High Noon (5 page)

“If it's in Savannah, chances are good.”

“How do you know what to say? What not to say?”

“Negotiators are trained, and have experience in law enforcement. What?” she said when he shook his head.

“No. You have to
know.
Training, sure, experience, sure, but you have to know.”

Odd, she thought, that he'd understand that when there were cops—Arnie Meeks sprang to mind—who didn't. And never would. “You hope you know. And you have to listen, not just hear. And listening to you, here's what I know. You live in Savannah because there wouldn't be enough to do on that island in the South Pacific, or enough people to do it with. You don't discount the sheer luck of buying a winning ticket along with a six-pack, but neither do you discount that sometimes things are simply meant. Telling me about the money wasn't bragging, it was just fact—and fun. Now, the way I reacted to it mattered, in as much as if I'd suddenly put moves on you, we'd end this evening having sex, which would also be fun. But I'd no longer be stuck in your mind.”

“Something else I really like,” he commented. “A woman who does what she's good at, and is good at what she does. If Suicide Joe was still working for me, I'd give the son of a bitch a raise.”

She had to smile, and by God, she was charmed right down to the balls of her feet. But…“That's quite a bit for one drink,” she decided. “Now I've got to get on home.”

“You love your kid—that's first and last. Your eyes lit up when you said her name. The divorce still bothers you on some level. I don't know which, not yet. Your work isn't a career, it's a vocation. Cab-driving bartender,” he said. “I know how to listen, too.”

“Yes, indeed. That's quite a bit, on both sides, for one drink.”

He rose when she did. “I'll walk you to your car.”

“It'll be a hike. It's in the shop. I'm catching a CAT.”

“Jeez. I'll drive you. Don't be stupid, 'cause you're not.” He took her arm with one hand, signaled a goodbye to the bar with the other on the way to the door.

“You're the second man who's offered me a ride tonight.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The first involved hopping onto the handlebars of his bike. As I told him, I don't mind the bus.”

“Take you just as long to walk to the bus stop as it will for us to walk to the lot down here. And I can promise you a smoother ride home.” He glanced down at her. “Nice night for a drive.”

“I'm only up on Jones.”

“One of my favorite streets in the city.” He strolled now, sliding his hand down her arm to link it with hers. “So's this one.”

And here she was after all, Phoebe thought, half of a couple wandering on River Street, hand in hand. His was warm, the palm hard and wide. The sort of hand, she imagined, that could wrench the top off a pickle jar, catch a fly ball or cup a woman's breast with equal ease.

His legs were long, his stride loose and lazy. A man, Phoebe judged, who knew how to take his time when he wanted to.

“Nice night for a walk, too, especially along the river,” he commented.

“I have to get home.”

“So you said. Not cold, are you?”

“No.”

He walked into the lot, hailing the attendant. “How you doing there, Lester?”

“Doing what comes, boss. Evening, ma'am.”

A bill passed from hand to hand so smoothly Phoebe nearly missed it. Then she was standing, staring at a gleaming white Porsche.

“No handlebars.” Duncan shrugged, grinned, then opened the door for her.

“I'm forced to admit this will be better than the bus—or Johnnie Porter's Schwinn.”

“You like cars?”

“If you'd asked me that a couple hours ago, I'd have given you several reasons why cars and I are on nonspeaking terms currently.” She brushed a hand over the side of the buttery leather seat. “But I like this one just fine.”

“Me, too.”

He didn't drive like a maniac, which she'd half-expected, and had to admit had half-hoped. He did drive, however, like a man who knew the city the way she knew her own bedroom—every nook and cranny.

She gave him the address and let herself enjoy the sort of ride she'd never imagined experiencing. When he pulled up in front of her house, she let out a long sigh. “Very nice. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He got out, skirting the hood to take her hand again on the sidewalk. “Great house.”

“It is, yes.” There it was, she thought, rosy brick, white trim, tall windows, graceful terraces.

Hers, whether she liked it or not.

“Family home, family duty. Long story.”

“Why don't you tell me about it over dinner tomorrow night?”

Something in her actively yearned when she turned toward him. “Oh, Duncan, you're awfully cute, and you're rich, and you've got a very sexy car. I'm just not in a position to start a relationship.”

“Are you in a position to eat dinner?”

She laughed, shook her head as he walked with her up to the parlor level. “Several nights a week, depending.”

