Takeover (6 page)

9:10
A.M
.

Paul’s body tensed, waiting for the shot. Nothing. Just the woman’s scream, cut off. Then Bobby’s voice, raised and peremptory. Then footsteps over the polished marble tiles.

He turned his head to see two more hostages join them. Three—one of the two women carried a small boy. He had huge eyes and clung to his mother, and Paul recognized him from a photo seen just that morning, in a dead man’s house.

“They were hiding under a desk,” Bobby reported to his partner.

The tall robber barely glanced at them. “On the floor. Anyone else?”

“Negative.”

“Take care of that door.”

Bobby headed toward the north wall of the lobby. The tall robber kept his gun aimed at the three security guards and the dog. The two women sank into a sitting position, aligned in a row with the other hostages. The little boy didn’t make a sound, simply clutched
a small stuffed animal to his face. His mother dropped her oversize handbag beside her to put both arms around him, all without taking her eyes from the robber—or perhaps his gun.

So this was what was left of the Ludlow family. The woman almost certainly didn’t know that her husband was dead and must have come here looking for him. She hadn’t been home since early in the morning, at a minimum, or else how could she miss a corpse on her front step? Where had she been?

And now the hostages included a baby. This had gone from bad to worse.

Bobby returned. “I used a shelf to wedge that door. I don’t know how long it will hold. They’d be nuts to come in there anyway—we’d see them long before they’d reach us.”

“I don’t want them even tempted. You’d better hang out in this half of the lobby and keep these people between you and that door and that hallway, in case they decide to come in all commando-like.”

Bobby zipped quickly past the vulnerable center section. “What about the elevators?”

“They probably turned them off. But if you hear a ‘ding,’ dive for cover and come up shooting.”

“Now what?”

“Get the tie-wraps.”

Bobby laid aside the automatic rifle to dig in his duffel bag. Dust motes danced in the sunbeam above him as it slanted down from the high windows.

“You, in the pink,” the tall robber said to the woman next to Paul. “Stand up.”

The young woman trembled.

Should I stop this?
Paul wondered. Bobby had the gun back in his hand.

“Come on, get up. I’m not going to hurt you, I just need to borrow you for a minute. Now turn around. I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder, like this. That’s all you have to do. Now you three.” He nodded at the three security guards, who knelt in a line between the rest of the hostages and the two new women. “Now that Bobby has relieved you of your weapons, he’s going to cuff you to the teller cages there. Don’t get nervous. No one’s going to get hurt as long as you do what I say.”

The three young men gazed at him, and Paul could see them working out various methods of attack in their minds. They had been trained for exactly this—which was no doubt why this guy had to neutralize them.

“But if you try to rush me, this girl—What’s your name, sugar?”

It came out in a whisper. “Missy.”

“That’s a pretty name. Missy here is going to stay between me and you three. And if you get in a scuffle with my partner, the next sound you will hear is Missy’s guts spattering all over these other folks. On the other hand, if you come along real nice, Bobby won’t make the cuffs too tight. We’ll take some money, and then we’ll leave, and everyone, even Missy, gets to keep their guts. Do we understand each other?”

Silence.

“I asked if we understand each other.”

The three nodded, one at a time, ever so slightly.

“Okay. You with the dog. Take him with you and tie-wrap the
leash to the cage. Make it secure. If he gets loose, I will be able to shoot him before he ever makes it to me.”

Paul watched as Bobby and each guard moved slowly, carefully, down the iron grillwork wall to the south end of the lobby. The metal bars made a handy thing to tie people to and appeared as solidly constructed as the rest of the building. From there the guards faced the savings-bond teller cages and the opaque windows hiding East Sixth Street from view. Missy, her brown eyes seething with both fear and anger, didn’t seem to breathe at all. Paul thought of the gun at his hip. What should he do with it?

It occurred to him that he had to live. He had a wedding to attend. Theresa would not forgive him if he missed it.

He shifted slightly, as if his legs were getting stiff—which they were. The tall robber’s eyes flicked to him, watched for a moment. It could have been a trick of the light on the sunglasses, but Paul didn’t think so. The man’s finger only had to twitch against the trigger of that M4 carbine he held and Missy would be cut in half before Paul could blink.

His gun would stay in its holster for now.

Odd as it seemed, what he longed to do more than anything was call Patrick and tell him the dead man’s widow and child were here. It seemed relevant to the investigation.

And what about the Nextel? If it went off, it could startle the two men. But if he tried to turn it off, he would attract attention, and he did not want attention from these guys. If they had gotten anything more than a speeding ticket in their lifetime, they would know a cop when they saw one. Ex-cons always could. Besides, he couldn’t bear to deaden his only connection to the outside.

Bobby finished tie-wrapping the security guys to the grillwork, arms up, facing out. It looked uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, and Paul felt for them. It was now all up to him, as the last loose law-enforcement person in the room. Training mantras came back to him: Watch for an opening. Wait until they’re both distracted, then fire quickly. Take out whoever’s closest to the hostages first. Don’t risk a civilian.

He assumed that either the police or the Fed security force, probably both together, were planning a response. The door at the north end had been closed off, according to Bobby. That left the hallway behind them and the street entrance. The ceiling was out—too high, and no handy acoustic tiles to hide behind, only ornate artwork and gilt edges.

“Nineteen twenty-three,” the black guy in the uniform whispered when he noticed Paul’s gaze. “They’re the original paintings.”

“Beautiful,” Paul told him, though he would rather have had ugly white tile that SRT guys could creep through.

“Yeah.” The man sighed. “You should see the executive offices. One has a Picasso and a collection of Murano glass.”

The tall robber watched them over Missy’s shoulder but said nothing. Still, Paul piped down. No sense pressing his luck.

When the dog’s leash had been secured to the grating, Bobby returned to the southwest corner of the lobby, where sniper fire through either the Superior or East Sixth windows would require an impossibly sharp angle. “Okay, Lucas.”

Another name. Either these guys weren’t very good at this or they didn’t intend to leave witnesses.

Lucas ordered the rest of them to slide down toward the two women, and Paul inched across the floor. It felt good to let his arms
down and even better when Lucas did not tell them to put them up again. Clamping his left arm to his side kept the blazer from opening and exposing his firearm.

He came to rest against a rounded reception desk of solid marble, standing alone before the employee lobby with the elevator bank. The three security guards were tied at least forty feet from Paul, making communication difficult, if not impossible. If Paul turned his head to their direction, he also faced Bobby, in his safe zone in front of the savings-bond teller cages.

“Sorry, Missy,” Lucas said to the quivering hostage. “I’m going to need you to stand in front of me for just another minute. You, the gentleman in the green.” He stared at the black man next to Paul, the one who knew how old the ceiling paintings were. “Where’s the money?”

The man swallowed hard but answered in a steady voice. “In the tellers’ drawers. The rest of this floor is an educational area now, classrooms and displays.”

Lucas cocked one eyebrow. “You think I’m doing all this to empty a few drawers?”

That didn’t clarify matters. “There’s cash in various areas all over this building. Is there some amount in particular that you mean?”

“I mean the really big pile of it.”

“Well—”

The phone rang.

“Missy,” Lucas said, “I’m going to need you to answer that, please.”

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.”