to work all this out. Is it all right if I call you William? Is that what people call you?”
“I’m through talking!”
“I’m here to help.” She heard it in his voice, he was through talking and poised to act. “Does anyone need anything in there? Medical attention? Water? Maybe something to eat.”
“I needed my money.”
“You need your money. Why don’t you tell me about that, Mr. Gradey? Let me see if I can help you with that.” She wrote down used past tense.
“I said it all already. Nobody listened.”
“Nobody listened to you. You sound angry about that. I understand, and I apologize if you feel your problem wasn’t given attention. But I’m listening, Mr. Gradey, I’m listening to you now. I want to help you resolve all this.”
“It’s too late. It’s over.”
She heard the gunshot in her head a second before it blasted the air. She’d heard it in his voice.
The lawyer had a mild concussion, some bumps and bruises. The secretary was hysterical but unharmed. William Gradey was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
“Nice negotiating,” Arnie said from behind her.
She turned, very slowly, until her eyes burned into his. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”
“He took himself out while you were on the line. Not me.” With his trademark smirk in place, Arnie swaggered off.
She forced herself not to go after him, not now, not now when her rage was so full and sharp and deep she could—would—do something she’d regret later.
It would wait for later. She promised herself that later she would deal with Officer Arnold Meeks. For now, Phoebe stood and watched Crime Scene walk in and out of the building. A hand dropped on her shoulder.
“Nothing more for you to do here,” Dave said to her.
“I never had a chance with him. A minute, maybe two. It was over before I got here. I couldn’t bring it back.”
“Phoebe.”
She shook her head. “Not now, please. I want to debrief the hostages, and take statements from any witnesses.” She turned around. “I want all debriefing and statements recorded, and I want you to witness them.”
“You and I both know sometimes things go south.”
“What I don’t know is if this one had to.” The rage wanted to make her tremble. She refused. “I’m going to find out. The hostages are en route to the hospital, but the woman didn’t seem to be hurt. She can talk. I’d like you to go with me, now, talk to her.”
“All right. You may want to talk to the counselor. When you lose one—”
“I didn’t lose him, and that I know.” She bit off the words, so they both knew how close she was to snapping. “I never had him.”
She didn’t speak on the way to the hospital, and Dave didn’t push. In the silence, she stared out the window and outlined the questions she’d ask, the tone she would take, to build the foundation for what she needed to prove.
Tracey Percell rested on a gurney in the ER’s exam room. She was young, Phoebe noted, barely old enough to drink. A well-endowed young blonde who needed her roots done.
Red-rimmed, swollen eyes were weepy yet as she gnawed on her thumbnail.
“He shot himself. He shot himself right in front of us.”
“You had a horrible experience. It may help you to talk about it, and it would certainly help us. Do you think you could do that, Tracey?”
“Okay. I hyperventilated, they said. Passed out. They said I should lie down awhile, but he didn’t hurt me. I’m really lucky he didn’t hurt me. He punched Jasper, and he stuck the gun right in his face. And—”
“You must’ve been scared.” Phoebe sat beside the bed, patted Tracey’s hand before she took out her tape recorder. “Is it all right if I record what we talk about?”
“Sure. They said they were going to call my boyfriend. Brad? My boyfriend Brad’s going to come.”
“That’s good. If he doesn’t come before we leave, I’ll check on Brad myself. How’s that?”
“Thanks. Thanks.”
“I’m through talking!”
“I’m here to help.” She heard it in his voice, he was through talking and poised to act. “Does anyone need anything in there? Medical attention? Water? Maybe something to eat.”
“I needed my money.”
“You need your money. Why don’t you tell me about that, Mr. Gradey? Let me see if I can help you with that.” She wrote down used past tense.
“I said it all already. Nobody listened.”
“Nobody listened to you. You sound angry about that. I understand, and I apologize if you feel your problem wasn’t given attention. But I’m listening, Mr. Gradey, I’m listening to you now. I want to help you resolve all this.”
“It’s too late. It’s over.”
She heard the gunshot in her head a second before it blasted the air. She’d heard it in his voice.
The lawyer had a mild concussion, some bumps and bruises. The secretary was hysterical but unharmed. William Gradey was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
“Nice negotiating,” Arnie said from behind her.
She turned, very slowly, until her eyes burned into his. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”
“He took himself out while you were on the line. Not me.” With his trademark smirk in place, Arnie swaggered off.
She forced herself not to go after him, not now, not now when her rage was so full and sharp and deep she could—would—do something she’d regret later.
It would wait for later. She promised herself that later she would deal with Officer Arnold Meeks. For now, Phoebe stood and watched Crime Scene walk in and out of the building. A hand dropped on her shoulder.
“Nothing more for you to do here,” Dave said to her.
“I never had a chance with him. A minute, maybe two. It was over before I got here. I couldn’t bring it back.”
“Phoebe.”
She shook her head. “Not now, please. I want to debrief the hostages, and take statements from any witnesses.” She turned around. “I want all debriefing and statements recorded, and I want you to witness them.”
“You and I both know sometimes things go south.”
“What I don’t know is if this one had to.” The rage wanted to make her tremble. She refused. “I’m going to find out. The hostages are en route to the hospital, but the woman didn’t seem to be hurt. She can talk. I’d like you to go with me, now, talk to her.”
“All right. You may want to talk to the counselor. When you lose one—”
“I didn’t lose him, and that I know.” She bit off the words, so they both knew how close she was to snapping. “I never had him.”
She didn’t speak on the way to the hospital, and Dave didn’t push. In the silence, she stared out the window and outlined the questions she’d ask, the tone she would take, to build the foundation for what she needed to prove.
Tracey Percell rested on a gurney in the ER’s exam room. She was young, Phoebe noted, barely old enough to drink. A well-endowed young blonde who needed her roots done.
Red-rimmed, swollen eyes were weepy yet as she gnawed on her thumbnail.
“He shot himself. He shot himself right in front of us.”
“You had a horrible experience. It may help you to talk about it, and it would certainly help us. Do you think you could do that, Tracey?”
“Okay. I hyperventilated, they said. Passed out. They said I should lie down awhile, but he didn’t hurt me. I’m really lucky he didn’t hurt me. He punched Jasper, and he stuck the gun right in his face. And—”
“You must’ve been scared.” Phoebe sat beside the bed, patted Tracey’s hand before she took out her tape recorder. “Is it all right if I record what we talk about?”
“Sure. They said they were going to call my boyfriend. Brad? My boyfriend Brad’s going to come.”
“That’s good. If he doesn’t come before we leave, I’ll check on Brad myself. How’s that?”
“Thanks. Thanks.”
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