‘What’ll it be, sir?’ said the bartender as Bob approached the counter.
‘Switch to KSTP,’ he said.
The bartender laughed. ‘Fat chance. Can’t you see the Timberwolves are playing?’
‘Fat chance? Can’t you see this card? It means you do what I damn well tell you to do.’
The bartender peered at the ID. Shrugged, pressed a switch behind the counter that at once gave rise to a unison groan from the watching customers. That fell silent the next moment.
‘...Track Plaza where police are hunting the suspect who shot and killed a man at Southdale Mall earlier this afternoon. There is a heavy police presence at the scene.’ While the news anchor talked, pictures showed the police cars in Nicollet Mall and Bob caught a glimpse of Kay and himself heading for the entrance. The view went split-screen, with the studio anchor on one half and the female reporter Bob had just seen on the other.
‘What’s happening now, Shirley?’
‘Right now we’re standing on a skyway because everyone has been told to stay away from the place where the suspect may emerge. There are reports that he’s armed, but none of the police are willing to talk to us. But I’ll do my best to get an interview, Rick.’
‘Thanks, Shirley. We’ll be back with more on this story after the weather.’
For a couple of seconds a weather chart filled the screen, then the Timberwolves were back. Following a few seconds of shocked silence there were ironic cheers and a couple of customers hurried out of the bar. The bartender put his forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Bob, biceps bulging.
‘I’m guessing you ain’t about to use your authority to check the weather, Lieutenant.’
‘Detective.’
‘Whatever.’
‘OK,’ said Bob. ‘Five minutes of basketball. And a double Johnnie Walker.’
Without turning round the bartender reached up to the shelf behind him, took hold of a bottle and poured a drink.
‘Pretty smart trick,’ said Bob, tossed back the contents and put the empty glass back on the counter. ‘How about letting me see it one more time?’
Things were looking bad for the Timberwolves and got even worse when they missed two desperate efforts at three-pointers. Bob recalled what the coach of his soccer team once said, that losing affects your ability to take good, rational decisions. And Bob had been losing for some time now. At least in sport the games come to an end and you get to start the next match at 0–0. He checked the time. Three minutes had passed, but already he could feel the effects of the whisky.
‘Tell me what’s happening...’ a voice behind him said.
He turned. It was Shirley, the reporter. She was standing up close to him and smiling invitingly. She took hold of his ID card ‘...Detective Bob Oz.’
‘What’s happening,’ said Bob, and heard how he slurred a consonant slightly as he fastened his gaze on her husky-blue eyes, ‘is that I am halfway down a Johnnie Walker and then you and I are going to have another one. Alice has kicked me out, I fuck everything that moves, and I’m suspended for defending myself against Tony. How about you, Divine Blue?’
‘Sorry, Rick, strike one,’ she said laughing into the microphone which Bob now saw for the first time. ‘Back to you.’
She removed an earphone from under the long red hair, the smile was gone, and she wasn’t laughing along with the cameraman and sound technician crouched behind her.
‘What the fuck,’ said Bob. ‘Did that go out live?’
‘Just local TV,’ Shirley said sourly, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for bigger things. ‘But this’ll be out on YouTube soon enough.’
‘Funny,’ said Bob. ‘What’s happening back there?’
‘Don’t know, they’re keeping us away. A black man against MPD, no witnesses. Poor man.’
‘He isn’t...’ Bob started to say, but Shirley and her team were already on their way out.
Bob swore, paid and left.
People were crowded onto the skyway and trying to get a view into Track Plaza. Super Mario was among them, with his cleaning cart. Bob approached him.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, flashing his ID card. ‘I saw you talking to a guy who just came out of the restroom. It looked like he was explaining about something inside, what was it?’
Super Mario looked up at Bob. ‘The fan has fallen out.’
‘The fan?’
‘The fan in the ceiling. It’s hanging open. He said someone should fix it.’
‘You mean the fan in front of the ventilation shaft?’
‘Yeah.’
Kay watched as yet another man emerged from the restroom and froze at the sight of the weapons pointing his way.
‘He’s been in there nearly ten minutes now,’ she said to O’Rourke and Hanson.
‘Maybe he knows we’re here,’ said O’Rourke.
‘Sir!’ Kay stopped the man who was being ushered past them. ‘Did you see anyone else in there?’
The man shook his head and was led away.
‘Maybe Gomez has noticed that people are going out but no one’s coming in,’ said Kay.
The other two didn’t respond.
‘He’s getting away!’
The shout came from behind them and all three turned round. They saw Bob Oz trying to get past the two uniformed police officers who were holding him back.
‘Get that guy out of here!’ O’Rourke yelled.
‘Wait,’ said Kay.
‘The ventilation shaft,’ Bob shouted. ‘It’s open!’
O’Rourke looked at Bob. He looked at Kay. He adjusted his helmet. ‘We’re going in now.’
The leader signalled to one of the SWAT team, who opened the door slightly and rolled in a stun grenade. Kay could hear the sound of the grenade bouncing across the tiled floor. The door was closed. She put her hands over her ears, heard two dull thuds and then the SWAT team swarmed in. O’Rourke went in right behind them, and a few seconds later he was back in the open doorway. His face told them all they needed to know, but he said it anyway.
‘Our bird has flown.’
Bob followed Olav Hanson and Kay Myers into the restroom. He saw at once that next to where the fan was hanging down was a hinged door in the ceiling, above one of the cubicles. It looked like it was possible to squeeze in through the hole. Bob went over to O’Rourke, who was standing outside the open cubicle. The bubble wrap lay spread out on the floor in front of the closet. Already one of the SWAT people was standing on the toilet and feeding the wire with the micro camera in through the opening above.
‘No one here,’ he said to O’Rourke. ‘Just this.’
He picked something up out of the shaft and handed it down to his leader.
‘What is this?’ asked O’Rourke.
‘It’s an insulin needle,’ Bob said behind him. ‘Gomez has diabetes. He’s trying to crawl out through there. Isn’t anyone going to go in after him?’
‘How about you, Oz?’ O’Rourke handed him the needle. ‘Or would you prefer to send Myers?’
Bob locked eyes with the SWAT boss.
‘No?’ said O’Rourke. He pulled off his helmet, unfastened the bulletproof vest, handed his rifle and his pistol to one of his men. ‘Good thing Bonzo’s up for it then.’
‘Hanson,’ said Kay, ‘find out where these ventilation shafts exit and get some of your men over there.’