High Noon (3 page)

“Perfect. Which bar?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don't want to go to Dunc's—weird after yesterday, and it's loud and full of guys arguing over sports. Swifty's.”

“You own Swifty's?”

“Sort of. You've been there?”

“Once.”

His brows drew together. “You didn't like it.”

“Actually, I did. I didn't like my companion.”

“If you want to pick somewhere else—”

“Swifty's is fine. Nine o'clock. You can spend part of the thirty minutes explaining how you ‘sort of' own a couple of bars and an apartment building.”

He used the smile again when she rose to signal his time was up. “Don't change your mind.”

“I rarely do.”

“Good to know. See you tomorrow, Phoebe.”

A mistake, she told herself when she watched him walk away. It was probably a mistake to make any sort of a date with a lanky, charming man with soft blue eyes, especially one who had those little tugs going on in her belly when he smiled at her.

Still, it was only half an hour, only a drink.

And it had been a long time since she'd carved out half an hour to make a mistake with a man.

 

Phoebe dragged into the house just after seven with a bag of groceries, a loaded briefcase and a serious case of frazzled nerves. The car she wasn't at all sure she could replace had limped to a shuddering halt a block from the station house.

The cost of having it towed would eat a greedy chunk of the monthly budget. The cost of having it repaired made the possibility of bank robbery more palatable.

She dumped her briefcase just inside the door, then stood staring around the elegant and beautiful foyer. The house, for all its grandeur, cost her nothing. And though nothing was a relative term, she knew even if it were possible to move, she couldn't afford it, on any terms. It was ridiculous to live in a damn mansion and not know how to manage to pay to repair an eight-year-old Ford Taurus.

Surrounded by antiques, by art, by silver and crystal, by beauty and grace—none of which she could sell, hock or trade. To live in what could be construed as luxury, and have a tension headache over a goddamn car.

Leaning back against the door, she shut her eyes long enough to remind herself to be grateful. There was a roof over her head, over her family's head. There always would be.

As long as she followed the rules laid down by a dead woman.

She straightened, buried the anxiety deep enough so it wouldn't show on her face. Then she carried the grocery bag through the house to the kitchen.

There they were. Her girls. Carly at the kitchen table, tongue caught in her teeth as she struggled over homework. Mama and Ava at the stove putting finishing touches on dinner. Phoebe knew the rule of thumb was that two women couldn't share a kitchen, but these two managed just that.

And the room smelled of herbs and greens and females.

“I told y'all not to hold dinner for me.”

As Phoebe stepped in, all three heads turned. “Mama! I'm almost done with my spelling.”

“There's my girl.” Setting the bag on the counter as she went, Phoebe walked over to give Carly a smacking kiss. “Bet you're hungry.”

“We wanted to wait for you.”

“'Course we waited.” Essie moved close to rub a hand down Phoebe's arm. “You all right, baby girl? You must be so tired, having the car go out like that.”

“I wanted to take out my gun and shoot it, but I'm over it now.”

“How'd you get home?”

“I took the CAT, which is what I'll be doing until the car's fixed.”

“You can use mine,” Ava told her, but Phoebe shook her head.

“I'd feel better knowing there's a car available here at home. Don't worry. What's for dinner? I'm starving.”

“You go on and wash up.” Essie waved her away. “Then sit right down at the table. Everything's ready, so you go on.”

“Don't mind if I do.” She winked at Carly before slipping out to the powder room off the parlor.

More to be grateful for, she reminded herself. There were dozens of tasks and chores she didn't have to heap on her plate because her mother was there, because Ava was there. A thousand little worries she could brush aside. She wasn't going to let herself get twisted inside out over something as annoying as transportation.

She studied her face in the mirror as she dried her hands. She looked tired, and tight, she admitted. There would surely be lines on her face in the morning that hadn't been there yesterday if she didn't relax a little.

And at thirty-three, there would be lines sneaking in anyway. Just a fact of life.

But she was having a big glass of wine with dinner regardless.

It did relax her, as did the pretty food prepared by hands other than her own, the soft light, the easy music of female voices.

She listened to Carly talk about her school day, and her mother talk about the book she was reading.

“You're so quiet, Phoebe. Are you just tired out?”

“A little,” she said to Ava. “Mostly I'm just listening.”

“Because we can't keep quiet for five minutes. Tell us something good that happened today.”

It was an old game, one her mother had played with them as long as Phoebe could remember. Whenever something hard or sad or irritating happened, Essie would ask them to tell her something good.

“Well, let's see. The training session went well.”

