The Negotiator (4 page)

She didn’t reply, but gave him a small wave of thanks and headed back to her car. She couldn’t bring herself to confess to him she’d be happy to buy a couple of new tires—if only she could afford them.

Sighing heavily, she turned to check that Jack’s seatbelt was secure before she switched on the ignition and headed back into the afternoon traffic.

* * *

“Come on, honey, we’re going to have to get a move on. I need to be down at the police station in half an hour. We lost a fair bit of time waiting on the side of the road, and I don’t want to be late on my third night.”

“Okay, Mom.” Jack finished the last piece of sausage on his plate. Picking up the glass of milk near his elbow, he drained it in a few quick swallows before setting it back down on the table with a triumphant sigh.

“Thanks for dinner.” He smiled over at her where she stood at the kitchen sink loading the dishwasher.

“That’s fine, honey. Now hurry up and have a quick shower and change into some clean clothes. It’ll be time for bed when we get back.”

He began to undo the buttons on his school shirt. “Can I take my
Zac Power
books with me?”

“Of course. It’s been taking me a couple of hours to clean the building, so it’d be a good idea for you to bring something to amuse yourself.”

“Maybe I could help you?” A hopeful look filled his face.

“You probably could and I appreciate your offer, but just let me get settled in for a bit first. This is only the end of my first week and I need to get a feel for it, all right?”

“Sure.” He turned away and tossed his dirty clothes in the direction of the laundry.

“Hey, what’s this?” She pointed toward the pile of clothes on the floor, well shy of the washing machine.

He shot her a cheeky grin. “I’m just trying to help you get a feel for it, Mom. Cleaning, I mean.”

“Very funny.” She bent down to pick up the dirty clothes.

“Well, washing clothes is a cleaning job.”

“Jack.” Her voice held a warning, even as laughter bubbled up inside her.

“Okay, okay, Mom. I’m sorry.”

She came over and put her arms around him. His near-naked body looked longer and thinner than it did when it was concealed beneath his clothes. “You need to put a bit of meat on your bones, my son.”

“Yeah, so you keep saying. Maybe it’s just who I am.” Turning suddenly serious brown eyes upon her, he added quietly, “Maybe my dad was tall and skinny?”

Cally drew in a shocked breath. Apart from the very occasional vague question about his father, he’d never before directly asked her anything about him. She’d always known the issue would have to be dealt with at some stage, but she suddenly felt completely unprepared.

Feeling like a coward, she changed the subject. “Hey, how about that shower?”

His shoulders slumped and he looked away. He mumbled a response and turned and left the room.

Cally’s heart clenched. Swiping at the hot tears that pricked her eyes and threatened to spill over, she finished tidying the kitchen. Their small cottage, tucked away behind a row of much larger, grander homes in Chatswood, one of Sydney’s leafy northern suburbs, was pretty snug with only two average-sized bedrooms and a sleepout.

It may have been small, but the cottage was surrounded by stately old gardens filled with enormous ancient fig trees which meant their modest backyard was shaded from the heat for most of the day.

As far as she was concerned, it was perfect. She’d loved it from the moment the realtor had unlocked the door and motioned her across the threshold.

“Now, it might seem a little cozy,” the man began as he led her through the modest rooms, but she’d barely heard him. The immediate feeling of familiarity had overwhelmed her.

This was it. She was home.

The kitchen was vintage 1950s—old and worn, but the scrubbed linoleum floor gleamed and the mint-green laminated countertops reminded her of her Aunt Mary’s house in Armidale; a house where she’d felt wholly and completely loved. A house where she’d raised her son for the first eight years of his life. A house she would never have left if fate hadn’t intervened.

Even now, more than two years later, she could recall, as if it were yesterday, the smell of star jasmine and honeysuckle that had filled the warm spring air the day her aunt had sold the only home Jack had ever known.

Glancing at the clock on the wall of the kitchen, Cally gasped. She was going to be late.

So much for trying to make a good impression
. The way things were going, she’d be lucky to get there at all. What, with the flat tire setting them back over an hour and now wasting time reminiscing, her day didn’t look like it was going to end well. With no time to shower and change, she headed quickly toward her bedroom, calling out to Jack as she did so.