“You're a public servant. I'm the public. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Or pick another activity, another day. I'll work around it.”

“I have a date with my daughter tomorrow night. Saturday, dinner, as long as it's understood this can't go anywhere.”

“Saturday.”

He leaned in. It was smooth, but she saw the move. Still, it felt fussy and foolish to stop it. So she let his lips brush over hers. Sweet, she thought.

Then his hands ran down from her shoulders to her wrists, his mouth moved on hers. And she couldn't think at all. Deep, penetrating warmth, quick, hard flutters, a leap and gallop of pulse.

She felt it, all of it, as her body seemed to let out a breath too long held.

Her head actually spun before he eased back, and she was left staring, staring into his eyes. She said, “Oh, well, damn it.”

He flashed that grin at her. “I'll pick you up at seven. 'Night, Phoebe.”

“Yeah, 'night.” She managed to unlock the door, and when she glanced back, he was standing on the sidewalk, still grinning at her. “Good night,” she said again.

Inside, she locked up, turned off the porch light. And wondered what the hell she'd gotten herself into.

She'd no more
than reached the top of the stairs when her mother and Ava slipped out of the TV room with big, expectant smiles.

“So?” Essie began. “How was it?”

“It was fine. It was a drink.” If she'd been wearing socks, Phoebe thought as she aimed for her bedroom, they'd have blown clear across Jones Street during that good-night kiss.

Behind her back, Essie and Ava exchanged a look, then headed off in pursuit.

“Well, what's he like? What did you talk about? Come on, Phoebs.” Ava clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “Give us dateless wonders the scoop.”

“We had a beer in his very nice pub. I enjoyed it. I'm going to work out.”

Another look was exchanged when Phoebe went to her dresser to pull out yoga pants and a sports bra.

“What'd you talk about?”

Phoebe glanced at her mother in the mirror, shrugged. She began to strip and change. She'd lived among women too long to worry about nudity. “This and that. He used to tend bar and drive a cab.”

“Hmm. So he's enterprising, isn't he?”

“You could say.”

“Where does he live?” Ava pressed. “In the city?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Well, for goodness sake.” Essie cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Why not?”

“It didn't come up.” Phoebe reached in the little silver trinket box on her dresser for a tie, whipped her hair back into a tail.

“What about his people?” Essie demanded. “Who are his family, his—”

“That didn't come up either. I sort of got distracted.”

“Because he was charming,” Essie decided.

“He was—is—very charming. But I was distracted, considerably, when he told me he won the lottery several years ago, to the tune of a hundred and thirty-eight million.”

She sailed out on that, automatically peeking in to check on Carly before moving to the stairs and up to the third floor.

She'd commandeered what had once been a maid's room for a little home gym. An indulgence on her part, Phoebe knew, but it also saved a health club fee and meant she could get an hour in early in the morning or at night, after Carly was in bed.

Work kept her away from home enough without adding gym time to it.

She'd sprung for an elliptical machine, a few free weights, and even a small TV to play exercise tapes. Carly often practiced her gymnastics while she worked out, so that was the big benefit of more mother-daughter time. Her mother and Ava used the equipment, so it paid for itself.

In the end it wasn't only more convenient but more economical. At least that's how she'd justified the expense.

Phoebe smiled to herself as she set the machine and climbed on. Her mother and Ava were already at the doorway, gaping.

“Did you say
million
?” Essie demanded.

“I did.”

“I remember that, I remember something about that.” Ava laid a hand on her heart. “Millionaire cabdriver. That's what they called him. Local boy. Single ticket. Oh my God! That's
him
?”

“In the flesh.”

“Well. God. I think I'm going to sit down.” Essie did so, right on the floor. “That's not just rich, not even just wealthy. I don't know what it is.”

“Lucky?” Phoebe suggested.

“And then some.” Ava joined Essie on the floor. “He bought you a beer.”

Amused, Phoebe kicked her warm-up to the next level. “Yeah. And pretzels. Then he drove me home in his Porsche.”

“Is he slick?” Essie's brows drew together, and the frown line Phoebe had inherited instead of dimples creased between them. “That much money, he's likely slick.”

“He's not. Smooth,” Phoebe decided after a moment. “He's pretty damn smooth, but I have a feeling that's innate. He talked me into having dinner with him Saturday night.”