“Doesn't count.”

“Then I guess satisfying the prosecutor with my testimony in court this afternoon doesn't count either.”

“Something good that happened to you,” Essie reminded her. “That's the rule.”

“All right. She's so strict,” Phoebe said to make Carly grin. “I don't know if it's good, but it's different. I had a good-looking man come into my office.”

“It only counts if he asked you out to dinner,” Ava began, then gaped at Phoebe's expression. “You have a
date
?”

“Well, for God's sake, don't say it as if we've just discovered a new species.”

“It's practically as rare. Who—”

“And it's not a date. Not really. The suicide I talked down yesterday? This is the man who he used to work for. He just wants to have a drink.”

“Ava said it had to be dinner to count,” Carly reminded her.

“He brought up dinner, we negotiated it to drinks. Just half an hour tomorrow.” She tapped Carly's nose. “After your bedtime.”

“Is he cute?” Ava demanded.

The wine and the company had done its job. Phoebe flashed a grin. “Really cute. But I'm just meeting him for one drink. Over and out.”

“Dating isn't a terminal disease.”

“Listen to who's talking.” Phoebe forked up a bite of chicken and looked at her mother. “And listen to who's not. Mama?”

“I was just thinking how nice it would be if you had somebody to go out to dinner with, to the movies, to take walks with.” She laid a hand over Phoebe's. “Only time there's a man's voice in this house is when Carter's over, or a repairman comes in. What's this really cute man do?”

“I'm not entirely sure, not altogether sure.” She sipped more wine. “I guess I'll find out tomorrow.”

 

Whenever she was home and could manage it, Phoebe liked to tuck Carly into bed. With her little girl at seven and counting, Phoebe knew the tucking-in stage wouldn't last much longer. So she prized it.

“Past your bedtime, my cutie.” Phoebe bent to kiss the tip of Carly's nose.

“Just a little bit past. Can I stay up until any-o'clock on Friday night?”

“Hmm.” Phoebe brushed her hand over Carly's curls. “Any-o'clock could be arranged. Let's see how you do on your Friday spelling test.”

Bright-eyed with the idea, Carly pushed to sitting, gave a butt bounce. “If I get a hundred, can we rent a DVD, have popcorn
and
stay up till any-o'clock?”

“That's a lot of reward.” Gently, firmly, Phoebe put the heel of her hand to Carly's forehead and nudged her back down. “You have an arithmetic test on Friday, too, don't you?”

Carly's gaze went to her Barbie sheets. “Maybe. It's harder than spelling.”

“I always thought so, too. But if you do well on both your tests, we have a deal on the DVD, the popcorn and the any-o'clock. You get some sleep now, so your brain's ready to study tomorrow.”

“Mama?” Carly said when Phoebe turned off the bedside lamp.

“Yes, baby.”

“Do you miss Roy?”

Not Daddy, Phoebe thought. Not Dad, not even—very often—my father. It was a pitiful commentary. Phoebe sat on the side of the bed, stroked her fingers over Carly's cheek. “Do you?”

“I asked
you.
”

“So you did.” And honesty was a linchpin of her relationship with her little girl. “No, sweetie, I don't.”

“Good.”

“Carly—”

“It's okay. I don't miss him either, and it's okay. I was just wondering because of what Gran said at dinner about having somebody to take walks with and stuff.”

“I can take walks with you.”

Carly's pretty mouth curved. “We could take a walk on Saturday. A long walk. Down to River Street.”

On to the ploy, Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “We are
not
going shopping.”

“Looking isn't shopping. We can just look and not buy anything.”

“That's what you always say. And River Street'll be jammed with tourists on Saturday.”

“Maybe we should just go to the mall then.”

“You're tricky, kid, but you can't win this one. No shopping this weekend. And no talking your grandmama into buying you something online either.”

Now Carly rolled her eyes. “Okay.”

With a laugh, Phoebe snuggled down for a major hug. “Boy, oh boy, I sure do love you into little, bitty pieces.”

“I sure do love you. Mama, if I get A's on my next
three
spelling tests, can I—”

“Negotiations are closed for the night, and so, Carly Anne Mac Namara, are you.”

She tapped a finger to her lips as she rose. And when she went out, she left the door open a couple of inches so the hallway light slanted in, the way her baby liked it.

She needed to get her work started. There was a good two hours of it waiting for her. But instead of angling toward her home office, Phoebe veered off toward her mother's sitting room.

Essie was there, as she was most evenings, crocheting.

“Got an order for a christening gown,” Essie said, looking up with a smile as her fingers continued to ply thread and hook.

