Takeover - Lisa Black [11]
And he could certainly kiss the Homicide chief’s slot good-bye.
The incident commanders had set themselves up on the History and Geography floor of the relatively new Louis Stokes Wing, directly across the street from the Federal Reserve, taking over the staff offices down to replacing the phone and moving the plants off the windowsills, which hadn’t pleased the librarians any. The snipers had already dispersed throughout the building, and Patrick hoped their services would not be needed.
He sought out a quiet corner for himself; as a mere detective, he would not be welcome in SRT’s insular bosom. At the south end of the floor, he found a cozy nook with painted ceilings and rows of books, though someone had beaten him to it.
Patrick didn’t know him. A skinny guy young enough to be his son, he seemed to be the calmest guy in the building. He wore a polo shirt and jeans, but with a vest that read POLICE on the back, and he’d set a telescope next to the floor-to-ceiling window in the east wall, aimed at the entrance to the Federal Reserve. “Who’re you?” Patrick asked.
“My name’s Jason. I’m Chris Cavanaugh’s researcher.”
“A what?” Some kind of egghead? That’s all we need.
“Researcher. Hostage rescue works as a team. Chris is the negotiator—”
“I know that,” Patrick snapped. “I mean, I know how SRT works. You have a negotiator to talk, a guy to keep track of the details, and a commander to make the decisions.”
“And me. I run back and forth looking stuff up and finding out what I can about these guys or what they want. The scribe writes down all the details—that would be Irene Hardstead over there, guiding all the bigwigs into the staff offices so they can figure out who’s going to be the commander. It’s usually the chief,” he added, meaning the chief of police, “though this is not a usual situation.”
“Why aren’t you in there with them?”
Jason unpacked a plastic crate onto one of the cleanly designed reading tables. The nook had been claimed. “We need a quiet area, and a large group of cops are never quiet.”
Patrick noted that the walls of the staff office area were silver metal topped with patterned glass, with a two-foot gap above that. “It might not be quiet anyway. What do you mean, usually the chief?”
“The police chief isn’t here. He’s at that luncheon address by the secretary of state. Going to sit right next to the lady. I think those guys across the street could have taken the entire Indians lineup hostage and the chief still ain’t going to give that up. We have the assistant chief, Viancourt.”
In his heart of hearts, Patrick let out a quiet moan. Through luck, amiability, and a complete lack of any law-enforcement skills whatsoever, Viancourt had been kicked upstairs over and over until he landed on the chief’s doorstep, friendly as a puppy and about as effective. But even a puppy can outstay its welcome, and rumor had it that Viancourt would be replaced in the next year if he couldn’t learn to do more than interview well. “Crap.”
At his side, Jason consoled, “It’s an empty point anyway. The FBI has priority.”
Great, the Feebs. He’d prefer Viancourt, but no one would be asking his opinion on the chain of command. All hell had broken loose at Superior and East Sixth, and the top brass of three police agencies had closeted themselves in a conference room to hold a pissing contest over jurisdiction. Patrick turned to more proactive matters. “Why haven’t we sent a phone in there?”
“We don’t need to—there’s phones in that lobby. Half the time they call us before we call them, believe it or not. But it’s usually best if Chris talks to them first.”
“And just where is Chris? At a book signing? Or maybe filming another segment on Channel Fifteen?”
“He’s on his way,” Jason answered smoothly, no doubt used to this kind of jealousy from cops, cops who didn’t have Chris Cavanaugh’s ability to self-promote. Patrick could only wish it were jealousy. If Cavanaugh could get Paul