chapter 18

A t twelve-forty a.m. Alicia dug her ringing cell phone out of her purse and checked the display. It was Renfro, the chief of police. She and Vince were still seated at their outdoor table, talking and listening to music. Alicia plugged one ear with her finger to silence the sounds of the nightclub and took the call. The chief gave her a quick update on Falcon and the possible hostage crisis.

“Where are they?” asked Alicia.

“Biscayne Motor Lodge. You know it?”

“Of course.” Any cop who knew anything about twenty-dollar prostitutes and petty drug deals knew the Biscayne Motor Lodge. “Anyone hurt?”

“Two officers down. Juan Lopez and Brad McKenzie.”

“How bad?”

“McKenzie called for backup. Lopez-It was a headshot.”

“Is he…”

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“God, no. His wife just had a baby.”

Vince said, “What’s wrong?”

The emotion in Alicia’s voice was more than enough to signal that it was something serious. She reached across the table and touched his hand, as if to say “Just a sec.”

“You’re shaking,” he said.

She wasn’t sure that she was, but Vince had definitely picked up some sign of her distress. Nothing cut through cops like the loss of their own.

The chief continued, “I know that Paulo has pretty much settled on the idea that teaching at the academy is the right place for him, long-term. But he and this Falcon have a history. He at least has that much going for him to start up a dialogue. Do you think-”

“I’d bet my badge on it,” said Alicia.

“Talk to him first. You’ll know what to say to him. Then have him call me.”

“Will do.” After a quick good-bye, Alicia hung up and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table to cover the last round of drinks. “We have to go, Vince.”

Vince handed the money back to her and opened his own wallet. The bills were folded differently, according to denomination-singles lengthwise, fives widthwise, and so on. He unfolded two tens and laid them on the table. “You bought the first round,” he said.

“Thanks, but we really have to go.”

“What is it?”

“Not good,” she said. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

Ten minutes later, they were speeding across the Julia Tuttle Causeway on their way to the mainland and the Biscayne Motor Lodge. Cruise ships in the Port of Miami lit up the bay like floating hotels. To the west was the Miami skyline, a jagged assortment of modern skyscrapers bathed in a rainbow of colored spotlights. Alicia gave Vince all the details, and the chief’s proposition was hanging in the silence between them.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Vince.

Alicia changed lanes to get around a truck. “All you have to do is talk to the guy. He knows you.”

“Talking a homeless guy down from a bridge is one thing. But we’re dealing with a clinically paranoid gunman holed up in a hotel room with at least one hostage, possibly more. That leaves zero margin for error.”

“It’s a phone call, Vince.”

“No, it’s a hostage negotiation. Slight difference.”

“Do you really think that’s beyond your capabilities?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think someone else can do it better?”

“How can I know, damn it?”

“Don’t get testy about it. Just take this for what it is-a vote of confidence from the chief of police.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You just don’t understand.”

“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.