Phoebe moved over, sat in the pretty little tapestry chair that matched the one her mother used. “You do such beautiful work.”

“I enjoy it. Satisfying. I know it doesn't bring in a lot of money, Phoebe, but—”

“Satisfying's most important. The people who buy your work, why, they're buying heirlooms. They're lucky. Mama, Carly asked about Roy.”

“Oh?” Essie's hands stilled now. “Is she upset?”

“No. Not at all. She wanted to know if I miss him. I told her the truth, that I don't, and I have to hope that was the right thing.”

“I think it was, if you're asking me.” Concern filled Essie's eyes. “We've had us some lousy luck with men, haven't we, baby girl?”

“Oh yeah.” Leaning back, Phoebe let her gaze wander to the ceiling, the beautiful plaster work of an old, grand home. “I'm wondering if I shouldn't cancel this sort-of date I've got tomorrow.”

“Why would you do that?”

“We're doing all right, aren't we? Carly's happy. You've got your satisfying work, I've got mine. Ava's content—though I do wish she and Dave would stop pretending, now that they're both single, that they're not attracted to each other. So, why mix anything else in with having drinks in some pub with a man I don't even know?”

“Because you're a lovely young woman, with so much of her life ahead of her. You've got to step out of this henhouse sometimes. Which may sound silly, coming from me, but it's true.” Essie's hands started moving again. “The last thing I want is for you to start boxing yourself in, holing up in this place we've made here. You have that drink and that conversation tomorrow with this good-looking man. That's an order.”

Amused, Phoebe angled her head. “So it's do what you say, not what you do?”

“Exactly. Mother's privilege.”

“I guess I will, then.” She rose, walked to the door, turned back. “Mama? No online shopping for Carly this weekend.”

“Oh?” The single syllable resounded disappointment.

“Mother's privilege,” Phoebe echoed, then headed off to work.

Phoebe took her place
at the front of the room. She had twenty-five cops in this training session, a mix of uniforms and plainclothes of varying ranks.

A good portion of them, she knew, didn't want to be there.

“Today, I'm going to talk about the tactical role of the negotiator in a crisis or hostage situation. First, are there any questions regarding yesterday's session?”

A hand shot up. Phoebe swallowed her instinctive annoyance. Officer Arnold Meeks, third-generation cop. Bullheaded, belligerent and bigoted, in Phoebe's opinion, with a thick layer of macho over it.

“Officer Meeks?”

“Yes, ma'am.” His smile usually started out as a smirk, and often stayed there. “You talked down a jumper the other day, St. Patrick's Day?”

“That's correct.”

“Well, ma'am, I was interested in some of the particulars, seeing as we're in this training session with you. Now, I was curious, as it appears you broke some of the rules of negotiation during this incident. Unless being FBI-trained, as you are, things are different for you. Is that the case?”

Her early federal training would always rub some of the rank and file the wrong way. They'd just have to live with it. “Which rules did I break, Officer Meeks?”

“Well, ma'am—”

“You can use my rank, Officer, as I do yours.”

She watched annoyance flicker over his face. “The subject was armed, but you engaged him face-to-face, without cover.”

“That's correct. It's also correct that a negotiator should avoid, if possible, any face-to-face with an armed subject. However, circumstances may call for it, and we'll be covering that area of crisis situation in the role-playing sessions in the second half of this course.”

“Why—”

“I'm getting to that. In my opinion, the incident on St. Patrick's Day called for a face-to-face. In point of fact, most jumpers respond better to this method. The subject had no history of violent behavior, and had not fired the weapon. In a situation such as the one on St. Patrick's Day, I, as negotiator, had to assess and weigh the advantages and disadvantages of going face-to-face. In my opinion, the advantages far outweighed the risks. As we've already covered the other considerations regarding face-to-face in a previous session—”

“Ma'am—Lieutenant,” Arnie corrected, with just enough hesitation to make sure she knew it was deliberate. “Is it also correct you provided the subject with alcohol?”

I bet you have a really little dick, Phoebe thought, but nodded. “I provided the subject, at his request, with a beer. Providing alcohol to a subject during negotiations is not encouraged, but neither is it forbidden. This tack would be up to the negotiator, his or her sense of the situation and evaluation of the subject.”

“Get him drunk enough, maybe he'd just fall off the roof.” Arnie's comment got a few snickers. Phoebe inclined her head, let them die off.

“Next time you're on a ledge, Officer, I'll remember you get drunk off one beer and bring you a nice Coca-Cola instead.”

