Jessica patted her little boy’s back, furrows between her eyebrows. “Always?”
“Almost always. Especially when there’s a change in tense for only part of a story. The part that stands out is most likely untrue.”
“Wow.”
“It’s called forensic linguistics, analyzing the probable truth of people’s statements from the words they use.”
“But if you think he’s lying, does that mean someone else killed her?”
“No one else could have. I think he’s lying about why.”
They broke off as Lucas returned. Bobby stayed in the back, as usual.
“This is how it’s going to work, people. Listen up.” With his brisk manner, he could have been one of the SRT commanders. “Theresa’s going to wait at the door. The Fed cops will form a line outside to pass you the money, which you’re going to hand off to Brad and him to Missy and my roomy duffel bag. I will have Jessie and Ethan between me and them. If they try to come in, Bobby and I can shoot a bunch of you first. If they throw in tear gas, knockout gas, a smoke bomb, or put same in the bundles of cash, Bobby and I can shoot all of you before we’re incapacitated. If they try to pull one or two out, Bobby and I can shoot the rest of you. Do you understand that?”
No one nodded or spoke, but he did not press them.
“And though I know you all deserve a tip for your hard work today, no skimming. Don’t let a few bundles get pocketed before they make it to the end of the line. And you, Theresa.”
She felt as if a spotlight had picked her out in a dark room, blinding her with a sudden glare.
“You’re going to be my front man. My sights will be on you the whole time. If you go through that door and keep going, I’ll kill half the people in this room, starting with the security guards. I figure I can count on you, since you stood up for little Ethan there. Am I right?”
She nodded her head to confirm it. He had spared Paul, so perhaps he did not prefer to kill, but she had no doubt that Lucas would do so whenever he thought it prudent. The sight of Cherise’s body had taught her that.
The phone rang, piercing the stillness of the warm air. “That must be your buddy Chris.”
24
1:35 P.M.
Across the street Patrick told Chris Cavanaugh everything he’d learned from Jack Cornell. The hostage negotiator listened. He did not mention Patrick’s earlier agitation or express any relief at Patrick’s current calm. He did ask about Paul.
“The doctor seems to think he’s going to die.”
Cavanaugh said, “You don’t have to stay here, you know. You can leave someone here in your place if you’d rather be at the hospital.”
Diplomatic as hell, Patrick thought. Cavanaugh knew he didn’t have to be there at all-Patrick was a flippin’ Homicide detective, not an SRT member, and surely the negotiator could work better without his emotions taking up space in the room. Yet he didn’t say that, nor even imply it.
Still, Patrick felt grateful. “No. Selfish, maybe, but I couldn’t stand sitting there next to a guy who’s out cold, without any idea what’s going on here. You talked to Parrish’s sister?”
“Yeah. She’s not in North Carolina anymore. She went army, too, and is stationed out in New Mexico. She hasn’t seen her brother in five years; they write each other at Christmas, that’s about it. No surprises in the family history. Mom was a schoolteacher, Dad knocked her and the kids around regularly and then took off on Lucas’s fourteenth birthday.”
“Great guy. And this was in Atlanta?”
“Outside Columbia, South Carolina.” Cavanaugh’s pager made a buzzing sound.
Patrick waited while Cavanaugh took his phone call. After Cavanaugh’s quick discussion of foreign rights and hardback editions, Patrick asked him, “What’s his plan for getting away? He must have a plan.”
“Oh, yeah. Every vibe from this guy says he has a plan. Unfortunately, he’s really good at keeping it to himself. I need another phone conversation before this shipment exchange happens. If he’ll talk about his ideas for a getaway, I can make him see how unrealistic they are.”
“Look, something else keeps sticking out. Bobby seems to believe that his brother is dead.”
“He could mean dead to him. Didn’t the brother turn him in?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if Bobby knows that.” Patrick patted his shirt pocket but didn’t bother to remove the pack of cigarettes from it. “I can ask the brother.”
“It’s interesting. It could be the only psychological advantage we can get. Neither of them has anyone else we could use for leverage, no close family, no job, no political agenda. And it might be a way to drive a wedge between Bobby and Lucas if we need to.”
“Bobby will put family over friends.”
“Exactly. If they’re going to take the money and run, fine. But if they’re going to take some hostages with them-and they’d be insane not to-then we have to stop them before they reach the curb.” He watched the monitor, where Lucas slowly herded his captives toward the front of the lobby. “They’re getting ready to receive the money shipment. Maybe now I can get Bobby on the phone.”
“He’s never let us talk to Bobby before,” Patrick observed.
“We’ve never asked to, and Bobby has expressed his opinion throughout. He’s no flunky.”
“In that case there’s something else you should know.” Patrick scanned the area for Jason and didn’t see him. “I know we’re not supposed to tell you everything, but if you do happen to get Bobby on the phone and he really does believe that his brother is dead…”
“What is it, Detective?”
“His brother-Eric-is here. He was getting off work at the airport, and I thought he might come in handy.”
Cavanaugh absorbed this. “We usually try not to do that. I know in old movies they always bring the beloved mother or long-suffering wife in to talk the guy down, but in real life that backfires more often than not. Hostage takers tend to blame everyone else for their troubles, and the people closest to them most of all.”
“I know that.”
“However, when Lucas hit Theresa, he said that Bobby wants to use the RDX on the building because he blames the government for losing his family. If you’re right and he really does believe that his brother is dead, discovering that he’s not could change everything.”
“We’ve got nothing else,” Patrick reminded him. “Lucas doesn’t seem to have an Achilles’ heel. At least Bobby has this family hang-up. We could use it to distract him at an opportune moment, if nothing else.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Otherwise we’ll have to continue doing what we always do.” Cavanaugh picked up the receiver and punched a few buttons. “We pick our way through the minefield wearing a blindfold, using nothing but a toothpick and some chewing gum.”
They watched the TV screen. Lucas apparently did not want to give up his surveillance of the street and called to Bobby, who approached the phone. The stocky blond adjusted the position of the M4 carbine, finally tucking the butt onto his hip so that he could keep his finger on the trigger while leaving his left hand free.
They waited, letting the phone ring. Patrick felt as if they were trying to tempt a smallmouth bass by jiggling the hook.
“Hello?” Bobby said at last.
Cavanaugh introduced himself again, then asked, “This is Bobby Moyers, right?” as if he didn’t know.
Bobby ignored the question. “Is the money here?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, where is-”
“The truck is tied up in the traffic around the convention center. You know, that luncheon for the secretary of state. It will just be a few more minutes. If you stay on the line, I can keep you up to date.”
“Uh-huh.”