“We’re kind of in a hurry,” he said.
The Bahamian cop glanced in his rearview mirror. He had a round, pudgy face and the eyes of a hound dog, at once dull and expressive, if that was possible. “’Course you is, mon.”
Traffic was light at this hour, and until they reached the outskirts of Nassau, Jack counted more stray goats and chickens than oncoming automobiles. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company. Jack climbed out of the car, and the others followed him up the concrete stairway. The front doors were solid glass, and the inside of the bank was dark, save for the typical security lights that burned after hours. A security guard emerged from the shadows and came to the door. He spoke through an intercom that crackled like a grease fire. “We’re closed.”
Jack held his tongue, but Zack blurted out exactly what he was thinking. “Don’t you think we know that, Einstein?”
Jack hoped it had gone unheard. He leaned closer to the speaker box and said, “The manager was supposed to meet us here and let us in.”
The guard shrugged and said, “Mr. Riley’s not here.”
Jack gave up on the guard and turned to the local cop. “Where is Riley?”
The Bahamian flashed those hound-dog eyes again. “He be late.”
“He can’t be late. When’s he getting here?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Soon as I call him.”
“Well then, would you call him, please,” said Jack, his tone more impatient than polite. “Like I told you before, we’re really in a hurry.”
The Bahamian started slowly back to his car, presumably toward his radio. “’Course you in a hurry, mon. The whole world be hurryin’.”
Jack felt a throbbing headache coming on. Theo would have known exactly how to deal with these chumps. For a split second, Jack found himself wishing his friend were there, until he quickly realized that if Theo were there, that would have eliminated any need to come in the first place. Jack massaged away the pain between his eyes.
I’m losing my mind.
SERGEANT PAULO WAS reacquainting himself with the inside of the police communications vehicle. It was familiar territory to him. He had everything he needed: his favorite chair, his old coffee mug, a bone mike to communicate with his team leaders in the field, and a telephone within easy reach, to speak with Falcon.
The coordination of efforts between city and county law enforcement was a work in progress, but the key roles had been defined. Like most crisis units, this one included several teams: negotiations, tactical, traffic control, and communications. The lead negotiator was Paulo, whose primary responsibility was to speak directly to the subject. Sergeant Malloy of MDPD was the secondary negotiator. His job was to assist Paulo and take notes. Intelligence officers from both MDPD and the city would conduct interviews and gather information for the negotiators. A staff psychologist was on hand to evaluate the subject’s responses and recommend negotiating strategies.
The two departments would share responsibility for traffic control, and the tactical teams also overlapped. Snipers from each department assumed strategic positions on rooftops across the street from the motel. The assault teams stood ready to go. It was agreed, however, that if they were forced to use breachers-specially trained tactical-team members who could blow open doors or windows-MDPD would go in first.
It was also agreed that Alicia would be Paulo’s eyes.
“You nervous?” she asked as she poured fresh coffee from a Styrofoam go-cup into his mug. It was just the two of them in the communications van, as Paulo had requested some time alone to organize his thoughts for the initial contact.
“I have a sinking suspicion that I’m in this for the long haul.”
“Would you rather it was in the hands of someone like Chavez or Malloy?”
“Part of me would, yeah.”
“How can you even think that way?”
He drank from his cup. “If this goes badly, you know how the headlines will read, don’t you?”
“‘Blind Guy Blows It’?”
It was kind of funny, the way his literal mind immediately conjured up the image of “BLIND GUY BLOWS IT” beneath the Miami Tribune masthead. “You always did beat around the bush, didn’t you?”
“Sorry. But I wouldn’t be so direct if I actually thought you were going to blow it.”
The side door opened. “Who’s there?” said Paulo.
She introduced herself as Lovejoy, one of the intelligence officers. “I found the property manager,” she said. “The good news is that there was no one in room one-oh-two when Swyteck’s car crashed into it. But he has some info on the occupants of one-oh-three. I thought you might want to talk to him.”
“Definitely,” said Paulo. “Is he with you?”
“Yeah, he’s right here. His name’s Simon Eastwick.”
“Mr. Eastwick, how are you?”
The man paused, and Paulo presumed that it was because he had misjudged where he was standing. It sometimes disoriented people when he wasn’t looking straight at them. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said finally.
“Can you tell me who was in that room before the crash?”
“Uh, it’s two Latina girls,” said Eastwick.
“By ‘girls,’ do you mean young women, or, literally, ‘girls’?”
“I mean they were teenagers. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.”
“Do they speak English?” said Paulo.
“One of them speaks very well. The other is so-so.”
“Do you have their names?”
“No. They paid day-by-day, cash.”
“Do you know if they were both inside the room at the time of the crash?”
“Sorry. Couldn’t tell you that.”
Paulo said, “How long have they been staying at the motel?”
“One of them just got here yesterday. The other one, I don’t know. A few days, maybe longer.”
“Did they have many visitors?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Alicia said, “How about customers?”
Eastwick was suddenly indignant. “Like I said: I wouldn’t know.”
“Ah,” said Alicia, “the don’t-ask-don’t-tell motel. Is that it?”
Eastwick said, “What people do in their private time is their business.”
“Not if they’re underage,” said Alicia.
“Like I told you, they looked to be eighteen or nineteen to me. I was just giving them a place to stay.”
In exchange for a cut of their business? That was what Paulo wanted to say, but it wouldn’t do any good to get the property manager’s back against the wall and shut down his cooperation. “Is there anything else you can tell us about these girls, Mr. Eastwick?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“I’d like you to sit down with the tactical team, explain every conceivable point of access to that room. Could you do that?”
“Sure.”
Eastwick started toward the door, but Paulo stopped him. “One other thing. These girls, as you call them. Is there any possibility that they would keep a gun in their room?”
The man considered it for a moment. “I’d say that’s a very definite possibility.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eastwick. That’s some very helpful information.”
EVERYTHING LOOKS DIFFERENT at three a.m., and the inside of the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company was no exception. The lobby was completely still, and the palpable silence made Jack aware of the sound
