The Vanished Man

it.”
    “How’s the scene?”
    “Still pretty virgin. Can we get Amelia to run it?”
    Rhyme glanced at the clock. “She’s tied up for another twenty minutes or so.”
    “That’s not a problem,” Sellitto said, patting his stomach as if he were searching for the lost weight. “I’ll page her.”
    “Let’s not distract her just yet.”
    “Why, what’s she doing?”
    “Oh, something dangerous,” Rhyme said, concentrating once more on the silken voice of the trumpet. “What else?”
    •   •   •
    She smelled the wet brick of the tenement wall against her face.
    Her palms sweated and, beneath the fiery red hair shoved up under her dusty issue hat, her scalp itched fiercely. Still, she remained completely motionless as a uniformed officer slipped up close beside her and planted his face against the brick too.
    “Okay, here’s the situation,” the man said, nodding toward their right. He explained that just around the corner of the tenement was a vacant lot, in the middle of which was a getaway car that’d crashed a few minutes ago after a high-speed pursuit.
    “Drivable?” Amelia Sachs asked.
    “No. Hit a Dumpster and’s out of commission. Three perps. They bailed but we got one in custody. One’s in the car with some kind of Jesus-long hunting rifle. He wounded a patrolman.”
    “Condition?”
    “Superficial.”
    “Pinned down?”
    “No. Out of the perimeter. One building west of here.”
    She asked, “The third perp?”
    The officer sighed. “Hell, he made it to the first floor of this building here.” Nodding toward the tenement they were hugging. “It’s a barricade. He’s got a hostage. Pregnant woman.”
    Sachs digested the flood of information as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, to ease the pain of the arthritis in her joints. Damn, that hurt. She noticed her companion’s name on his chest. “The hostage-taker’s weapon, Wilkins?”
    “Handgun. Unknown type.”
    “Where’s our side?”
    The young man pointed out two officers behind a wall at the back of the lot. “Then two more in front of the building, containing the H-T.”
    “Anybody call ESU?”
    “I don’t know. I lost my handy-talkie when we started taking fire.”
    “You in armor?”
    “Negative. I was doing traffic stops. . . . What the hell’re we going to do?”
    She clicked her Motorola to a particular frequency and said, “Crime Scene Five Eight Eight Five to Supervisor.”
    A moment later: “This is Captain Seven Four. Go ahead.”
    “Ten-thirteen at a lot east of six-oh-five Delancey. Officer down. Need backup, EMS bus and ESU immediately. Two subjects, both armed. One with hostage; we’ll need a negotiator.”
    “Roger, Five Eight Eight Five. Helicopter for observation?”
    “Negative, Seven Four. One suspect has a high-powered rifle. And they’re willing to target blues.”
    “We’ll get backup there as soon as we can. But the Secret Service’s closed up half of downtown ’cause the vice president’s coming in from JFK. There’ll be a delay. Handle the situation at your discretion. Out.”
    “Roger. Out.”
    Vice president, she thought. Just lost my vote.
    Wilkins shook his head. “But we can’t get a negotiator near the apartment. Not with the shooter still in the car.”
    “I’m working on that,” Sachs replied.
    She edged to the corner of the tenement again and glanced at the car, a cheap low-rider with its nose against a Dumpster, doors open, revealing a thin man holding a rifle.
    I’m working on that. . . .
    She shouted, “You in the car, you’re surrounded. We’re going to open fire if you don’t drop your weapon. Do it now!”
    He crouched and aimed in her direction. She ducked for cover. On her Motorola she called the two officers in the back of the lot. “Are there hostages in the car?”
    “None.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Positive” was the officer’s reply. “We got a good look before he started shooting.”
    “Okay. You got a shot?”
    “Probably through the door.”
    “No, don’t shoot blind. Go for position. But only if you’ve got cover all the way.”
    “Roger.”
    She saw the men move to a flanking position. A moment later one of the officers said, “I’ve got a shot to kill. Should I take it?”
    “Stand by.” Then she shouted, “You in the car. With the rifle. You have ten seconds or we’ll open fire. Drop your weapon. You understand?” She repeated this in Spanish.
    “Fuck you.”
    Which she took to