The Negotiator (8 page)

The way the prosecutor would have it, Stewart had savagely beaten the victim to within an inch of his life and without any provocation. It was bullshit, that’s what it was and he’d about had enough. Anger surged through him, made even worse by the knowledge he wasn’t in a position to leave.

He glanced toward the two corrections officers who flanked him on either side of the dock. The tall, beefy pair would be hard to escape. Besides, who was he kidding? He’d never survive on the run. He’d lived all his life on his father’s bank accounts. He’d never given thought to stashing any of it away.
Was it too late?

With a sigh, he let the fleeting thoughts slide and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out the crumpled page of the newspaper he’d torn off the front cover, now dated more than a month ago. Smoothing out the folds, he stared at the woman and child.

Renewed anger surged through him.
He still couldn’t believe she lied to him
. She’d gone into the clinic. He’d watched her go inside from where he sat in the car and he’d waited more than an hour. He’d passed the time texting his mates and updating his Facebook status to single. When she’d finally exited the building, he’d taken her home. Before she stepped out of the car, he’d told her they were over.

Okay, so he hadn’t actually asked her if she’d done it, but she’d been in there so long, it hadn’t occurred to him that she hadn’t gone through with it. He clenched his fists and was infuriated all over again that she hadn’t said anything to him. So what if he hadn’t wanted the kid at the time? It didn’t give her the right to have it and keep it from him for
ten fucking years
.

Jack Savage,
the newspaper said. She hadn’t even given the boy Stewart’s fucking name. Jack
Brady
, that’s who he was. Jack Brady, his son.

He thought of his wife, Tiffany and his other son, Luke and then remembered them as he’d last seen them: Cold and gray and lifeless on matching stainless steel tables. He’d been asked to identify them at the morgue. A stab of familiar pain went through him at the memory. He couldn’t believe they’d gone.

Okay, he may have told Tiff they were getting a divorce, but it didn’t mean he wanted her dead. It may have made things a little easier, but he’d have paid her whatever she wanted if it meant his son hadn’t died in the same accident…

He gritted his teeth and forced back the moan of pure anguish.
Lukie, poor little Lukie.
He’d always hated the dark. Now it surrounded him. It wasn’t fucking right and it sure as hell wasn’t fair.

Just like his discovery of the other bitch’s deceit.

Renewed fury gushed through his veins. He had to find Cally Savage. She’d stolen his son. A son who was still breathing. A little older, but a son who could replace the one he’d lost. Steel determination surged through him. He’d find both of them and when he did, he’d make her pay. Of that, he had no doubt.

* * *

Nikki Simons stared at the white satin and lace wedding dress that mocked her from the rail inside her closet. The dress was all she’d ever dreamed of: perfect in its utter simplicity, with tiny, hand-sewn pearls. It had cost her most of two pay packets. She’d owned it for more than a month. She’d been so certain Andy would propose to her; that it was only a matter of time.

They’d been together for twelve months. Long enough to decide they were right for each other. They had so much in common and usually managed to have fun. Okay, so perhaps the sex hadn’t been spectacular, but she’d done all she could. It wasn’t her fault Andy wasn’t into threesomes or that he didn’t want to share.

She ought to be flattered he wanted her for himself and she had been, most of the time. Every now and then, she’d caught herself wishing he was different, more exciting, more willing to live it on the edge.

Still, at thirty-five she couldn’t afford to be so picky. She was desperate to have children and her biological clock was winding down. He would have been perfect father material, despite her boredom with him in the bedroom. She’d seen the way he interacted with the children of their work colleagues. She’d seen the yearning on his face. On top of that, he was wealthy, too.
What more could she want?

He’d never shared his childhood with her, but she’d sensed it hadn’t been great. He’d said as much the night he’d broken up with her. She was still annoyed he wouldn’t let her in. Twelve months of her life she’d given him and it had all been for naught. She was back where she started, single, old and afraid.

She didn’t want to end up alone, dependent upon alcohol and friends to get her through the day. She had a good job and a shapely figure many female workmates envied. She was a good catch, dammit. It was a shame Andy Warwick hadn’t seen it that way.

