Free Takeover by Lisa Black

is a larger tragedy than mine.
    None had a criminal history or so much as a reprimand in their personnel files. None of them worked in high-security areas.
    Frank said, “No one stands out as an obvious inside man. But Ludlow’s murdered, and Mrs. Ludlow happens to be in thelobby when it’s taken over. I have a hard time believing that’s coincidence.”
    The hum of voices from the staff offices next door continued to disperse. A young woman approached the group, carrying a notepad and a chair, which she placed slightly behind Cavanaugh, on his right. Without turning, he said, “This is Irene, our scribe. It’s time to start.”
    Before, Theresa assumed, the FBI had told him to wait for the unwanted Laura. Cavanaugh needed to be the first to the hill, or telephone, in this case, possession being nine-tenths of the law. Now he dialed in a phone number from Jason’s notebook, using their impressive array of telephone equipment. Three phones, as well as a digital recorder and a speaker, flowed from a central hub.
    It’s all about words, Theresa thought. No microscopes, no chemicals, no databases. Just words.
    A woman’s voice answered with a quavering “Hello.”
    “This is the police department calling. Can I speak to one of the men with the guns, please?”
    Without discussion a man’s voice took over. Theresa figured out that his side of the conversation came over the speakerphone, so that everyone in the room could hear it. But on their side, Cavanaugh spoke into his receiver so that the hostage takers couldn’t pick up other conversations going on around the room.
    “This is Sergeant Chris Cavanaugh of the Cleveland Police Department.”
    “I don’t much care who you are,” the guy said, with what sounded like utter repose. “I need to know if you’re in charge.”
    “I’m the negotiator. I’m here because we have a situation going on, and I want to help you find a way through it so that no onegets hurt. That’s our most important goal, that no one gets hurt. Not you, not the bank employees, not the cops. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
    “‘A situation.’ That’s an interesting way to put it.”
    “As I said, my name is Chris. What can I call you?”
    “It’s so nice to be talking with you today, Chris. My name is Lucas. I’m going to want some things, and I’ll need a yes or no from you. Can you do that, or should I be talking to someone else? I don’t intend to repeat myself.”
    “I’m not trying to argue with you here, but all the conversation is going to go through me. That’s the way we do it. How’s everybody doing in there? Anyone hurt?”
    “Let me tell you how I do it, Chris.” The man’s derision came over the speaker loud and clear, but with a slight wobble. He probably wasn’t as tough as he liked to sound, but Theresa knew enough about the psychology of criminals to know that that would not be a help. Any insecurities would only make him more desperate. “I talk to the guy in charge.”
    “How are the people in there? Is anyone hurt?”
    “They’re going to be if I don’t talk to the guy in charge.”
    Theresa let her breath release from aching lungs. Sixty seconds in, and already they could not meet a demand, couldn’t produce the person in charge, and all because Chris Cavanaugh had acted prematurely in order to keep the limelight directly on himself.
    And he could, because those from the corridors of power were not here but at a fancy luncheon. Theresa turned to Frank and whispered, “Is the secretary of state’s motorcade coming through this area? Could this be some sort of ploy—”
    He shook his head, which needed a haircut. “Their route fromthe airport to the convention center goes down Ontario. They won’t come within two blocks of this place.”
    Cavanaugh let out a theatrical sigh. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Lucas, and I want you to consider that statement carefully—all day long here, whatever else happens, I’m going to tell