9:40 A.M.
Theresa squinted at the screen, dimly aware that she still pinned Cavanaugh’s warm arm to the table. “Does that woman have a child with her?”
Everyone else looked, leaning toward the small television screen as if a magnetic force pulled them.
She could make out the woman’s light-colored hair and the outlines of the small person in her arms, but beyond that the image shaded into pixelated blobs of gray tones. “Frank, you don’t think-”
“Why the heck would she have a kid in there?” Jason asked of no one in particular.
“Do you have day care on the premises?” Cavanaugh said to Kessler.
“No.”
Theresa let go of Cavanaugh’s arm and patted Frank’s in agitation. “Our dead guy from this morning-could that be his wife and child in the lobby?”
Now Frank squinted, and Cavanaugh regarded the screen with new interest. “What makes you say that?” “They match the description. We saw their photos this morning, and it could be them.” Frank said, “You think she went there looking for her husband?” “It would make sense. Of course, it doesn’t explain why she didn’t notice him on the front stoop.”
“No,” Kessler contradicted, and the heads at the table swiveled back to him. “She works there. It was part of the deal to get Ludlow to come here from Atlanta.”
Cavanaugh nodded at the screen. “Is that her?” “I’ve never met her.” “Jason, do we know who’s in that lobby?” “Not them. Security made up a list earlier, from the cameras.
But they only list one woman and now we have… three. Where did they come from?” “Probably hid under their desks at the first gunshot. Who are the identified hostages?”
Jason read off the names and vital statistics of the three security guards and the three hostages, not including Paul or the three recent additions. The five employees ranged in age from twenty-four to seventy-one. Most were married with children. This is more than Paul, Theresa thought. This is a larger tragedy than mine.
None had a criminal history or so much as a reprimand in their personnel files. None of them worked in high-security areas. Frank said, “No one stands out as an obvious inside man. But Ludlow’s murdered, and Mrs. Ludlow happens to be in the lobby when it’s taken over. I have a hard time believing that’s coincidence.”
The hum of voices from the staff offices next door continued to disperse. A young woman approached the group, carrying a notepad and a chair, which she placed slightly behind Cavanaugh, on his right. Without turning, he said, “This is Irene, our scribe. It’s time to start.”
Before, Theresa assumed, the FBI had told him to wait for the unwanted Laura. Cavanaugh needed to be the first to the hill, or telephone, in this case, possession being nine-tenths of the law. Now he dialed in a phone number from Jason’s notebook, using their impressive array of telephone equipment. Three phones, as well as a digital recorder and a speaker, flowed from a central hub.
It’s all about words, Theresa thought. No microscopes, no chemicals, no databases. Just words.
A woman’s voice answered with a quavering “Hello.”
“This is the police department calling. Can I speak to one of the men with the guns, please?”
Without discussion a man’s voice took over. Theresa figured out that his side of the conversation came over the speakerphone, so that everyone in the room could hear it. But on their side, Cavanaugh spoke into his receiver so that the hostage takers couldn’t pick up other conversations going on around the room.
“This is Sergeant Chris Cavanaugh of the Cleveland Police Department.”
“I don’t much care who you are,” the guy said, with what sounded like utter repose. “I need to know if you’re in charge.”
“I’m the negotiator. I’m here because we have a situation going on, and I want to help you find a way through it so that no one gets hurt. That’s our most important goal, that no one gets hurt. Not you, not the bank employees, not the cops. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
“ ‘A situation.’ That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“As I said, my name is Chris. What can I call you?”
“It’s so nice to be talking with you today, Chris. My name is Lucas. I’m going to want some things, and I’ll need a yes or no from you. Can you do that, or should I be talking to someone else? I don’t intend to repeat myself.”
“I’m not trying to argue with you here, but all the conversation is going to go through me. That’s the way we do it. How’s everybody doing in there? Anyone hurt?”
“Let me tell you how I do it, Chris.” The man’s derision came over the speaker loud and clear, but with a slight wobble. He probably wasn’t as tough as he liked to sound, but Theresa knew enough about the psychology of criminals to know that that would not be a help. Any insecurities would only make him more desperate. “I talk to the guy in charge.”
“How are the people in there? Is anyone hurt?”
“They’re going to be if I don’t talk to the guy in charge.”