That got more than snickers, and noting the angry red wash over Arnie's face, Phoebe cut through them. “As I've said, repeatedly, while there are guidelines for negotiations, the negotiator must be flexible, be able to evaluate, to think on his or her feet.”

“But you agree providing alcohol or drugs is risky?”

“Certainly. My gauge in this case was it was low risk. The subject did not demand alcohol; he very politely asked if he might have a beer. Bringing him one gave him something he wanted, and allowed him some control, allowed him to exchange that beer for his word not to use his weapon on me, to allow me to come out and speak with him. Just you wait,” she ordered Arnie before he could open his smirking mouth again.

Then she paused to make certain her tone would be calm and cool. “The preservation of life is and always will be the primary goal of negotiation. Everything, absolutely everything else, is secondary to that. Therefore, in this instance—as every single instance is different—I elected a face-to-face, elected to provide the subject with a single beer because I believed those choices would assist me in talking him down. As he's alive, as there were no injuries, as the weapon he held was never discharged but given to me by him, I believe—in this instance—my choices were the correct ones.”

“You also used a third-party intermediary.”

Now Phoebe smiled, sweet Southern sugar. “Officer Meeks, it appears you have several questions and problems with this particular incident and my handling of it. I wonder if you'd be more satisfied if the subject had just jumped.”

“Seeing as he was only sitting up four stories, he'd only have a couple broken bones if he had. Unless he shot you and himself beforehand.”

“There's an interesting train of thought. Disbelieving a subject is serious about suicide, or could indeed cause his own death.”

Casually, she reached up to secure a stray wisp of hair that had escaped from its pins. And kept her voice just as casual. “I was acquainted with a negotiator who had this train of thought over a jumper who was about twelve feet off the ground, unarmed. Mostly being a nuisance, from my acquaintance's point of view, one that was keeping him from doing more important things with his valuable time. And he allowed that opinion to show. The subject jumped, headfirst, crushing his skull on the sidewalk. He was very dead, Officer Meeks.

“Anybody know why this nuisance ended up with a toe tag?”

“Negotiator screwed it up,” someone called out.

“That's right. The negotiator screwed it up by forgetting the prime directive: Preserve human life.

“If you have any more questions or comments about the incident, please feel free to write them up for me. But for right now? We're moving on.”

“I'd like to—”

“Officer.” The temper Phoebe rarely set free strained on the leash. “You may be mistaken about who is running this session. I am. You may also be confused about the order of rank here. I am your superior.”

“It seems to me,
ma'am,
that you don't want to address your questionable decisions during a crisis negotiation.”

“It seems to me,
boy,
that you are unable to take no for an answer, by a woman who happens to outrank you, and that you're both rigid in your thinking and argumentative in attitude. These are very, very poor qualities in a negotiator. I'll so note to your captain, and hope that we'll be relieved of each other before much longer. Now, I want you to close your mouth and open your ears. That's an order, Officer Meeks. If you choose to ignore it, I'll write you up for insubordination here and now. Clear?”

His face had gone an angry red, and his eyes spoke furious volumes. But he nodded curtly.

“That's fine. Now, tactics, teamwork and the negotiator's role.”

 

The minute the session was over, Phoebe headed straight for the women's room. She didn't beat her head against the wall, though she considered it. Instead, she turned to the mirror, gripped the sink below it.

“Arnold Meeks has a dick the size and width of a baby carrot, and his smirky,
insulting,
juvenile behavior is a pathetic attempt to compensate for his pinkie-sized weenie.”

She nodded, relaxed her shoulders. Then dropped her head when she heard a toilet flush. How stupid could she be to mouth off to the mirror without checking the stalls first?

Phoebe knew the woman who stepped out, but that didn't negate the mortification. Detective Liz Alberta was a solid cop, a strong-willed brunette who worked in sex crimes.

“Lieutenant.”

“Detective.”

Liz ran water in the sink, turned her own face right and left as if checking her reflection. “Arnie Meeks is a fuckhead,” she said casually.

“Oh.” Phoebe sighed. “Well.”

“He tells tits-and-ass jokes in the break room. I like a good joke same as the rest, and boys will be boys and all that. But I took some exception, and made my exception known after he told me the majority of rapes are bogus, pulling out the old chestnut about how a woman can run faster with her skirt up than a man can with his pants down.”

“The fuckhead said that?”

“Oh yes, he did. And I filed a complaint on him. He isn't a fan of mine.” Liz fluffed at her short, dark hair. “And I dislike him right down to the tip of that teeny weenie of his.” She offered a sunny smile as she dried her hands. “Lieutenant.”

