High Noon

Phoebe wasn't wrong about the media storm. It raged across the television screens, the newspaper headlines, the Internet. In death, Charlie Johnson became a symbol of gang violence, racism, police corruption and incompetence-depending on which side you were on at any given time.

She fielded dozens of calls from reporters, and for the first time in her career received death threats.

And she once again found herself interviewed by IAB.

"How you holding up?" Dave studied her as she drew lines down the condensation of her glass of iced tea. He'd pulled her out for a quick lunch.

"I keep seeing him coming out, hands up. Just that one second when

I thought: Good job, Phoebe. High five. Then the sound of the gun, the way his body jerked like a puppet. Just one more second, really, for it all to go to hell."

"You did a good job." He shook his head at her expression. "You did. Let's just get that on the table."

"Crisis negotiators are part of a team, Dave. Who taught me that? The team failed that boy, and the hostages. It failed everyone."

"Something broke down; we're still not sure what. Your end of it didn't. Regardless," he continued, "a boy died, a hostage was injured.

No member of the tactical team fired their weapon. The weapon fired and discovered wasn't ours. And regardless," he repeated, "the failure's on us. Someone got through, or was overlooked, during the evac of the area."

"There was more violence on both the east and west sides last night," she pointed out. "More shootings. They're using that boy to justify killing. The media and the mouthpieces are using him, whittling it down or blowing it up-I'm not sure which applies-to race.

To white against black. And I don't know that you can say race has nothing to do with it, because it's certainly one of the elements that play into gangs. But I don't believe Charles Johnson was shot because of his skin color. And I don't believe he deserves to have his death pushed into that."

She said nothing while the sandwiches they'd ordered were served. "Franklin Johnson died this morning."

"I know."

"Opal Johnson's lost both her sons. Her children are dead. The first, that's not on us, at least not on the surface. We found and arrested the man who killed him. Would we have done so as quickly, even at all, if Charlie hadn't gone into that liquor store yesterday? I don't know the answer. That troubles me."

"I don't know it either, but I do the best job I can. So do you. We save who we can, Phoebe, one crisis at a time."

"Maybe." She picked up one of the chips that came with her sandwich, broke it into pieces. "I told him it was going to be all right. If he came out, it would be all right."

"You didn't make a mistake. It should have been all right. He should be in custody now, with his public defender working to cut a deal with the prosecutor. The mistake was in Tactical, and we'll find it. Every minute of the incident is going to be investigated. Every move, every order. Meanwhile, there's the anger of the community, the public relations nightmare and the very real problem of keeping this from boiling over into riots and burning. You'll be giving a press conference this afternoon, along with the tactical commander. You'll each read a brief statement and answer questions. It'll be short, and it's necessary."

"And it provides a visual. I'm a white woman, the commander's a black man." She lifted a hand before he could speak. "I'm not discounting the fact that the visual doesn't matter nearly as much as the statements. I'll do my part. What time?"

"Three.'

She nodded. "All right. That'll give me time to go over to Hitch. I want to see the crime scenes. Both of them."

She stood at the window where the shots had been fired, verified now by the crime-scene investigative team. It was a narrow window, casement style, on the second floor of a building diagonal from the liquor store.

According to the reports, the fifteen-unit apartment building had been evacuated, and SWAT team members stationed on the roof and on the third floor. As it was within the inner perimeter, no civilians should have been in or around the building.

But it wouldn't be the first time a perimeter had been compromised. The sniper would have had a decent view and angle from there, Phoebe judged. Better on the roof, better on the third floor, but decent from here.

Especially if the intent was to take down an unarmed man who would step into clear view. Oh yeah, not so hard to hit the target when the target was standing still, hands in the air. All that body mass just open and waiting to be riddled.

"Tenant's a Reeanna Curtis, single." Detective Sykes spoke from behind her. "Two kids, boy age five, girl age three. No criminal. They were outside the barricade at the time of the shooting. Witnesses verify.