“You're dating a millionaire.” Ava nudged Essie with her elbow. “Our little girl's dating a millionaire.”

Because the idea made her nervous, Phoebe bumped the resistance up another notch—on the machine, and in her. “I don't know about dating. I'm not interested in dating anybody. It's too damn much trouble. What are you going to wear, what are you going to talk about? Is he going to want to have sex—and there I say: Duh. Are you going to want to have sex, which actually does require some thought and consideration.”

“Dinner,” Ava reminded her. “Saturday night.”

“Yeah, well, he's smooth,” Phoebe muttered. “He's pretty damn smooth.”

 

The scene was a little storefront operation. Jasper C. Hughes, Attorney at Law. The intelligence Phoebe had indicated that Hughes, one Tracey Percell and an armed individual named William Gradey were barricaded inside.

The tactical team continued setting up outer and inner perimeters. Phoebe grabbed her ready box and headed for the first on scene. She was already unhappy knowing it was Arnie Meeks.

“Situation.”

Arnie wore dark glasses, but she could feel the derision in his eyes as he stared down at her. “Guy's got two hostages. Witnesses heard gunfire. When I arrived, the subject yelled out that if anybody tried to come in, he'd kill them both.”

Phoebe waited a beat. “That's it?”

Arnie shrugged. “Subject claims the lawyer cheated him out of six thousand dollars and he wants it back.”

“Where's the log, Officer?”

The way his lips curled, Phoebe wondered if he practiced the sarcastic look in the mirror.

“I've been trying to keep this asshole from killing two people. I haven't had time for a log.”

“At what time was gunfire heard?”

“Approximately nine
a.m.
”

“Nine?” She could feel both temper and fear knot up inside her. “Nearly two hours ago, and you've just decided to send for a negotiator?”

“I have the situation under control.”

“You're relieved. You—” She pointed to another uniformed cop as she pulled a log sheet out of her ready kit. “Everything gets written down. Time, activity, who says what and when.” She took out a notebook.

Arnie grabbed her arm. “You can't just walk in here and take over.”

“Yes, I can.” She wrenched free. “The captain's on his way, and Commander Harrison is in charge of Tactical. Meanwhile, I'm in charge here, as negotiator. Get the hostage-taker on the phone,” she ordered the cop she'd drafted as second negotiator.

“I'm the one keeping this from blowing up.”

“Is that so?” She whipped around to Arnie. “Have you spoken to either hostage? Have you ascertained that they're still alive? If they've been harmed? If anyone requires medical attention? Where is your situation board? Your log? What progress have you made toward ending this situation without loss of life in the damn near two hours before you deigned to call this in?”

She grabbed the phone, checked her notebook where she'd already written down names.

“I don't want to talk to you!” The voice that answered screamed with emotion and fury. “I said I'm through talking to you.”

“Mr. Gradey? This is Phoebe Mac Namara. I'm a negotiator with the police department. You'll be talking to me now. You sound upset. Is everyone all right in there, Mr. Gradey? Does anyone have medical problems I should know about?”

“Everything's gone to hell. It's all gone to hell.”

“Let's try to work all this out. Is it all right if I call you William? Is that what people call you?”

“I'm through talking!”

“I'm here to help.” She heard it in his voice, he was through talking and poised to act. “Does anyone need anything in there? Medical attention? Water? Maybe something to eat.”

“I needed my money.”

“You need your money. Why don't you tell me about that, Mr. Gradey? Let me see if I can help you with that.” She wrote down
used past tense.

“I said it all already. Nobody listened.”

“Nobody listened to you. You sound angry about that. I understand, and I apologize if you feel your problem wasn't given attention. But I'm listening, Mr. Gradey, I'm listening to you now. I want to help you resolve all this.”

“It's too late. It's over.”

She heard the gunshot in her head a second before it blasted the air. She'd heard it in his voice.

 

The lawyer had a mild concussion, some bumps and bruises. The secretary was hysterical but unharmed. William Gradey was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

“Nice negotiating,” Arnie said from behind her.

She turned, very slowly, until her eyes burned into his. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”

“He took himself out while you were on the line. Not me.” With his trademark smirk in place, Arnie swaggered off.

She forced herself not to go after him, not now, not now when her rage was so full and sharp and deep she could—would—do something she'd regret later.