His tousled head, still wet from the shower, appeared in the doorway of his room. “I’m in here, Mom. Is it time to go? I thought you were going to take a shower?”

“Yes, sweetie, it is and I was, but we don’t have enough time now, so I’ll go as I am. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Sure, you look fine.” His gaze swept briefly over the soft cotton sundress she’d worn to work. “A bit rumpled, maybe,” he added with a grin.

“Gee, thanks, buddy.” She grinned back at him. “You’d probably look a bit rumpled too if you’d had the day I have. I swear, every boy in the third grade had ants in his pants today. Talk about unable to sit still. I thought I was going to have to get them all to run a few laps around the oval to wear them out.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “We’ve only been back to school a few weeks, Mom. It takes a bit of time to get used to it again.”

“Don’t I know it,” she laughed and pulled a brush quickly through her short, straight bob, thankful her hair was so easy to take care of. Once upon a time, she’d never have taken a pair of scissors to her trademark long hair—the hair her father had been so proud of. But that was a lifetime ago…

Refusing to allow her thoughts to wander again, she picked up her keys and handbag. “Okay, honey, let’s go. Grab your books or whatever you want to take with you and I’ll meet you at the car. Let’s hope we don’t have any more mishaps along the way.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Andy Warwick’s heart pounded and the blood pulsed in his ears, making it almost impossible to hear. Rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Ignoring everything, he remained focused on the man who stood a few feet away from him.

Precariously balanced on what felt like a microscopic window ledge, Andy battled to keep Wayne Tucker from throwing himself to the sidewalk, thirteen floors below. The late afternoon sun beat fiercely against Andy’s face. His eyes burned from the salty perspiration. He didn’t dare move a muscle. With his gaze fixed on the portly, middle-aged accountant, he tried again.

“Wayne, keep talking to me, mate.” To his relief, his voice remained calm and firm, in stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside him. He prayed for a response—something, anything—to indicate the man was still listening.

Nothing.

He held his breath. The only movement came from a wisp of hot air that lifted Wayne’s longish, lank hair. Fear slid insidiously through Andy’s veins.

“Why don’t you move a bit closer, Wayne? We can talk better that way.” He swallowed against the urgency that had crept into his voice.

The man lifted his head and slowly turned it toward him. “What are you still doing here? You know I’m going to
do it.” Tucker’s pain and anger reverberated between them over the stifling air.

Andy kept his gaze steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Go away!”

“Mate, listen to me. I want you to slide your foot over a bit. Move a little closer. It’s hot as hell out here. Don’t make me yell in this heat.”

“I’ve already
told
you. You’re
wasting
your time. Just leave me
alone
.”

Andy’s stomach tensed at the anger in Wayne’s voice. It wasn’t a good sign. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to stay calm. The next few minutes would be crucial. If he had any hope of saving the man, he had to convince him to move close enough to fit a rope around him and clip him to the safety harness strapped to Andy’s back.

Filling his lungs again, he forced himself to speak evenly. “I’m not going to do that, Wayne. I’m not going anywhere without you. If you jump, I’m coming with you.”

Wayne’s gaze narrowed on Andy’s face. His voice sharpened with suspicion. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not going to
jump. You’re full of shit.”

“Mate, it’s me. Andy. I’ve been sitting up here talking to you for the last three hours. I’m not bullshitting you. You jump, I jump.” The lie fell easily from his lips. He prayed he sounded convincing.

Members of Andy’s team, all elite officers of the State Protection Group, stood behind him, tense and watchful from inside the safety of the double glazed glass of the steel-and-concrete North Sydney skyscraper.

Andy waited.

Had he said enough?
Had he managed to penetrate the fog of anger and pain that had muddled Wayne’s reasoning and turned a completely ordinary man into a potential tragic headline for the six o’clock news?

Not daring to breathe, Andy was almost paralyzed at the thought he might fail. An image of his dead sister flashed through his mind and he bit down hard on his lip. He needed to concentrate.
He couldn’t fail. With his chest tight, he tried again.

“Tell me, Wayne. How old is your boy, now? Six? Seven? And your daughter, Sophie? She’s going on ten, isn’t she?” Andy prayed the information he’d been given was correct.