“Detective,” Phoebe returned as Liz tossed the paper towel into the bin and strolled out.

 

She didn't like it, but she went to Dave. As was her habit, she jogged up the two flights of stairs from the lecture area to her own section. He was striding out of his office, swinging on his jacket as she popped out the stairway door.

“Oh, you're heading out.”

“I've got a meeting. Problem?”

“Maybe. I'll come back.”

He glanced at his watch. “I can give you two minutes.” He jerked a thumb, stepped back into his office. And said nothing when Phoebe closed the door behind her.

He was still so much the same as the day she'd first met him. A little gray dashed his temples, and those lines people called character in a man and age in a woman fanned out from his eyes. But those eyes were still clear and blue and, for her, drenched in quiet wisdom.

“I don't like having to do this, because for one thing, it means I've failed. But I'm asking you to consider removing Officer Arnold Meeks from my training sessions.”

“Because?”

“I can't teach him anything. And, in fact, may be prejudicing him against any of the basic tactics and guidelines in the field.”

Dave leaned back against his desk, a gesture that told her she'd get more than the two minutes now if she needed them. “Is he stupid?”

“No, sir, but he is small-minded. In my opinion.”

“His father's still on the job. He's a son of a bitch.”

Phoebe relaxed fractionally. “I'm shocked and amazed to hear that.”

“I want all officers assigned to the sessions to complete them. You can relate your opinions of Officer Meeks, in this area, in your evaluation. I want all of them to get through it, Phoebe. You know as well as I do that at least some of what you teach them will work its way in, even into small minds.”

“I dressed him down in the session.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“And then some. But he's only going to be pissed off at me now, and even less likely to listen.”

“Minimize the damage and move on.” He gave her a pat on the shoulder. “I'm going to be late.”

“Minimize the damage,” Phoebe muttered, but reached up to straighten Dave's tie.

He smiled at her. “You're the best I've ever worked with. You remember that, and handle small-minded Meeks.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

She walked out with him, and when she peeled off, spotted Arnie loitering with a couple other cops outside her squad room. Her belly might have clenched, but her face was serene as she walked up to him. “Officer Meeks, the captain wishes all assigned officers to complete the negotiator training. I'll expect to see you Monday morning, as scheduled. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Now I'm sure the three of you have more important things to do than stand around here. Go on and do it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he repeated, in a tone that had her hackles rising. Minimize the damage, she reminded herself. “I expect we can both learn something from these sessions.”

She couldn't hear what he said when she walked away; the words were low and indistinguishable. But she heard the snickers clearly enough.

She let it go. A woman who'd pushed through Quantico, who'd slogged through police training, through negotiation training, sexually outnumbered ten to one, had heard snickers before.

She also knew when eyes were trained on her ass, and while it might infuriate her, Phoebe reminded herself to pick her battles. And that she had a damn fine ass.

When she entered her office, saw the message from the mechanic, she understood she had bigger problems than a smart-mouthed cop and ass ogling.

Her car was going to cost seven hundred and fifty-nine nonnegotiable dollars.

“Ah, hell.”

Giving up, Phoebe laid her head down on her desk for a moment of pure self-pity.

 

She caught the bus home, and the moment she was inside deeply regretted the prospect of going out again. Even the idea of going out again—the bus ride, sitting in a bar making small talk, only to ride yet another bus only to get back to square one—seemed overwhelmingly stupid.

She should dig up Duncan's number, cancel. Agreeing to the thirty-minute drink had been a moment of weakness anyway—that damn dimple. Hadn't she thought of a dozen other things she could do with thirty minutes on the ride home?

A bubble bath. Yoga. Give herself a facial. Clean out the junk drawer in her desk.

All were a better use of her time. But a deal was a deal.

Carly sprinted into the foyer to take a flying leap into Phoebe's arms. No outside irritations could stand up against a Carly hug.

“You've been in Gran's perfume.” To make Carly giggle she sniffed elaborately at her daughter's neck.

“She let me have a spritz. Dinner's all ready, and I finished my homework.” Leaning back, Carly beamed into her mother's face. “You get to be excused from doing the dishes tonight.”

“Wow. How come I rate?”

“So you can get ready for your date. Come on!” Wiggling down, Carly took Phoebe's hand to drag her toward the dining room. “Gran thinks you should wear your blue sweater, and Ava thinks the white blouse that ties in the back. But
I
think you should wear your green dress.”

“The green dress isn't really the thing for a quick evening meeting.”