It would wait for later. She promised herself that later she would deal with Officer Arnold Meeks. For now, Phoebe stood and watched Crime Scene walk in and out of the building. A hand dropped on her shoulder.

“Nothing more for you to do here,” Dave said to her.

“I never had a chance with him. A minute, maybe two. It was over before I got here. I couldn't bring it back.”

“Phoebe.”

She shook her head. “Not now, please. I want to debrief the hostages, and take statements from any witnesses.” She turned around. “I want all debriefing and statements recorded, and I want you to witness them.”

“You and I both know sometimes things go south.”

“What I don't know is if this one had to.” The rage wanted to make her tremble. She refused. “I'm going to find out. The hostages are en route to the hospital, but the woman didn't seem to be hurt. She can talk. I'd like you to go with me, now, talk to her.”

“All right. You may want to talk to the counselor. When you lose one—”

“I didn't lose him, and that I know.” She bit off the words, so they both knew how close she was to snapping. “I never had him.”

She didn't speak on the way to the hospital, and Dave didn't push. In the silence, she stared out the window and outlined the questions she'd ask, the tone she would take, to build the foundation for what she needed to prove.

Tracey Percell rested on a gurney in the ER's exam room. She was young, Phoebe noted, barely old enough to drink. A well-endowed young blonde who needed her roots done.

Red-rimmed, swollen eyes were weepy yet as she gnawed on her thumbnail.

“He shot himself. He shot himself right in front of us.”

“You had a horrible experience. It may help you to talk about it, and it would certainly help us. Do you think you could do that, Tracey?”

“Okay. I hyperventilated, they said. Passed out. They said I should lie down awhile, but he didn't hurt me. I'm really lucky he didn't hurt me. He punched Jasper, and he stuck the gun right in his face. And—”

“You must've been scared.” Phoebe sat beside the bed, patted Tracey's hand before she took out her tape recorder. “Is it all right if I record what we talk about?”

“Sure. They said they were going to call my boyfriend. Brad? My boyfriend Brad's going to come.”

“That's good. If he doesn't come before we leave, I'll check on Brad myself. How's that?”

“Thanks. Thanks.” Tracey stopped biting her thumbnail as if the mere thought of having her boyfriend come was enough to settle her. “I feel so weird. Like I watched a scary movie, but I was in it.”

“I know. But it's over now. You work for Mr. Hughes?”

“Uh-huh. I'm a legal secretary. It's not much, but it's okay.”

“And you went to work today, just like usual.”

“I go in to open the office at, like, ten to nine. Jasper got in at the same time today. Lots of times he's later, but we got there right before nine today. We'd barely opened when he came in. Mr. Gradey. He pushed right in the door and punched Jasper in the face. Knocked him down. I screamed because he had the gun. He looked crazy.”

Tracey's eyes watered again as she snatched out two tissues from the box nested on her lap. “He looked just crazy.”

“What happened then?”

“He said for me to get up and lock the door. He said he'd shoot Jasper dead if I tried to run. He had the gun right to his head, and I was scared; I just did what he said. He said for us to push the desk in front of the door, and when we didn't move fast enough, I guess, he shot the gun.”

“He shot at you?”

“No. He shot it into the floor, put a hole in the carpet. I guess I screamed again, and I was crying. He said to shut the hell up and do what he said. So we did. Then he hit Jasper again and started yelling that he wanted his money. His six thousand five hundred twenty-eight dollars and thirty-six cents. Every penny.” She started on her thumbnail again. “Um, I guess you could say Jasper sort of talked him out of the money, for, you know, expenses and costs for this suit. And, um, the suit didn't really go anywhere.”

“He was a client?”

“Well, I guess Jasper didn't really put him on the books. So to speak.” Her gaze skidded away. “I don't know all the particulars, really.”

“We'll get to that later.”

“Okay. It'd be better if you asked Jasper about all that anyway. Jasper told him he didn't have the money, and he said Jasper better get it or else. They were talking about going to the bank, then the cop came.”

“The first officer arrived on scene at that time.”

“Well, yeah. Sort of. You could hear the sirens, and Mr. Gradey made me go with him to the window and peek through the blinds. Mr. Gradey yelled out something like: ‘Get the hell away. You try to come in and I'll kill everybody.' How he had two people in there and a gun, and he'd use it. Gradey told me to yell out, too, so I did, like, please, he means it.”