Theresa let her breath release from aching lungs. Sixty seconds in, and already they could not meet a demand, couldn’t produce the person in charge, and all because Chris Cavanaugh had acted prematurely in order to keep the limelight directly on himself.
And he could, because those from the corridors of power were not here but at a fancy luncheon. Theresa turned to Frank and whispered, “Is the secretary of state’s motorcade coming through this area? Could this be some sort of ploy-”
He shook his head, which needed a haircut. “Their route from the airport to the convention center goes down Ontario. They won’t come within two blocks of this place.”
Cavanaugh let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Lucas, and I want you to consider that statement carefully- all day long here, whatever else happens, I’m going to tell you the truth, because I’ve found that that’s the only way these situations work out to everyone’s satisfaction, including mine. You with me so far?”
“Uh-huh.” The hostage taker did not sound convinced.
“Then here’s the truth: There are three police agencies here, the Federal Reserve security force, the Cleveland city cops, and the FBI, and right now they’re fighting over-I mean discussing- who’s going to get to be the boss. As soon as I know, I’ll put them on the phone. But no matter who it is, today is going to be all about you and me.”
“I’m sure you’re a great guy, Chris, but why should I waste my time with you? You put the lucky winner on the phone, and I’ll put my gun in the ear of one of these people here, and we can work this out fast.”
His words brought scenes of carnage to Theresa’s mind, so that she got up and returned to the telescope. Paul had moved as the line condensed in front of the reception desk, but he still breathed. His hands were in his lap, and he stared straight ahead. Look up, honey. I’m here.
Footsteps padded over the low carpeting. Two young men, too well dressed to be anything but FBI, entered the reading area and stopped short to observe Chris Cavanaugh and his conversation with the hostage taker. Their eyes glowed with excitement; they were clearly tickled to death to be in the thick of it. After a flash of anger, Theresa confessed to herself that she would feel exactly the same way if all the players were strangers to her, if she weren’t in love with one of the hostages, if the man who had jolted her emotions from their self-imposed hibernation didn’t sit across the street with a gun to his head.
The young men hurried back the way they’d come, no doubt to let their higher-ups know that CPD had started without them.
“There’s reasons for this,” Cavanaugh was explaining. “I can’t concentrate on you and make decisions at the same time. Also, we might talk for a while, and there’s always the chance I could start to like you, and then any decisions I made would be biased.”
“Oh,” the voice drawled, “I don’t think there’s going to be much chance of that, Chris. As soon as I kill one of these hostages, I bet you’ll cross me right off your Christmas-card list without a second thought.”
It worried her that the man called Lucas referred to them as “hostages” instead of “people.” Killers often tried to dehumanize their victims, to make their murders seem more reasonable. It would be up to the negotiator to make Lucas see his captives as human beings, with jobs and families and dreams worth living for.
Cavanaugh must have had the same thought. “Speaking of which, could you tell me who-all you have in there with you? We know the receptionist is there, Missy, and the three security guys, Greg, Antoine, and-”
Lucas interrupted. “Four million. In hundreds. And while you’re coordinating that, let me tell you something about the lobby of the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland. It’s big. It’s pretty, really- paintings on the ceiling and all that shit. But big. We will always be closer to our hostages than you are, and we can kill them before you get to us. You throw tear gas in here or try to smoke us out, we can kill them before you get to us. You got that down?”
“I understand. Four million is a lot of money, Lucas. But you know what? It’s doable. We can do that. It’s going to take some time, though-certainly more than an hour.”
“We’re in a building full of money, Chris. There’s a lot more than four million in cash in this place, and we all know it. So it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, really. I’m only giving you an hour so that you can get the car here from wherever you took it. Either drive it or put it on a flatbed, by the way. Do not use a tow dolly. You got that?”
“Lucas, I don’t know much about the Federal Reserve building, but-”
“You got it down about the car? Just have someone drive it here. No towing.”
“No towing, got it. But about the money. That place is like Fort Knox. You need to cooperate with us in order to go get your money, because there’s a lot of security measures in place to pass through-”
“Don’t be stupid, Chris.”
Cavanaugh stopped.
“I’m not going to go and get anything. There are robots downstairs that move cash around, and we have elevators. Have it brought to me. One hour. Or someone dies. And don’t screw up and use a tow dolly.”