“They probably already have,” his partner grumbled. “You can’t trust them.”
The little boy gave one more convulsive shudder, lifted his head from Theresa’s shoulder, looked directly into her eyes, and screamed.
18
12:36 P.M.
“I don’t know any Oliver,” Patrick said. The idea of Theresa’s trying to pass them a clue made him nervous. He wondered what the hell she was doing-first she walked into the lion’s den to save Paul Cleary, his partner, whom
The FBI special agent in charge had been and gone, shaking his head in disbelief at Theresa’s actions. Assistant Chief of Police Viancourt had wandered back in and taken a seat at the small desk, his gaze ping-ponging between Patrick and the hostage negotiator.
“She must have said that for a reason,” Cavanaugh insisted. “Who might know what she meant? Jason, get us through to that ambulance. Maybe the wounded cop knows.”
“Or the lab,” Patrick said. “Her boss, Leo, or Don might know.”
In five minutes Jason reported that Paul had lapsed into unconsciousness and the medics didn’t think he would be coming around soon. In fact, the medics didn’t sound too enthusiastic about his overall condition, Jason added to Patrick, using a gentle tone that only grated on the older cop’s nerves.
All Patrick needed to know was that Paul was still alive. Though he wondered why… Why hadn’t Lucas taken a second shot, finished him off? Sure, Paul had been incapacitated and was no longer a threat, but still, most guys kept shooting once they began. Maybe Lucas thought of Theresa’s idea even before she did. Bargaining over Paul had certainly gotten him what he wanted.
Or maybe the guy just wasn’t a killer. But then, what had happened to Cherise?
Cavanaugh, meanwhile, had Don on the speakerphone.
“You had
Patrick leaned over the desk to interject, “Don, who’s Oliver?”
The young man paused, probably in surprise. “There’s a guy named Oliver in Toxicology.”
Cavanaugh explained what Theresa had said to him. “We’re assuming that’s some kind of clue. What is her relationship with Oliver? Are they friends?”
“Nobody’s friends with Oliver-he’s too big a pain in the ass. But Theresa can get more out of him than anyone else. She gave him some stuff from that dead guy this morning. That’s probably what she meant. You want me to transfer you?”
“No, stay with me a minute. Jason will get Oliver on another line. What can you tell me about Theresa? Have you ever seen her under pressure?”
“
Apparently Don also had them on speakerphone, because they heard the boss’s voice in the background. “Hey!”
“This job is nothing
“Is she likely to take action?”
Patrick wondered why the hell Cavanaugh wasn’t asking
“No,” Leo said.
Don sounded defensive. “She’s very tough.”
“But not assertive,” Patrick said.
“I don’t know,” Leo put in. “She certainly gets uppity enough with me.”
“So she’s more likely to cooperate, to try and keep things calm,” Cavanaugh said.
“Unless they’re going to hurt someone,” Don insisted. “Then she’ll rip the guy’s heart out.”
“I guess we’ve just seen evidence of that. Thank you. I’m going to hang up now. Jason’s got Oliver on the other line.”
“I’m better,” Cavanaugh told him, and hit a button on the phone. “Is this Oliver?”
“Who wants to know?”
Patrick leaned over the microphone. “Oliver, this is Patrick from Homicide. Did you talk to Theresa today?”
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
“
Patrick didn’t care for the appraising look Cavanaugh gave him, perhaps considering if Patrick would need to be evicted from the command center as well.
“I told her the dirt from the floor mat of that car was oxidized soil. Red clay, if you will.” After another moment he added, “I assume from your silence that means about as much to you as it did to me.”
“Like from the southern states,” Patrick said. “Georgia.”
“Sure, could be.”
“Anything else?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Yeah. About forty-five minutes ago, I called her back with the smear that was on your dead guy’s shoulder this morning. She collected it from… let me see-”
“His suit coat,” Patrick supplied.
“Yeah. And I told her it was cyclotrimethylene trinitramine.” Not even the hollow sound of the speakerphone could disguise the disdain in his voice. “Now I assume from your silence that you have no idea what I just said.”
“Is that C-4?” Cavanaugh asked.
“RDX, actually, but you’ve got the general idea.”
“Plastic explosives?” Patrick sat down. “Can this get any worse?”
Oliver pointed out with unseemly haste, “Things can always get
“Where would they get RDX?” Patrick mused. “Maybe Lucas was in the military. Bobby sure wasn’t.”
Oliver spoke again. “Considering the liberal use of Vaseline as a plasticizer, they probably made it themselves. All you really need is bleach and potassium chloride.”
“What are they going to do with that?” Patrick wondered. “And where is it? It’s not in the car.”
Cavanaugh stared at the monitor. “They could have it strapped to themselves, but I can’t see it. The jackets hang open, and there doesn’t seem to be anything on or under the T-shirts.”
“It’s hard to tell,” Jason offered, “with dark colors against dark colors on a black-and-white monitor.”
“That leaves the duffel bags. Oliver, how stable is this stuff?”
“It all depends on the skill of your amateur terrorist, how thoroughly he filtered the crystals out, et cetera. If it hasn’t gone off yet, that’s your best indication.” The toxicologist paused for a split second, then added, “It’s… um, not near Theresa, is it?”
“It’s about ten feet away,” Patrick told him. “I assume from
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Detective.”
Patrick eyed the monitor. “I’m going over there.”
