves, and now she was cooking.

Talley introduced Jane and Amanda to Mrs. Pena, then led them into the family room. The big television was playing live coverage of the scene. Amanda went to the television.

“Sarah said they have hostages.”

“They have a father and two children. We think that’s all, but we don’t know. One of the kids is a girl. About your age.

“This is so cool. Can we go see the house?”

“No, we can’t go up there.”

“But you’re the chief of police. Why not?”

Jane said, “It’s a crime scene, Mandy. It’s dangerous.” Talley turned to his wife.

“I should’ve called, Jane. This thing broke just after we spoke, then everything was happening so fast that I didn’t even think of it. I’m sorry.”

Jane touched his arm.

“How are you doing?”

“I think the guy’s going to come around. I’ve been on the phone with him; he’s scared, but he’s not suicidal.”

“I’m not asking about the situation, Chief. I mean you.”

She glanced at her hand on his arm, then looked up at him again.

“You’re shaking.”

Talley stepped away just enough so that her hand fell. He glanced past her at the big television. He could see Jorgenson hunkered behind his radio car.

“The Sheriffs are taking over as soon as they get here.”

“But they’re not here. You are. I know what this does to you.”

“They’ll be here when they get here. I’m the chief of police, Jane. That’s it.”

She stared at him the way she did when she was looking for meaning beyond his words. It used to infuriate him. Where Jane’s face was a mirror to every emotion she felt, his face was flat and plain and revealed nothing. She had often accused him of wearing a mask, and he had never been able to explain that it wasn’t a mask. It was a tightly held control that kept him from falling apart.

He looked away again. It hurt to see her concern.

“All right, Jeff. I’m just worried about you, is all.”

Talley nodded.

“You guys should have dinner up here before you head back. Let some of the traffic bleed out. Maybe that Thai place. You like that place, don’t you?”

Jane grew serious, then nodded.

“We could do that. There’s no point in rushing home.”

“Good.”

“I don’t want to just drop her off at your place so she has to sit there all alone, so how about she and I go eat, then we’ll both stay over. We’ll rent a movie. If this thing blows over tonight, you and Mandy could be laughing about it tomorrow this time.”

Talley felt embarrassed. He nodded, but the nod was a stall because he didn’t know what to say. He noticed that Jane had dyed her hair a new color. She had colored it the same rich chestnut for as long as Talley could remember, but now it was a deep red so dark that it was almost black. Her hair was cut shorter, too, almost a boy cut. Talley realized then that this woman deserved more than he would ever be able to give her. He told himself that if he cared for her and for whatever they once had, he had to set her free, not curse her with a man whose heart had died.

“What?”

He looked away again.

“You and I need to talk.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared up at him until a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. He could tell that she was frightened.

“All right, Jeff.”

“The Sheriffs will be here soon. When they get set up, I’ll hand off the phone, and then I should be able to leave.”

She nodded.

Talley wanted to tell her then. He wanted to tell her that she was free, that he wouldn’t hold her back any longer, that he finally knew that he was beyond redemption, but the words wouldn’t come and their absence left him feeling cowardly.

He told Metzger to escort his wife and daughter out of the development, then he went back to his car to wait for the Sheriffs in the dimming light.

7:02 P.M.

Santa Clarita, California

Six miles west of Bristo Camino

Chili’s Restaurant

GLEN HOWELL

Glen Howell didn’t have to warn his people to keep their voices down; they were surrounded by middle-class vanilla families come to sop up cut-rate frozen shrimp and fried cheese on their Friday night out; people Glen Howell thought of as zombies; irritated men and women at the end of another pointless week, pretending that their screaming, out-of-control, overfed children weren’t monsters. Welcome to suburbia, Howell thought, and you can stuff it up your ass.

Howell didn’t let the four men and two women get booze, or food that was made to order. He didn’t have time to hustle after the parolee cooks in the kitchen, and booze would put his people to sleep. He needed them sharp. Howell had called in each of the six himself, running each name past Sonny Benza personally. They were longtime associates who could do what needed to be done without drawing attention to themselves, and they could do it quickly. From what Howell was learning, speed was going to be everything. Speed, and a total domination of the local scene. He accepted the fact that he would not sleep again until this was over.

Ken Seymore, who had spent the past two hours pretending to be a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, was saying, “They requested a full crisis response team from the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. The Sheriffs are on the way now, but there’s been some kinda problem, so they’ve been delayed.”

Duane Manelli fired off a question. Manelli spoke in abrupt bursts, the way an M16A2 coughed out three-shot groups.

“How many people is that?”

“In the Sheriff’s team?”

“Yeah.”

When Duane Manelli was eighteen years old, a state judge had given him the choice between going into the service or pulling twenty months for armed robbery. Manelli had joined the army, and liked it. He spent twelve years in the service, going airborne, ranger, and finally special forces. He currently ran the best hijack crew in Sonny Benza’s operation.

Seymore found his notes.

