Lisa Black - Takeover

She gave a tiny jump, glared at him, and then looked away. She would never admit that; it made her sound like a neurotic little girl. No matter how true it might be.

Cavanaugh, mercifully, moved on. “Where did he propose to you?”

“What?”

“I’m just trying to gather information here, Theresa. Where did he propose?”

She smiled, unable to help it. “In an alley. In the rain. We had just cleared a triple homicide at a bowling alley, with about fifteen shots fired over three rooms-”

Cavanaugh’s dimples were showing, but his eyes seemed deadly serious. “So he’s kind of impulsive? You hadn’t expected a proposal?”

Her mouth formed a no, but that would be a lie. She had expected a proposal from their first kiss. “It wasn’t a complete surprise, but yes, a diamond popping out of nowhere sort of threw me.”

“Ah, he had the ring already. So he’s not that impulsive.”

“No, no. He’d had dinner reservations at Pier W, champagne on ice, the whole scenario, but then the pagers went off.” Apparently impulsivity was not a desired trait during hostage negotiations, which made sense. But what about the hostage takers’ impulses? “What did Lucas mean about having an idea to get the money?”

“I wish I knew. I called back, but he made Missy answer. She said Lucas does not wish to speak to me at this time, and neither does Bobby.”

She nibbled a fingernail, a habit she thought she’d broken in high school. “It would help if we could communicate with Paul. Can’t we text-message the Nextel?”

“It would beep. I already asked his partner that. We can’t risk drawing their attention to him.”

“No,” she agreed fervently. “We can’t. Where is Frank- Officer Patrick?”

“Trying to find someone in this city who knows Bobby Moyers. Supposedly he’s got a brother who works for Continental Airlines, and Patrick went to run him down.”

Jason returned, finishing a sandwich. “They have food in the conference area, you know.”

“Good,” Cavanaugh said. “Can you grab me something on rye?”

Jason tossed a cellophane-wrapped square at him. “I anticipate your every need, boss.”

“Glad to hear it. Now tell me who Lucas is.”

“I just got off the phone with Corrections. There are no known associates under that name in Moyers’s file for the original armed-robbery charge. No cellmates by that name at Mansfield. He only served eight months for that, due to a combination of prison overcrowding, good behavior, and a shaky ID on the ‘armed’ part of the armed robbery.” The young man paused to swig Cherry Coke. “Theresa? You want a sandwich?”

Even the idea of food made her want to retch. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Then he got picked up for violating probation.”

“What’d he do?” Cavanaugh asked, breathing a puff of rye-scented breath in Theresa’s direction.

“Bought some cocaine from a gangbanger in the Flats. He used up all his luck on the first charge and had none left for the violation. He not only got six months, he wound up in a test group for prison reform. The theory goes thus: Prison isn’t rehabilitating anyone because they wind up in prison with the same old people operating in the same old gangs and then get out and commit crimes with the same old people in the same old gangs. Send the cons far away where they don’t know anyone and they’re forced to function on their own, so when they get out, they’re better able to resist falling back into their old habits.”

“That almost makes sense.”

“As with all great social experiments, only time will tell.”

“And that’s where he met Lucas.”

Jason shrugged. “Either that or Lucas isn’t his name at all.”

“Where is this far-off reformatory?”

Theresa rubbed the back of her neck again, trying to keep the stiffness there from spreading to her brain. “I bet I know.”

“Hey.” Kessler, the bank executive, stared at the TV screen. “I think something is happening.”

11:20 A.M.

Paul watched the tall robber pace in front of them, moving slowly down the line. At least he kept the M4 carbine pointed at the floor. He stopped again, near Paul.

“You.”

The robber spoke to the black man next to him, in the green uniform. Paul felt a wave of relief and hated himself for it.

“What do you do here?”

The older man gave his name as Thompkins and said he worked in Support Services. “I vacuum and empty wastebaskets. I’m a janitor, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Lucas nodded. He still wore his hat; its emblem featured a red eagle. “I suppose I should identify with you, one lower-class workingman/oppressed minority to another. But that’s not what I’m thinking, Mr. Thompkins. I’m thinking that you may be the most valuable man in this building, because janitors go everywhere. They have to, to empty all those garbage cans. They have access to places they lock vice presidents out of, you know what I mean?”

“I’m thinking there’s nothing so ‘working’ about what you’re doing.” The old man’s gaze stayed as straight as his back. “Nothing at all.”

Everyone else tensed, Paul included. His legs trembled from the hours of inactivity. If he had to take them down, could he get to his feet fast enough? Should he even try? What about Theresa?

The line of Lucas’s jaw wavered as he clenched his teeth, then relaxed. “That’s a good point. I’ve given up on honest work, I admit that. But it’s going to be worth it. With great risks come great rewards. How long you been here?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“My, my. That’s impressive. You know this building pretty well, then? Don’t hesitate, Mr. Thompkins, if it means you’re thinking about lying to me. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

A single bead of sweat slid down the janitor’s left temple. “I know it pretty well.”

“Good. Did you hear what that negotiator told me on the phone? About the robots?”

“Yes.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“No one can just walk into the storage rooms downstairs and pick up the money?”

“No.” His answer came promptly, with assurance. Paul believed him. Perhaps Lucas did, too, since he switched his attention to the next hostage and asked for his name.

The kid’s pale skin stood out in sharp contrast to his black hair. “Brad.”

“What do you do here, Brad?”

“I’m in the public-relations department.”

“The Federal Reserve needs PR?”

“Sure.” The young man gave a sickly grin. “Everybody hates the government.”

Lucas rewarded the joke with a sardonic twist of his lips, so that his target’s shoulders seemed to relax an inch or two, only to tense again at the next question. “What exactly do you do for the PR department, Brad? ’

The young man mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m a tour guide.”

Now Lucas’s grin looked genuine, and Paul watched the points on Brad’s collar quiver as he trembled.

“So you must know this building pretty well, huh? Maybe even better than the janitor.”

“No.” Brad’s air of nonchalance wouldn’t have fooled a three-year-old. “I take them to our museum and then the vault-the old vault. It’s empty now. A historical conversation piece.”

“No money or robots?”

“No. The old vault was part of the original 1923 construc-tion-anyway, I’m never in the work areas. We can’t have hordes of middle-schoolers disrupting the staff.”

“Still, you know the layout. What else is in this building? And, just as with Mr. Thompkins here, lying to me would not be a good idea.” Lucas stroked the M4 to make his point.

The young man swallowed hard. “There’s offices, for the analysts and the examiners. There’s the security team. There’s the bank officers’ rooms on the ninth floor. We have a little vending area-”