Her boyfriend was at work at the time. Also verified."

Phoebe nodded. "I read her statement. She said a cop came to the door, ordered her out, hustled them along. Cops swarming through the building, according to her, and all over the place outside. She got out with her kids, straight to her sister's place a few blocks over.

"She doesn't remember if she locked the door. Can't clearly remember if she even closed the door. Said it all happened so fast, and she was scared."

"Somebody else is getting hustled out," Sykes speculated, "but doesn't want to miss the show. Dips in here."

"Armed?" Phoebe turned back. "Whoever came in, unless we suspect the single mother with two preschoolers kept an AK- 47 in the broom closet, he came in loaded. And if it wasn't target specific, why not take out a big bunch of cops?"

"There are Lords members in the building, plenty more in this block. They'll all get a close look."

Didn't make Charlie any less dead, Phoebe thought. Then pulled herself in. It wasn't about that any longer, that was done. Now it was about fixing what had gone wrong.

"How did the shooter know Charles Johnson, specifically, was inside?" Phoebe wandered the cramped, cluttered apartment.

"Maybe not specific. Just a Posse was inside."

"All right, how did he know that? Did he see Charlie go in-he was wearing his colors. Timeline puts him inside for nearly ten minutes before the first response. And that came quick because one of the tenants in the building next door to the liquor store called in gunfire. She states she saw him crossing the street a few minutes before the first shot."

"Shooter sees him, or the word flies around. Gets the weapon, then gets lucky and finds a solid sniper spot."

"Let's find out if they've pulled the LUDs from this apartment this building. See if any calls were made out of here after it was supposed to be cleared. Cell phones are more likely, but you never know."

She stepped to the window in a small bedroom obviously shared by the children. From that angle she could see the diner where she'd sat at a four-top, talking Charlie down, and out. "I wonder how many gang members could resist taking out cops. Resist until the specific target's out-or taken out, yeah, I can see that. But why not try to take a few cops out, too, once you open up? More blood, more confusion, more goddamn points, come to that. But the only other hit is a stray that injured one of the hostages inside. That's just odd, isn't it?"

He pursed his lips. "That's a puzzle. Any reason to think it wasn't gang retribution?"

"I'll let you know."

She did her own runs on the tenants of the building, and filled her briefcase with files for the trip home. She made certain she was home before dark.

Phoebe wanted all her family tucked inside before sundown, in case the rumblings in the city turned to a roar. In case those blocks between Jones and Hitch weren't enough to hold back the flood if it came.

She broke her own hard-and-fast rule, and though she put her weapon up on the high shelf in her closet, she kept it unlocked and loaded. Once Carly was settled for the night, Phoebe checked the locks, the alarms, then settled at her own desk. She kept the TV on low, in case of a bulletin, and began reading through the logs, the reports, the witness statements.

When her cell phone rang, she answered it absently, her mind on the diagram of the apartment building on Hitch. "Phoebe MacNamara."

"Duncan Swift. Hiya, cutie."

The idea of being called "cutie" when she was surrounded by ballistics, diagrams and various crime-scene reports made her smile. "Hello,

Duncan."

"Just checking to make sure I still have a crew for tomorrow."

"I think you'd best use the term 'crew' loosely, but yes, we're on for that. Carly would give me the silent treatment until her eighteenth birthday if I pulled out of this."

"Silent treatment's a formidable weapon. It makes me beg every time."

"Good to know."

"And stupid to admit. Anyway, I was meeting with Phin earlier today, and ended up asking his gang to come along tomorrow. That all right with you?"

"Absolutely. Carly'll be thrilled to have someone her age around.

She loves me, but I will bore her after a bit." She leaned back from the work, rising to walk to the terrace windows. "It sounds more like a party. I could use a party, I think."

"Figured you had a rough one. I caught you on TV this afternoon. Is it shallow of me to say you looked hot?"