“Here’s what we’re looking at: A command team, a negotiating team, a tactical team-the tac team includes a perimeter team, the assault team, snipers, and breachers-and an intelligence team. Some of these guys might double up on what they do, but we’re looking at about thirty-five new bodies on the scene.”

Somebody whistled.

“Damn, when those boys roll, they roll.”

LJ Ruiz leaned forward on his elbows, frowning. Ruiz was a quiet man with a thoughtful manner who worked for Howell as an enforcer. He specialized in terrorizing bar owners until they agreed to buy their booze from distributors approved by Benza.

“What’s a breacher?”

“If they gotta blow open a door or a window or whatever, the breachers set the charge. They go to a special school for that.”

Howell didn’t like that many more policemen coming in, but they had expected it. Seymore had reported that, so far, the federal authorities hadn’t been requested, but Howell knew that the odds of this would increase as time passed.

Howell asked when the Sheriffs would arrive.

“Cop I talked to, he said they’ll be here in three hours, maybe four tops.”

Howell checked his watch, then nodded at Gayle Devarona, one of the two women at the table. Like Seymore, she had pretended to be a news reporter in order to openly ask questions. If the questions were too blatant to ask, she used her skills as a thief.

“What’s up with the local cops?”

“We got sixteen full- and part-time employees, fourteen police officers and two full-time office people. I got their names here, and most of the addresses. I could’ve gotten the others, but I had to come here.”

Seymore laughed.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“Fist yourself.”

Howell told them to knock it off. Bullshit took time.

Devarona tore a single sheet from a yellow legal pad and passed it across the table to Howell.

“I got the names from the Bristo police office. The addresses and phones I got from a contact at the phone company.”

Howell scanned a neatly hand-printed list. Talley’s name was at the top, along with his address and two phone numbers. Howell guessed that one was the house phone, the other a cell.

“You get any background on these people, see what we have to deal with?”

She went through what she had, which made Bristo sound like a burial ground for retired meter maids and retards. Not that bad, really, but Howell thought that they’d caught a break. He knew of small towns in Idaho where half the population had pulled time on LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division and the other half were retired FBI. Try to fuck around up there, they’d hand you your ass. Howell checked his watch again. By midnight tonight, he could and would have credit checks and military records (if any) of each of these officers, as well as information about their families.

“What about Talley?”

Sonny Benza had specifically told him to zero in on Talley. You cut off the head, the body dies.

She said, “I got what I could. Single, ex-LAPD. The condo he lives in is provided by the city.”

Seymore interrupted.

“Those cops I talked to out at Smith’s place, they said Talley was a hostage negotiator in LA.”

Devarona scowled, like she hated him stepping on her goods.

“His last three years on the job. Before that, he was SWAT. There’s a picture of him on the wall in their office, Talley in an assault suit, holding the big gun.”

Howell nodded at these last two bits of information. They were the first interesting things that he’d heard. He wondered how a SWAT-qualified crisis negotiator ended up crossing school kids in Beemerland. Maybe the free condo.

Devarona said, “He was on LAPD a total of fourteen years, then he resigned. The woman I talked to didn’t want to say, but I’d make him for a stress release. Something’s hinky about why he hung it up.”

Howell made a note to pass that up to Palm Springs. He knew that Benza had people on the Los Angeles Police Department. If they turned something rotten on Talley, they might be able to use it as leverage. He had one last question about Talley.

“He work as a detective down there?”

“I asked about that. The girl didn’t know, but it’s still a good notion to follow up.”

When Devarona finished, Howell waited for more, but that was it. Everyone had given what they had. All in all, Howell couldn’t kick. Start to finish, they’d had maybe two hours to get it together. Now there was more to do. He considered the sixteen names on Devarona’s list. The list of bankers, lawyers, private investigators, and police officers owned by Sonny Benza and his associates was far longer; that list numbered in the hundreds, and all of those names could be brought to bear for the task at hand.

“Okay, get the rest of the addresses, then divide up the names and start digging. Gayle, you’re on credit and finances. We get lucky, one of these clowns is gonna be in so deep that he’s drowning. Maybe we can toss him a life preserver. Duane, Ruiz, find out where these people play. Some married doof is gonna keep a whore on the side; one of these turds is gonna like chasing the dragon with a fruit. Shovel dirt and find the skeletons. Ken, you’re back at the house with the reporters. If anything breaks, I want to know about it before God.”

Seymore leaned back, irritated. Howell always got pissed off when he did that.

“Don’t start with the faces, goddamnit. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“We’re going to need more people. If this thing drags out a few days, we’re gonna need a lot more.”

“I’m on it.”

Now Seymore leaned forward, and lowered his voice still more.

“If things get wet, we’re going to need people who can handle that end.”

Wet work was blood work. Howell had already thought of that and had already made the call.

“The right people are on their way. You worry about your job. I got my side covered.”

Howell checked his watch again, then copied Talley’s address and phone numbers on the bottom of the sheet. He tore off his copy, then stood.

“I want updates in two hours.”

Howell put Talley’s address in his pocket as he walked out to his car. Not just anyone would murder a chief of police with an army of cameras and newspeople around. He needed someone special for a job like that.