“No, I probably don’t. Tell me.”
“I’m so tired of the extremes.”
“How do you mean?”
“People either pity me to death and think that I can’t possibly manage a minute of my life without a sighted person holding my hand, or they think I’ve been magically transformed into some kind of blind mystic with extrasensory powers. Well, that’s not the way it is. I’ve been using my white stick for six months, and I still on occasion walk straight into a lamppost; my sense of smell does not rival a bloodhound’s; and even if Bruce Willis and M. Night Shyamalan were sitting right next to me, I could not see dead people. It’s just plain old me, get it? I’m not helpless, but I’m not a blind Superman, either. I’m just a regular guy who’s doing a pretty decent job of making my life a little better from one day to the next.”
Alicia kept her focus on the string of orange taillights ahead of her. With the old Vince, she would have pressed harder. The new Vince was more complex, and maybe he had a point. She was probably as guilty as the next person, assuming that any man who lost his sight could suddenly sniff out an apple from across the room or pick up body rhythms over the telephone. Granting Vince those little pluses, at least in her own mind, helped her deal with the enormity of his loss. “You’re right. This isn’t my decision. It’s yours.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She glanced to her right. His head was turned away from her, as if he were looking out the passenger window. He wasn’t, of course. It was all about body language, a signal that the discussion was over. It was the kind of behavior that she would never have let the old Vince get away with, and Alicia wasn’t going to start now, simply because he was blind. “Just get the negotiations started, all right? If you don’t feel comfortable, then pass if off to someone else.”
He didn’t answer.
“Vince, please. If you say no to the chief this time, there’s not going to be a next time.”
There was still no reply.
“Damn it, Vince. What do you want to teach at the academy? How to be a quitter?” She worried that she might be hitting below the belt, but after a minute or so, her words seemed to have the desired impact.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll get it started.”
She wished that he could see how proud she was of him. Instead, she reached across the console and squeezed his hand, and they rode the rest of the way in silence to the Biscayne Boulevard exit.
chapter 19
B iscayne Boulevard was completely shut down, both north and south, for as far as Jack could see. Eerie was the mood on a normally busy street that was suddenly deserted, particularly at night, with the swirl of police lights coloring the neighborhood. Jack hadn’t seen Miami’s main boulevard so empty since Hurricane Andrew ripped through South Florida. It made the arrival of the SWAT transport vehicles even more dramatic. There were two of them, one from the City of Miami, and the other from the Miami-Dade Police Department. Rather ominously, another ambulance trailed right behind them, just in case.
Jack prayed that Theo wouldn’t be the one to need it.
Jack was standing in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant, across the street and down a few hundred yards from the Biscayne Motor Lodge. Law enforcement was setting up a makeshift command post right outside the restaurant. Its location was strategic-close, but not too close, to the motel-and a ready source of burgers, fries, and coffee certainly didn’t hurt.
The wound on the side of Jack’s head was no longer oozing blood. One of the paramedics had cleaned and bandaged it, and Jack declined a trip to the hospital. After some forty-five minutes, the ringing in his ears had finally subsided. Discharging a firearm inside a closed vehicle was definitely not something he would recommend to friends.
The SWAT vehicles and the ambulance rolled up through the drivethru lane and parked alongside the restaurant. Moments later, a large motor van bearing the blue, green, and black logo of Miami-Dade Police Department arrived. The antennae protruding from the roof signified that it was equipped with all the necessary technical gadgets to survey the situation and make contact with the hostage-taker. The rear doors to the SWAT vans flew open, and the tactical teams filed out. They were armed with M-16 rifles and dressed in black SWAT regalia, including helmets, night-vision goggles, and flak jackets. They appeared ready-eager, in fact-to go on a moment’s notice.
A uniformed officer led Jack to the City of Miami police van and introduced him to Sergeant Chavez, the crisis- team leader. “Wait right here,” said Chavez. “I definitely need to talk to you.” He turned and went directly to the crisis-team leader from MDPD. Almost immediately, Chavez and the MDPD officer were embroiled in a heated discussion, as if the face-to-face confrontation were a mere continuation of an argument they’d been conducting by telephone or radio. Jack couldn’t hear their conversation, but he knew a turf war when he smelled one.
Fortunately, the men and women in the field weren’t quite so paralyzed. Jack watched as they moved from building to building, door to door, making sure that no one in the neighborhood ventured out onto the street. A helicopter whirred overhead-low enough for Jack to read the Action News logo on the side.
“Too close!” shouted Chavez, this time speaking in a voice that Jack and everyone else could hear. “Get them to back off-now!”
Another officer picked up a loudspeaker and told the intruding chopper to mind the restricted air space. It seemed to have no effect.
For several minutes, Chavez and the MDPD officer continued to haggle for control of the situation. Two fully armed and outfitted tactical teams awaited instructions, doing exactly what many believed to be the true meaning of the SWAT acronym: sit, wait, and talk. Jack was losing his patience. The motel had been silent for almost fifteen minutes, since the last exchange of gunfire. Jack could only speculate as to Theo’s condition, but he knew one thing for certain: Falcon was still alive and in control. The gunfire had told him as much. The best Jack could hope for was that Theo was now a hostage. He didn’t want to consider the worst.
Jack approached Chavez and the MDPD officer. It was time to settle their differences. “Who’s in charge here?” said Jack.
“I am,” they said in unison.
“Who are you guys?” said Jack.
Chavez reintroduced himself. The other man said, “Sergeant Peter Malloy, crisis-team leader, Miami-Dade Police Department. Who are you?”
Chavez said, “This is Jack Swyteck. He’s a criminal defense lawyer.”
Malloy’s expression soured, as if Chavez had just said, “He’s a pedophile who teaches kindergarten.”
Jack said, “That’s my client in there, Pablo Garcia. Homeless guy who calls himself Falcon. He was out on bail after climbing up the Powell Bridge.”
Chavez said, “He’s got a thing for the mayor’s daughter, who also happens to be a City of Miami police officer. That means I got one cop dead, one wounded, and one stalked. That’s three good reasons for me to be in control here. How many do you got, Malloy?”
“Dozens. I got a tactical team, a negotiating team, a traffic-control team, a communications team, and supervisors to control their actions. And unlike you folks at the city, we’re trained to do this full-time.”
Jack was about to slap them. “Hey, I got the best reason of all to be here. His name’s Theo Knight. He’s the hostage. And he’s my best friend.”
That silenced them for a moment, but the sound of his own words seemed to hit Jack hardest of all. As long as he’d known Theo, and as much as it felt true, Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever used those words before-“He’s my best friend.”
“Might be a woman in there, too,” Jack added. “I heard a scream when Falcon went into the next room. Theo went in after her. That’s when the standoff started.”
Malloy glanced toward the motel. Spotlights had been rigged up on the rooftop of the office building directly across the street. Two powerful beams of light cut through the night, one trained on the door to room 103; the other, on the demolished room 102 and Jack’s car. Malloy said, “That your vehicle?”