She laughed. "Yes, and thank you. It's a god-awful mess, Duncan. God-awful."

"Why don't I come over for a bit? I'll be shallow again, sneak up to your room and distract you with heroic sex."

She had one silly and delightful fantasy image of him scaling the wall to her terrace. "Oh God, that sounds amazing. But no. Are you home? On the island?"

"Yeah, I had some stuff, so I'm here. But I've dealt with a good chunk of the stuff, and the rest can wait. If heroic sex is out, we can just neck like teenagers in the parlor, or watch a bad movie."

"I'd love to do any of that. Possibly all of that. But I don't want you coming into the city, not tonight. Things are bubbling tonight. You're good where you are, should they boil over." She disengaged the alarm on her zone so she could step out onto her terrace. "It's warm tonight. Not hot but warm, and that's good. Heat can set these things off."

"How about if I tell you besides looking hot, you handled yourself really well in that press conference? Anybody looking at you during it who didn't see you cared had to be blind."

"A lot of this kind of thing is about blindness. And could I be any more depressing?"

"What are you wearing?" he asked after a beat. "What?"

"I'm cheering you up with phone sex. What are you wearing?"

"Oh. Hmmm." She looked down at her cotton pants and tank. That would never do. "Oh, nothing much, just this little black slip I picked up in a vintage shop."

"Nice. Anything under it?"

"Just a few dabs of perfume... here and there."

"Very nice."

"How about you? What are you wearing?"

"Guess."

"Jeans. Just jeans, those washed-a-few-hundred-times Levi's. Riding low on the hips with the waistband button carelessly open."

"My God. You must be psychic."

With a sound of amusement, she sat down. For the first time in twenty-four hours her stomach wasn't knotted. "Oh my, these straps just keep falling off my shoulders. Those would be my delicately scented creamy white shoulders. I probably shouldn't be out here dressed like this, leaning over the railing. Why, my soft yet firm breasts might-oops-spill right out. What would the neighbors think?"

"You're a killer, Phoebe."

"Honey, I'm just getting started."

In the morning, it was easy to put the work away, to tuck it into a corner of her mind. Death and sadness, Phoebe supposed, had a way of making those who brushed up against them appreciate a blue-skied, sunny day, and the excited chatter of a child.

And Carly's first sight of the boat said it all.

"It's big! And it's pretty! This is going to be the best time ever."

"Then we better get started," Duncan decided.

"But where are the sails? You said it was a sailboat."

"They're rolled up right now. We'll hoist 'em once we're clear." He clambered on, then held out a hand for the girl. "Here you go. Welcome aboard."

"Can I look at stuff?"

"Sure."

"But don't touch," Phoebe called out as she came aboard. "It is big, and it is pretty. And I realized I should have asked if you really know how to handle this thing."

"I've only capsized her four times. Kidding. I always wanted to sail. Used to come down here and watch the boats. So when I decided to get a boat, I took lessons-and a course-as I didn't want to drown after achieving a lifelong dream. Still, the kids need to wear PFDs. Personal flotation devices. So will Biff."

"Who's Biff?"

"That would be Biff." Duncan pointed.

Phoebe spotted Phin, his wife and his little girl coming down the dock. Lumbering on a leash ahead of them was a stubby-legged, homely faced bulldog.

"Phin's dog. He figured a bulldog would lend an air of dignity. Which, you could say, he does if you discount the drool." Obviously an old sea hand, Biffjumped aboard, then wiggled his butt until Duncan hunkered down to rub him all over.

"What a perfect day for this. I'm going to do as much of absolutely nothing as possible." Loo stretched. "Hi, Phoebe. I hope you'll be joining me."

"I'll be glad to. Hi, Phin. Hi, Livvy."

"Puppy!" Carly scrambled on deck from the cabin below and all but tackled Biff. "Oh, he's so cute! What's his name? Mama, can't we get a puppy?"

