The phone rang. I stopped typing and picked it up. “Gene Hall again, Spenser. Guy from KNBS-TV out here says you wanted him to come in?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Send him in.”
“Well, there’s a problem. You got two hostages now, I’d rather not add to the total.”
“I don’t blame you. I’ll swap you one of mine. I’ll send Simms out if you let the TV people in.”
“That’s still three for one,” Hall said.
“Yeah. They tell you what we have in mind?”
“They told me what you told them.”
“You been in touch with Samuelson yet?” I asked.
“Yeah. He’s on his way.”
“Okay. Why don’t we sit tight until he gets here, then I’ll talk with him.”
“Okay by me, Spenser,” Hall said. “Anything we can get you in the meantime?”
“Why do I think you guys will be less pleasant once I turn over Brewster and Simms?”
“Hey, no problem. You’ve been straight with us. We’ll be straight with you. All we want is everything to go smooth. You want any coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you, Eugene,” I said. I hung up and typed some more. In about three minutes the phone rang. I said, “Yeah?”
A voice, not Eugene’s, said, “Spenser, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Samuelson?”
“Who’d you expect it to be, Barbara Walters?”
“One always has one’s hopes,” I said.
“What’s going on?”
“You find Candy Sloan and Franco?”
“Yeah.”
“Brewster and Simms shot them. Brewster’s connected. Franco was trying to shake him down, and Candy was still trying to solve the thing. So Brewster put them both away at the same time.”
“And you got Brewster in there?”
“Yes, and Simms. Simms probably pulled the trigger. Brewster wouldn’t have the balls. But he called it.”
“And you want the TV guys in there?”
“Yeah. You need an explanation?”
“No,” Samuelson said. “I don’t. Okay. We let them in, and I come too, and when it’s over, you surrender them and you to me.”
“You know why I want it this way,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. I hung up the phone. I took the typescript out of the typewriter. I handed it to Brewster. “When the TV people get set, you read that the way I wrote it. If you don’t I’ll shoot you six times.”
“What’s the difference,” Brewster mumbled. “I read this, and the state will kill me.”
“Not you,” I said. “They haven’t done away with anyone out here in years. They probably have never done away with anyone as connected as you. You got all kinds of clout, Brewster. You could be back on the street in a few years. You can get into court and claim you were coerced. It might work. If you read that, you got lots of chances. If you don’t, you have none. Look at me when I am speaking. Look at me. You know I’ll do it.”
Brewster stared at me with his eye and a half. He nodded. I walked over to the door and unlocked it and opened it up. I stayed out of the line of fire when I did. You can’t tell when some SWAT cop will forget it’s not television. Samuelson came in first, wearing his tinted glasses and looking relaxed. Frederics followed, not a hair out of place, gleaming and perfectly groomed. Behind him came a scruffy bearded black guy with a camera on his shoulder and a large shabby black bag hanging from a shoulder strap. Last came a young woman who was obviously having a scruff contest with the black man. She had equipment slung around over a man’s shirt, jeans, and moccasins, and she carried a long pole with a microphone on it.
Samuelson went to the other side of the room and stood near Simms. Simms was looking at the floor. Frederics nodded at me.
I said to Brewster, “Get up.” I had the gun held out full-length and shoulder level, pointed at him. A little drama doesn’t hurt. Brewster got wearily to his feet. The black man muttered “Jesus” as he looked at Brewster’s face.
Samuelson looked at me. “He was difficult to subdue,” I said.
“I can tell,” Samuelson said.
Frederics looked at his associates. “We ready?” They both nodded. The soundwoman took the mike off its extender and handed it to Frederics. He looked at the camera. Then he said, “This is John Frederics. I’m speaking to you from the offices of Oceania Industries at Century City, where an apparent hostage situation is in progress. The resolution of that situation requires that one of the hostages, Peter Brewster, the president of Oceania, read a statement. Mr. Brewster.”
