Okay, yeah, you better close up shop there. That's about all I can handle."
"You're a strange man, Duncan."
"I've heard that. I want you, and it's keeping me up at night. I don't mind that so much, even though I like to sleep. But some things rate insomnia. You're one of them."
"Thank you. I think."
"But to get back to the rest. I think the point's just been made that I don't need to use Essie to get to you. And you know what? You should think more of her than that. More of me, too, and more of yourself."
"You're right. You're absolutely right, and I'm absolutely wrong. I hate that. My excuse, since we're using them, is I love her so much."
"I get that. You're lucky to have her."
Phoebe raked a hand through her hair. He meant that, exactly that, she realized. He saw her mother, and saw the value of the woman she was. "I know it. People, a lot of people, look at the situation and think she's some sort of burden. You don't. And I'm sorry for the way I handled this."
"I would be, too, except I got my hands on your breasts." She laughed. "Want that beer now?"
"Better not, I'm driving. Duncan, please don't take this the wrong way. I see the bars-you tended bar. And I could see if you bought a cab company, or a car service or some such thing. Maybe you have, I don't know, and that's part of it. I don't know how you do this sort of thing. And I don't know what you could possibly know about running a retail craft boutique."
"We'll find out, plus I wouldn't actually be running it. I've got somebody in mind for that. And you're thinking, hell, he can afford to lose a couple hundred thousand here or there."
"No, actually, I was thinking you'll probably find a way to make it work. I'm thinking I was scared because I came home to find my mother happy, bubbling with it."
"She was happy when she started with Reuben."
Now Phoebe pressed her fingers to her eyes. "Obviously I didn't connect those dots for myself before I came haring out here and laid into you."
"Hair trigger," he said, without heat.
"About some things, obviously. Now that I've connected those dots-or you have for me-I'm thinking if you hadn't had this idea I can't understand, exactly, my mother wouldn't have a chance to try something exciting."
"I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't believe I could sell the sheer hell out of her work."
"Which, if I hadn't flown off, I'd have come around to on my own rather than driving out here to jump all over you. Which I don't regret because you got to get your hands on my breasts."
He smiled slowly. "How long before they think you'll be a hundred percent?"
She reached up with her good arm to touch his hair. She liked how it always looked as if he'd just taken a wild ride in that fancy car of his. "I'll get a note from my private duty nurse clearing me for physical activity."
"Works for me. Meanwhile, how about going out with me Sunday? Sunday-afternoon barbecue at a friend's. It'd be a chance to get to know each other, dynamics with others, before we lose ourselves in wild, sweaty sex."
"All right. Why not?"
"I'll pick you up about two."
"Two. I need to get home." She rose to her toes, kissed him, softly, slowly, on either cheek. "I hope I keep you up tonight."
He watched her walk away, flick a killer smile over her shoulder. And decided the odds were heavily in favor of insomnia.
As her car drove away, he went back to sit, to prop his feet on the padded hassock. Eating cold pizza, drinking warm beer, he thought it had been a hell of an interesting day.
Chapter 12
The call came through at seven fifty-eight. The kid was smart, very smart. He hadn't panicked, hadn't tried to play the hero. He'd used his head, and his legs, dashing away from the bungalow in Gordonston, hopping fences between the pretty backyards back to his own house, to the phone. And to nine-one-one.
He'd given names, the address, the situation. En route to Savannah's east side, Phoebe listened to the replay of the emergency call and thought the boy had the makings of a good cop.
He's got them sitting around the kitchen table. Mr. Brinker does. Mrs.
Brinker, Jessie, Aaron, even the baby. Urn, Penny, in her high chair. He's got a gun. I think he's got two guns. Jessie's crying. Jesus, you gotta do something. She had more information. It came rolling in as she and Sykes sped toward the pretty neighborhood. Stuart Brinker, age forty-three, associate professor. Father of three-Jessica, sixteen, Aaron, twelve, and Penelope, two. Recently separated from his wife of eighteen years, Katherine, thirty-nine, art teacher.
Twenty minutes after the nine-one-one, Phoebe walked through the barricade forming the outer perimeter. The media was already doing stand-ups outside the barricades. There were some shouts in her direction from reporters. Phoebe ignored them, signaled to one of the uniforms. "Lieutenant MacNamara and Detective Sykes, negotiators. What's the situation?"
"Four hostages, three minor children. HT's got them in the living room now." He gestured toward the tidy white bungalow with azaleas blooming pink and white in the front yard. "Curtains closed on all the windows there. We can't get a visual. HT's got a couple of handguns.
No shots fired. First responder's been talking to him off and on. The word I get is the guy's really polite, but isn't doing a lot of communicating at this point. Kid who called it in's over there with his mother."
Phoebe glanced over, saw the gangly teenage boy sitting on the ground, head in his hands. A woman sat beside him, her arm hooked firmly over his shoulder, her face pale as wax.
"Sykes?"
"Yeah, I've got him."
Phoebe moved on toward communications, and the edge of the inner perimeter, as Sykes walked to the boy. "Lieutenant MacNamara, negotiator."
Information came fast now. Tactical had the house surrounded, the near neighbors evacuated. Sharpshooters were moving into positions. "He won't talk much," the first responder told her. "I've been trying to keep the line open with him. He sounds tired. Sad, not angry. He and the wife are separated-her idea, he says. Last time I got him to talk, he thanked me for calling before hanging up."
"Okay, stand by." She studied the log, the situation board, then pulled out her notebook as she picked up the phone. "Let's get him back on."
He answered on the third ring, and his voice was brutally weary. "Please, is this necessary? I want some time with my family. Some quiet, uninterrupted time."
"Mr. Brinker? This is Phoebe MacNamara. I'm a negotiator with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department. I'd like to help. How is everyone in there? Everybody okay?"
"We're fine, thank you. Now please, leave us alone."
"Mr. Brinker, I understand you want to be with your family. You sound as if you love them very much."
"Of course I do. I love my family. Families need to be together."
"You want your family to be together, I understand. Why don't you bring them out now? All of you together. I'd like you to put your weapons down now, Mr. Brinker, and come out with your family."
"I can't do that. I'm very sorry."
"Can you tell me why not?"
"This is my house. This is the only way we can be together. I thought about this carefully."
Planned out, not impulse, she thought as she made notes. Not anger but sorrow. "You sound tired."
"I am. I'm very tired. I've done my best, but it's never quite good enough. It's exhausting to never be quite good enough."
"I'm sure you've done your best. It's hard, don't you think, to make important decisions when you're tired and upset? You sound tired and upset. I'd like to help you, Mr. Brinker. I'd like to help you work this all out so you can make the right decision for your family."