one with the Cindy Crawford type of beauty mark near her lip, swiped a shaky hand over her wet and bloodshot eyes and then reached over her father's big shoulder.
This one, Abigail said, picking up a photo of a gap-toothed kid with dark black hair and olive skin, his rolls noticeable under the white Star Wars T-shirt with Darth Vader. This one's the most recent picture of Charlie.
Trent shouted, 'When was the last time you spoke to the parents?'
'Back when they were living in Massachusetts — in Brookline. Must've been… maybe two years or so after Charlie vanished. They came to ask me about some private investigator who offered to help them. The father was thinking of cashing in some of his retirement account to pay for it and wanted to know if I knew this guy, what I thought. I told them to save their money.'
'They hire him?'
Darby nodded. 'Nothing came of it. No new leads. I think they hired another guy who specialized in missing kids, but I don't know for sure. When did they move to New Hampshire?'
'When their girls got accepted to UNH. They're finishing up their final year. They're living at home, not at the college. After what happened to the boy, I guess the parents wanted the girls to stick close so they could keep an eye on 'em.'
'You need a hostage negotiator.'
'Already got one. Guy named Billy Lee. He's already made contact.'
'So why am I here?'
'Person holding the family hostage, he's demanding to speak to you — won't speak to anyone but you.'
'What's his name, do we know?'
Trent nodded. 'Guy's saying he's their kid — their son, Charlie Rizzo.'
3
Darby stared at Trent. Stared at him for what seemed like a long time.
'You heard me right,' Trent shouted. 'Guy said he can prove it too.'
'How?'
'He won't say. This guy — let's just call him Charlie, keep it simple — Charlie says he won't speak to anyone but you. Said that if we can get you to come up here and talk to him, alone, face to face, he'll release the hostages. I'm not buying it. He's already shot someone.'
'Who?'
'Don't know the vic's name; he didn't have any ID on him. He's a white male, bald, somewhere in his fifties. Charlie shot this guy in the back. Twice. Ambulance arrived at the house before we did and found the vic lying in shrubs. Last report is this guy's still alive but unconscious. He lost a lot of blood.'
'How do you know Charlie shot him?'
'He called 911 and told the operator.'
'Charlie made the call?'
Trent nodded. 'He identified himself by name to the dispatcher, then told the woman about the shooting and dumping the body out the window — told her exactly where it was lying. Then he said he's holding the Rizzo family hostage and — get this — the son of a bitch requested a SWAT team. Said he wouldn't release a single hostage unless a SWAT team was brought to the house along with some sort of bulletproof vehicle. Oh, and the body dumped in the shrubs? He told the dispatcher it was a gift. For you.'
Darby shifted in her seat. 'Those were his exact words?'
Trent nodded, checking his watch.
'He say why he asked for me?'
'No. You have any ideas?'
She shook her head. 'Has he asked for any other demands besides wanting to talk to me?'
'No, just you.'
Darby took a moment to digest this. Not for one second did she believe Charlie Rizzo was alive and waiting for her at this house; but someone had summoned her, and this person's actions and choice of words were unsettling, to say the least.
Trent shouted, 'I talked with your former SWAT instructor.'
'Haug.'
Trent nodded. 'He gave you nothing but high praise. Said you're one of the best shooters he's ever seen, that you know how to handle yourself in close-quarter combat. He called you Rambo with tits.'
That sounds like something Haug would say, Darby thought, grinning. The man was without a filter. Haug called it like he saw it and didn't give two shits about political correctness. He had no shades of grey in him. You always knew where you stood with him. She wished there were more people like him in her professional life.
Trent said, 'He also told me you've had some experience in hostage situations.'
She had, but her first one hadn't ended well. She had tried negotiating with a frightened thirteen-year-old named Sean Sheppard. The boy had somehow managed to smuggle a revolver into his hospital room. Instead of surrendering the firearm, he shot himself in the head.
Darby didn't see any need to inform Trent about this. The news about Sean Sheppard, along with her paid suspension following the murder of the Boston police commissioner, had been plastered all over the New England papers and TV for several weeks. Even if Trent hadn't read about it, Haug would have told him.
The sirens stopped wailing. A voice crackled over the wall-mounted speakers: 'ETA, three minutes.'
Trent said, 'I'm going to have you go in alone, but we'll mike you so we can hear, and you'll be able to hear either me or the hostage negotiator with this.'
He handed her a small wireless earpiece. She doubted Charlie would notice it. If he did, he wouldn't care, as he had been the one who had requested a SWAT team. Odd.
No, not odd, an inner voice cautioned. It's bizarre, like he's already got some endgame in place.
'As for gear,' Trent said, 'I've got you a full assault suit. What size are you?'
She told him. She didn't need boots; she was already wearing the extra pair she kept at home.
Trent stood up in order to grab her gear. Darby fitted the earpiece into her right ear — it went in smooth and easy — then reached into her duffel bag and removed a pair of Hatch protective arm sleeves. The thin layer of Kevlar would protect her arms, wrists and hands (but not her fingers) from biting and sharp object like knives and razors.
Trent came back holding a tactical vest. 'I already installed a mike on it,' he said, taking the seat opposite her. 'In case you're asked to take off the vest — and it has happened, believe me — I want to place a second mike on you, someplace where he's not likely to look. Or touch.'
'You got the mike on you?'
Trent opened his hand. Resting in the centre of his rough, callused palm was a tiny wireless mike around the size of a pencil eraser. She knew the perfect place for it.
Darby pulled off her long-sleeve T-shirt, catching Trent's look of surprise. She didn't feel embarrassed. She had been the only female cadet during her SWAT training and hadn't asked Haug for any special treatment, sleeping and eating with the boys, even sharing the single locker room — albeit on a separate row to allow her some semblance of privacy.
Trent's gaze lingered on her bra for a moment. Then he realized what he was doing, forced his attention to the ceiling and pretended to be studying the turret. Some of the other men examined their weapons or checked their tactical equipment while she went to work clipping the mike to the centre of her black lacy but padded bra.
The Manny Ramirez-looking officer to her right had no problem staring down her cleavage.
'They're a 34C,' Darby said. 'Satisfied?'
'Very,' he replied. 'Nice abs too.'
'Thank you.' She looked at Trent and pointed to the mike hidden in the centre of her bra. 'How much juice