Recalling how he’d dumped her, in the back of a taxi, no less, her anger bubbled to the surface. She reached for the bottle of rum that stood on her nightstand and tilted it toward her throat. A mouthful, two and it was empty. She tossed it to the carpet in disgust. It only seemed like moments ago when she’d opened it. Her gaze returned to the wedding dress and fury and disappointment overwhelmed her.

She staggered to the chest of drawers that stood on the other side of her bedroom and wrenched open the top drawer. Her fingers glanced over a hairbrush, a compact, two lipsticks… She thrust them all aside. With her fingers working more frantically now, she at last gave a triumphant yelp. Taking an unsteady step backwards, she brandished a pair of large scissors in the air.

Turning on her heel, she stumbled to the closet and took hold of the wedding dress in her fist. With wild stabs, she attacked it, tearing and shredding the cloth. Moments later, the fog of rage cleared and she stared at the remains of the dress. It hung in tatters, destroyed beyond repair.

The scissors fell from her hand and she slowly dropped to the floor. Sobs tore through her in agonizing waves. She gasped and curled her legs up to her chest and rocked against the pain.
This was all because of Andy.
It was his fault she was in such a bad way. He should have tried harder to love her. He should never have tossed her aside. They were meant to be together. She had to make him see…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Detective Superintendent Patrick Redding strode out of his office, his face grim. “He’s back up there again, Andy.”

“Excuse me?” Andy frowned and looked up from the pile of paperwork on his desk.

“Wayne Tucker, your jumper from last week. He’s back up there,” Redding replied.

“You’re kidding?”

“I’m afraid not. I just took a call from the psychiatric unit of Royal North Shore Hospital. They discovered him missing about an hour ago. No one knows how he got out—or at least, no one’s saying—but he’s back up on a window ledge. This time it’s the ninth floor of the Nurses’ residence, about four hundred yards from the bed he’d been keeping warm in the psych unit.”

Andy sucked in a breath. Adrenaline surged through him. He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. Quickly and efficiently, he emptied his pockets of his wallet, cell phone and keys and prepared for what was to come. “Who’s at the scene?”

“A couple of cars from St Leonards, a couple more from Artarmon. The State Protection Group’s on its way. They want you to lead the team, seeing as Tucker knows you and you managed to talk him down last time.”

“Yeah.” Andy channeled his thoughts to the task ahead. He knew from other negotiators that a second attempt almost always spelled trouble. He strode toward the locker rooms. “Who’s riding with me?”

“Craig Winters, Sandy Ashcroft and Hugh Power are already on their way. Tom Munro’s waiting for you downstairs.”

A little of the mounting pressure inside Andy subsided. Despite the fact he was only in his late thirties, Tom Munro was a veteran and had been the primary negotiator in more than a hundred high-risk situations. He’d won more than he’d lost and Andy was glad to have him by his side.

During his time at the North Sydney Police Station, Andy had come to know Tom and his family. His wife, Lily, was a primary school teacher and was as sweet and gracious as Andy fondly remembered his own primary school teachers were. Their two children, Cassie and Joe were cute, well-mannered teenagers. The Munro clan was the epitome of a wholesome Aussie family and Andy couldn’t help the stab of longing that went through him whenever he thought of them.

He pushed the thoughts aside. Now wasn’t the time to wish things were different. A man’s life was at stake and Andy was responsible for saving him. Depositing his phone and other personal items on the shelf, he stripped down to his underwear and pulled on the navy SPG overalls he kept in his locker.

One of the first things he’d learned in his training was how to ensure there was nothing on his person that could distract the jumper and possibly cause a disastrous ending. A flash of sunlight on a watch face or the sudden ringing of a cell phone could mean the difference between life and death. It was an understatement to say the people he dealt with were not exactly stable.

Threading his gun belt through the loops on his overalls, he checked that his sidearm was primed and loaded. Not that he’d be using it at the scene. It was standard operating procedure to hand in his gun to the supervisor at the scene. It was the intention of the negotiator to build a rapport with the subject and gain their trust. A sidearm, in full view of the subject, tended to jeopardize those kinds of efforts.

