Chapter 22
Chapter 22
“He’s still not answering,” Kip says, pulling the cell away from his ear.
“Shoot,” Sandy says. “What do we do?”
After they remembered that the two department drones were out of commission—they were still being repaired from last month’s family picnic, when the kids were playing chicken with them—Kip called Zimmerman, who advised him to keep trying to make contact with Brick (if that was his real name).
“What do I say?” Kip asked, having never been involved in anything near a hostage negotiation, unless you counted the time his ex-wife refused to hand over his dog Harold in the divorce, even though she always complained about his snoring and drooling and the way he licked his privates (the dog, not Kip, though she had plenty of complaints about Kip as well). Anyway, she still owned the dog, so Kip wasn’t confident in his mediation skills.
“Try to build a rapport, gain his trust. And see what information you can glean—how many hostages are being held, what he might want.”
“OK,” Kip said. “What do I do if he asks for something?”
“Say you’ll pass it up the chain of command and call me. We won’t give him anything for free. We’ll be there in less than an hour and my crisis negotiator will take over. We want to give him as much information as possible so he has a head start.”
“Got it,” Kip said.
Now he stares at Sandy and repeats Zimmerman’s instructions in his mind: Pass it up the chain of command. As much information as possible. He makes an executive decision. “If he’s not going to answer the phone, we have to get eyes up there,” Kip says. He knows he fucked up with the van bomb and he’s determined to make up for it. But he also wants to impress Zimmerman with his investigation skills; he wants to have so much intel when Zimmerman arrives that Zimmerman wonders why he’s working in such a small precinct and asks him to come work for the LAPD! Kip flashes on a reverie, sometime in the future, Zimmerman—no, the president !—awarding him the Medal of Freedom for his heroic efforts in containing what could have been a disastrous hostile hostage situation. And then a lightbulb. “The robot dog! We’ll strap a GoPro on his back and send it in.” Even though he didn’t think it was the wisest way to spend taxpayer money, Kip had been dying to use the canine android since it arrived a month earlier, for more than programming it to deliver a different random dog joke in its robotic monotone every day. (Kip’s favorite: A three-legged dog walks into a bar and says, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw.” )
“We’d have to send it up the hill,” McLeod says. “What if it steps on a second incendiary?”
It’s a valid concern. Guillermo would be pissed if their $150,000 android got destroyed—especially if it didn’t capture any intel beforehand.
“What about the chopper?” McLeod says.
“Yes!” Sandy says, her face brightening. “Brewster can fly it.”
Kip frowns. The MD 500 Defender they bought three years ago had never been flown before because no one on their nine-person team had a pilot’s license. Brewster took two lessons six months ago, threw up from motion sickness both times, and quit. “I don’t think—”
“It’s an emergency,” Sandy says. “And it’s the fastest way to get eyes on the restaurant.”
Kip chews his lip, weighing the option. If Brewster could get close enough before getting sick, he may be able to see through that infamous picture window—get a visual on the hostage taker, the number of people in the restaurant. Even the number of cars in the parking lot would be helpful, to give them some kind of idea of what they’re dealing with.
He nods resolutely. “Call Brewster,” he says. “I want him wheels up in five.”