“He’s seven. Marcus is seven.” The reply was soft and hesitant.

Andy’s breath eased out between his tense lips. Conversation was good. It was progress. He had to keep it going.

“Marcus. That’s a fine, strong name. I bet he’s a good kid. With a name like that, he’d have to be.”

A fleeting smile crossed Tucker’s face. “Yeah,” he whispered. “He’s a good kid. So is Soph.”

Andy’s gut tightened in anticipation. This was it. This was his chance. “Come on, Wayne. Come over here. Come closer, so I can help you back inside. Marcus and Sophie need you.”

It seemed to take a lifetime, but eventually Tucker moved. One step. Two. Each one brought him a little closer. Andy almost collapsed with relief. Standing rigid, he waited as the man placed another foot gingerly along the cement ledge and brought himself within arm’s distance. His tortured eyes burned into Andy’s.

“That’s it, Wayne. That’s it. Keep going, mate. You’re nearly there.” With quick efficiency, Andy unhooked the rope at his waist and slid it over Tucker. Within seconds, the man was secured. As if the bravado that had kept him on the roof ledge for the best part of three hours had suddenly evaporated, Wayne slumped hard against him. Andy braced himself against the additional body weight.

Moments later, members of the SPG surged forward. Arms reached out for both of them, dragging them through the open window to safety. The tension drained from Andy’s body. He slumped forward onto the carpeted floor, dragging Tucker with him. Similarly affected, the man gulped in great lungsful of air. Tears poured down his cheeks.

Two paramedics who’d been standing by, leaped forward and began assessing Tucker for injuries or other physical health concerns. Andy looked away and did his best to restore his heartbeat to normal. Detective Sergeant Tom Munro strode over, relief flooding his swarthy features. He unhooked the steel link that tied Andy to Wayne.

“Good work, Andy.” Tom’s voice was low and rough with emotion.

Andy grimaced and nodded his thanks to his work partner and friend. He was beyond words.

He’d done it. He’d saved Tucker.

* * *

Three hours later, Andy leaned against his comfortable, ergonomically approved office chair and put his feet up on his cluttered desk, trying hard not to relive his afternoon. Loose papers and pens scattered beneath his heavy police boots, but he was so tired he was beyond caring. His body ached in every place he could think of and even some that he couldn’t.

The time he’d spent on the ledge with Tucker had drained him, physically and mentally. He loved the job, but the aftermath always took its toll.

“Are you still here, Andy?” Detective Superintendent Patrick Redding strode into the main squad room where Andy’s desk stood amongst a half dozen identical ones, cluttered with unfinished paperwork
.

Andy lifted his chin and wearily looked at his boss. “Yeah, I was just finishing up the report on Wayne Tucker.”

“Good work on that one today. Tom told me it was touch and go there for a while.”

“Thank you, sir.” Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly and shook his head. “I thought he was going to jump. I couldn’t seem to get through to him. But I kept at it—what else could I do? I don’t know what changed, but for some reason he started to listen to me,
really
listen.” He shrugged. “I caught a lucky break.”

“More than luck, Andy. You’re a damned good negotiator.” Redding indicated the open file on Andy’s desk, and continued, “They’re the lucky ones. All of those unstable souls out there like Tucker who had your help when they needed it most… If it weren’t for you, there’d be a lot more of them rotting in the ground right now.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate your vote of confidence.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I do my best. It’s all I can do.” His voice lowered. “It’s the ones I might not save who keep me up at night.”

Redding frowned. The deep wrinkles lining his forehead became more prominent. “Now, you listen to me, Andy Warwick. You might have only a year’s experience behind you, but you’re a good police officer and one of the best negotiators I’ve worked with. It’s a shame we didn’t have a few more of your ilk working here. Our success rate might be a little higher and that would please all concerned.”

He stepped closer and gripped Andy’s shoulder. “It’s normal for you to get down on yourself when you don’t succeed—especially in your position where failure can mean death. But don’t ever doubt yourself or your abilities. You’re one of our finest, Andy. Don’t forget it. Besides,” he added, “you haven’t lost one yet, so stop stressing about it.”