“Jake?” she said, standing up a little. “There’s no child molester. That’s what I was trying to tell them.”
“Huh?” Jake said. He and D exchanged looks.
“What’s she doing here?” DeLuca said.
“I was here to get-nothing. Nothing, never mind.” Somehow she’d hoped that whole child molester thing would go away. She should have bolted when she had the chance, although she’d told Tall and Beefy her name-several times, brilliant-so they could easily track her down if they decided to. Now, though, that was hardly the point. There was a guy with a gun somewhere. What if it was Lewis? Where was he? And where was Gracie?
“All units.” The voice came over Jake’s radio. “All units. Do you read?”
Jane had heard enough radio calls from cops trying not to sound afraid. They never succeeded. But this was good news, she predicted. If this were a continuing risk, something disastrous, someone dead, a shooter on the loose, their voices would be different. Whatever had happened, it was over.
Maybe no one was even hurt. She’d see Gracie soon. Lewis, too. All would be explained. All would be safe.
“Brogan, I copy,” Jake replied.
Jane checked her camera, still on standby, battery fine. Would it be kosher to roll on Jake? Tape him getting this radio call? It felt wrong, but… Was she a reporter, or a victim? A reporter, or the police officer’s girlfriend?
Why did all of reality have to be recorded? Life never just happened anymore. Memories had to be indelible, every event captured. And shared. And used.
“Brogan, I copy,” Jake said again. And to D, “Switch to incident channel.”
“Shooter apprehended, repeat, all clear, shooter apprehended,” the radio voice began again, calm, solemn, reporting. Unafraid. An alarm, beeps, then an unintelligible voice blared in the background of the transmission, but the sound of that “all clear” filled the lobby.
“One person in custody,” the radio voice continued. “Floor three. One victim, calling for transport. Third floor. It appears to be a-stand by, all units.”
Appears to be a what? Jane wondered. She stood, pulling herself up with one hand clamped on the huge clay pot as the transmission paused, her thighs creaking, trying to get her balance. She aimed her camera at the registration desk, where heads began to emerge, now a row of hairlines and wide eyes peering over the counter.
She watched DeLuca take one wary step closer to the center of the lobby, then another, then another, his eyes darting to every corner. Maybe not convinced the danger had passed. The sun glinted off the facets of the cut-crystal chandelier, shafts of afternoon light spackling him with patches of shadow. So unnerving, Jane thought, that the fountain still burbled. The elevator doors closed and opened and closed again.
Jane leaned against the wall, letting it support her. Waiting. Lewis. Gracie. And nothing she could do.
“Stay down until we give a final all clear, please, people,” DeLuca called out. He held up his radio like a baton, his DeLuca-esque sport coat-tweedy, sprung, and seasonless no matter how Kat McMahon tried to make him over-lifting to reveal the weapon still holstered in black leather on his belt. “We will inform you when-”
“All units, all units.” The voice came over both radios now, interrupting.
DeLuca and Jake both peered at the black plastic rectangles in their hands, as if they could see who was talking. “We have one victim, stabilizing, floor three, transport is en route. Appears to be a domestic. All units stand by, please.”
“Victim? Domestic?” Jane felt the frown returning, stepped away from the wall. Lewis. Gracie. “Jake, what do they mean by-” She stopped. There was no other meaning for victim. Or domestic.
Jake put up a hand, stopping her, shaking his head, radio static from the open channel buzzing a fuzzy undercurrent. “You know as much as I do, obviously.”
She understood the bitterness in his voice. It wasn’t only exhaustion. He still hadn’t changed clothes, or shaved, or even combed his hair, she realized, since she saw him at City Hall this morning-how long ago? Almost six hours? No, he hadn’t changed since last night at the restaurant. So he was running on empty. Still, she knew he’d want to be up on the third floor in the thick of whatever incident the officers had just conquered, rather than standing in the lobby. She was happy, though she’d never tell him so, that he was down here. Safe, and with her.
“All units? We have a BOLO for a missing girl,” the radio announced.
“Shit,” Jake hissed. Then into the radio, “This is Brogan. What girl?”
“Jake?” She felt her eyes widen, a shiver of apprehension crawling up her bare arms. She could always imagine the worst possible outcome. Ironically, a personality flaw that made her successful at her job. She knew the worst didn’t always happen. She also she knew sometimes it did.
“Jake?” The cop’s radio voice had lost its professional timbre.
“Copy,” Jake said. He rolled his eyes at her, impatient. “Be on the lookout for what girl?”
Jane leaned toward him, aching to hear the answer, wishing away the wrong one.
“Age nine, Caucasian, light hair, curly, yellow dress,” the voice said. That alarm still blared in the background. “We’re pretty sure she can’t have left the hotel. Gracie Wilhoite. That’s spelled-”
But Jane didn’t hear the rest of it. “Gracie,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
“What’s your location?” Jake spoke into the radio. He was trying to keep his eyes on Jane and DeLuca and the people behind the counter and orchestrate a search for a missing little girl all at the same time.
“Floor three,” the radio answered.
Gracie Wilhoite. Missing? Or hiding? Kidnapped? The word crossed his mind: abducted? Exactly what Jane had been afraid of.
Lewis Wilhoite’s preposterous scheme to hand Gracie to Jane. No wonder she looked upset. This is where she must have been told to pick the girl up. What the hell happened before he got to the hotel?
Jane had tried to tell him, he remembered. But there had been the more imminently critical matter of the guy with the gun. Was it Lewis? “Who says the girl is missing?” Jake continued on the radio. “You got ID on the shooter? The victim?”
“Confirming ID. Stand by, please.” The radio went silent.
“Jake.”
Jane had come closer, hovering behind him. She was out of danger, he guessed, and now he could listen to her. And get her to turn off that damn camera.
“They said domestic,” Jane said. “That means it has to be either…”
“Hang on, Jane,” he said. “I hear you.”
“Just to make sure, I’m gonna call-” she began. Then stopped.
He saw her grab her tote bag from the floor, paw through it. Looking for her phone? Nothing he could do would prevent her from calling her family. By the time Melissa and what’s her name-Robyn-arrived, he bet they’d have found Gracie. How far could a nine-year-old go? Unless someone had taken her. Lewis?
Shit. Maybe Jane was calling the TV station? Even if it was her job, he didn’t see why she always had to do it.
“D!” he called out across the lobby. Jake hated this. At least the bad guy was in custody, that was a done deal. Upstairs had indicated the person was not dead. Had the victim reported the missing girl? Was it even connected? He could already hear the wail of the ambulance, on the way to take the victim to MGH.
MGH, where maybe-tattooed guy might have awakened, where his Curley Park case might hang in the balance. Add Kiyoko Naka, still waiting for him to return her call about the ID of Bobby Land.
Gracie Wilhoite was the priority now. He gestured at D with his radio. “Get up there. Get the scoop. Get a team to fan out, look for the girl. She might be with her father, Lewis Wilhoite. He’s a white male-”