Banging the metal door of his locker shut, he made his way out to the squad room. Giving Redding a somber wave, he headed downstairs to meet Tom.

* * *

Andy saw the mob of people gathered around the front of the Nurses’ residence and grimaced. He counted half a dozen uniforms doing their best to keep the crowd at bay, but the officers seemed to be losing the battle as curious onlookers pushed closer and closer, seeking a better view of the scene unfolding above them.

He didn’t know what it was about events like this that turned ordinary people into macabre spectators, where they seemed to get some sort of almost sick excitement by watching the unfolding drama. It never failed to stir his anger. A man’s life was in danger. It wasn’t a scene from a trashy Hollywood movie. It was real. One wrong move, one wrong word and it could all be over.

“Andy, over here.” Tom beckoned him toward a uniformed officer. Stepping over the blue-and-white police tape that had been used to cordon off the area, he walked to where Tom and the other three negotiators had halted at the front of the building.

“Andy, this is Senior Sergeant Harry Matthews. He’s stationed at St Leonards. Harry was the first on the scene.”

The sergeant’s gray hair, weathered face and calm air of experience immediately gave Andy confidence. He stuck out his hand in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. I understand you managed to keep our man from jumping last week. I’m glad you’re here.”

Andy ducked his head in embarrassment. “Thanks.” Clearing his throat, he turned to the business at hand. “What can you tell me, Sergeant?”

“Harry. Call me Harry, please.”

Andy acknowledged the request with a nod. “How long’s he been up there?”

“About half an hour or so, I think. The hospital staff noticed he was missing when he didn’t show up in the breakfast room. They searched the ward for a while and when they couldn’t find him, they called security.” He grimaced. “Someone spotted him up here.”

Tom pursed his lips. “Has anyone been up there to talk to him?”

“Not as far as I know. Certainly not since I arrived. I wanted to wait for you guys.”

Andy shielded his gaze from the sun and looked toward the ninth floor. “You did the right thing. It was hard enough to talk him down last time. I’m glad you didn’t send a novice up there.” He turned back to Harry. “Does anyone know what set him off this morning?”

“Nothing that anyone’s saying, but I read in the hospital notes he took a phone call last night from his wife.”

“You’ve seen the notes?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, for last night, anyway. I asked security to get me a copy. I have them right here, if you want to take a look.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a couple of sheets of paper and unfolded them.

Andy indicated the hospital notes. “Anything else in there we need to know?”

“Probably not. The only thing of interest was the call from the wife. The rest is just the usual medical jargon. He had an uneventful day and a pretty quiet night, apparently.”

Andy grimaced. “Apparently.” He turned back to face the building. “Do we know the layout inside? Which room he’s near?”

“According to the switchboard operator who mans the phones for the residents, there are elevators that stop at each floor. After exiting the elevator, you enter the floor via a set of doors that lead into a common room situated in the center of the building. The rooms branch off from there, down separate corridors that run the length of the building.”

Andy nodded, frowning in concentration. With another brisk nod, he encompassed Tom, Craig, Sandy and Hugh in his gaze. “Okay, I’m going up.”

“We’ll be right behind you.”

Andy made his way into the building and over to the bank of elevators. He thought of the man perched precariously on a window ledge nine floors above him. The familiar rush of adrenaline flooded through him. His stomach tightened with nerves and he sent a silent prayer heavenward that he’d be able to make Wayne Tucker see that his life was still worth living.

The elevator chimed as it reached the ninth floor and Andy waited for the doors to slide open. He stepped into the deserted foyer and noticed a couple of young officers guarding the doors that provided entry to the floor. When they spotted him, they visibly relaxed, almost as if their jobs were done now that he’d arrived. He wished he had as much confidence in himself and his abilities as the young officers apparently did.

One of them stepped forward and greeted him. His badge identified him as Constable Reynolds.

“Boy, are we glad to see you, Detective Senior Sergeant Warwick.”

“Has anyone else been up here?”