"In the flesh."

"Well. God. I think I'm going to sit down." Essie did so, right on the floor. "That's not just rich, not even just wealthy. I don't know what it is."

"Lucky?" Phoebe suggested.

"And then some." Ava joined Essie on the floor. "He bought you a beer."

Amused, Phoebe kicked her warm-up to the next level. "Yeah. And pretzels. Then he drove me home in his Porsche."

"Is he slick?" Essie's brows drew together, and the frown line Phoebe had inherited instead of dimples creased between them. "That much money, he's likely slick."

"He's not. Smooth," Phoebe decided after a moment. "He's pretty damn smooth, but I have a feeling that's innate. He talked me into having dinner with him Saturday night."

"You're dating a millionaire." Ava nudged Essie with her elbow. "Our little girl's dating a millionaire."

Because the idea made her nervous, Phoebe bumped the resistance up another notch-on the machine, and in her. "I don't know about dating. I'm not interested in dating anybody. It's too damn much trouble. What are you going to wear, what are you going to talk about? Is he going to want to have sex-and there I say: Duh. Are you going to want to have sex, which actually does require some thought and consideration." "Dinner," Ava reminded her. "Saturday night."

"Yeah, well, he's smooth," Phoebe muttered. "He's pretty damn smooth."

The scene was a little storefront operation. Jasper C. Hughes, Attorney at Law. The intelligence Phoebe had indicated that Hughes, one Tracey Percell and an armed individual named William Gradey were barricaded inside.

The tactical team continued setting up outer and inner perimeters. Phoebe grabbed her ready box and headed for the first on scene. She was already unhappy knowing it was Arnie Meeks.

"Situation."

Arnie wore dark glasses, but she could feel the derision in his eyes as he stared down at her. "Guy's got two hostages. Witnesses heard gunfire. When I arrived, the subject yelled out that if anybody tried to come in, he'd kill them both." Phoebe waited a beat. "That's it?"

Arnie shrugged. "Subject claims the lawyer cheated him out of six thousand dollars and he wants it back."

"Where's the log, Officer?"

The way his lips curled, Phoebe wondered if he practiced the sarcastic look in the mirror.

"I've been trying to keep this asshole from killing two people. I haven't had time for a log."

"At what time was gunfire heard?"

"Approximately nine A.M."

"Nine?" She could feel both temper and fear knot up inside her.

"Nearly two hours ago, and you've just decided to send for a negotiator?"

"I have the situation under control."

"You're relieved. You-" She pointed to another uniformed cop as she pulled a log sheet out of her ready kit. "Everything gets written down. Time, activity, who says what and when." She took out a notebook.

Arnie grabbed her arm. "You can't just walk in here and take over."

"Yes, I can." She wrenched free. "The captain's on his way, and Commander Harrison is in charge of Tactical. Meanwhile, I'm in charge here, as negotiator. Get the hostage-taker on the phone," she ordered the cop she'd drafted as second negotiator.

"I'm the one keeping this from blowing up."

"Is that so?" She whipped around to Arnie. "Have you spoken to either hostage? Have you ascertained that they're still alive? If they've been harmed? If anyone requires medical attention? Where is your situation board? Your log? What progress have you made toward ending this situation without loss of life in the damn near two hours before you deigned to call this in?"

She grabbed the phone, checked her notebook where she'd already written down names.

"I don't want to talk to you!" The voice that answered screamed with emotion and fury. "I said I'm through talking to you."

"Mr. Gradey? This is Phoebe MacNamara. I'm a negotiator with the police department. You'll be talking to me now. You sound upset. Is everyone all right in there, Mr. Gradey? Does anyone have medical problems I should know about?"

"Everything's gone to hell. It's all gone to hell."

"Let's try to work all this out. Is it all right if I call you William? Is that what people call you?"

"I'm through talking!"

"I'm here to help." She heard it in his voice, he was through talking and poised to act. "Does anyone need anything in there? Medical attention? Water? Maybe something to eat."

"I needed my money."

"You need your money. Why don't you tell me about that, Mr. Gradey? Let me see if I can help you with that." She wrote down used past.tense.

"I said it all already. Nobody listened."

"Nobody listened to you. You sound angry about that. I understand, and I apologize if you feel your problem wasn't given attention. But I'm listening, Mr. Gradey, I'm listening to you now. I want to help you resolve all this."

"It's too late. It's over."

She heard the gunshot in her head a second before it blasted the air. She'd heard it in his voice.

The lawyer had a mild concussion, some bumps and bruises. The secretary was hysterical but unharmed. William Gradey was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

"Nice negotiating," Arnie said from behind her.

She turned, very slowly, until her eyes burned into his. "You arrogant son of a bitch."

"He took himself out while you were on the line. Not me." With his trademark smirk in place, Arnie swaggered off.

She forced herself not to go after him, not now, not now when her rage was so full and sharp and deep she could-would-do something she'd regret later.

It would wait for later. She promised herself that later she would deal with Officer Arnold Meeks. For now, Phoebe stood and watched Crime Scene walk in and out of the building. A hand dropped on her shoulder.

"Nothing more for you to do here," Dave said to her.

"I never had a chance with him. A minute, maybe two. It was over before I got here. I couldn't bring it back."

"Phoebe."

She shook her head. "Not now, please. I want to debrief the hostages, and take statements from any witnesses." She turned around. "I want all debriefing and statements recorded, and I want you to witness them."

"You and I both know sometimes things go south."

"What I don't know is if this one had to." The rage wanted to make her tremble. She refused. "I'm going to find out. The hostages are en route to the hospital, but the woman didn't seem to be hurt. She can talk. I'd like you to go with me, now, talk to her."

"All right. You may want to talk to the counselor. When you lose one-"

"I didn't lose him, and that I know." She bit off the words, so they both knew how close she was to snapping. "I never had him."

She didn't speak on the way to the hospital, and Dave didn't push. In the silence, she stared out the window and outlined the questions she'd ask, the tone she would take, to build the foundation for what she needed to prove.

Tracey Percell rested on a gurney in the ER's exam room. She was young, Phoebe noted, barely old enough to drink. A well-endowed young blonde who needed her roots done.

Red-rimmed, swollen eyes were weepy yet as she gnawed on her thumbnail.

"He shot himself. He shot himself right in front of us."

"You had a horrible experience. It may help you to talk about it, and it would certainly help us. Do you think you could do that, Tracey?"

"Okay. I hyperventilated, they said. Passed out. They said I should lie down awhile, but he didn't hurt me. I'm really lucky he didn't hurt me. He punched Jasper, and he stuck the gun right in his face. And-"

"You must've been scared." Phoebe sat beside the bed, patted Tracey's hand before she took out her tape recorder. "Is it all right if I record what we talk about?"

"Sure. They said they were going to call my boyfriend. Brad? My boyfriend Brad's going to come."