"She's painfully shy," Phoebe announced. "I hope you'll pardon her."

"He's Biff." Not quite as outgoing as Carly, Livvy clung to her mother's hand. "He likes his belly rubbed."

Carly beamed and obliged the now ecstatic Biff. "There're beds downstairs and tables, and a kitchen and a bathroom and everything. Do you want to see?"

"I've seen it before."

"Let's go see it again. With Biff."

Livvy looked up at her mother. "I guess so."

"Those are pretty shoes," Carly said as they started down. "Maybe I can try them on. You can try mine on, too.

It was an experience, Phoebe thought, to motor away from the dock, steam and slip through the water with the little girls fused together at the stern, and the not-so-dignified dog sitting on the starboard bench with his funny face lifted to the air.

But it was nothing to the moment when the white sails rose and filled with wind. Like the dog, Phoebe lifted her face.

"Mimosas," Loo announced, and offered a glass as she sat beside Phoebe.

"Oh God. This must be heaven. Are we going to have to jib or hoist or some other salty term?"

"Only if the spirit moves. Phin doesn't know what the hell he's doing unless Duncan tells him, but he likes to pretend he does." She smiled over at the men. "But he's game. Me, I tried to talk Dune into a motorboat-cabin cruiser. But he just had to have sails." She drew in a long breath, stretched out incredibly long legs. "Hard to argue at times like this."

"You've known him a long time."

"Known him, been crazy about him. So if you screw with him, I'll find a way to hurt you. Other than that, we'll be fine."

"Do people often screw with him?"

"Not many, not often. He's got excellent radar. There was a woman a few years back cruised under that radar. Butter wouldn't melt." Loo sipped her mimosa. "I couldn't stand her. But Dune, he was fond, and she was clever with her hard-luck stories. She got a few thousand out of him before she blipped for him."

"What did he do about her?"

Loo flicked her middle finger against her thumb. "He's an easygoing sort, but he has a low tolerance for lies."

"Are you warning me, Loo?"

"Irritated. Good. Makes me like you more, which I already do. And

I like your little girl. I saw your press conference yesterday." Loo lifted her eyebrows as Phoebe's face went cool and blank. "Let me start off saying things aren't black and white for me. First, I'm a lawyer, so I live in the gray. Second, that man up there with mine is family-and I do believe he's white. And last, I thought you handled yourself very well in what's a very difficult, even delicate situation. That's all I wanted to say about that. Those are pretty shoes," Loo commented with a nod toward Phoebe's sandals. "Maybe I could try them on."

With a laugh, Phoebe relaxed and enjoyed the ride.

They had lunch on the lake, and splashed and swam in it. Carly was given the thrill of her life with a turn at the tiller.

"Having fun?" Duncan asked when Phoebe joined him at the bow. "It's going down as the best day of my life in recent memory."

"We can extend it. Cruise over to my place. We can wear Carly out, tuck her up somewhere, tuck ourselves up somewhere else."

"What about Biff and company?"

"I'll just toss them all overboard." He leaned down to kiss her laughing mouth. "Say the word."

"The word is I like your friends too much to toss them."

"I was afraid of that."

"But I will be inviting you in for drinks in the courtyard when you escort us home."

"I'll be accepting. Listen... " He cupped his hand at the back of her neck and let his kiss shimmer out.

"What?" Phoebe managed. "Not a thing."

"Why do people close their eyes when they kiss?" Carly demanded, and Phoebe turned to see her daughter studying her with considerable interest.

"I don't know." Duncan frowned thoughtfully. "Let's try it the other way." Eyes open and amused, he pulled Phoebe back for another kiss. "It's good that way, too."

"Mama says she's too old for boyfriends."

"Carly-"

"What do you think?" Duncan asked, interrupting Phoebe's protest. "I think if you're going to be taking her on dates and kissing her all the time, you should be her boyfriend. And Ava told Grandma it's good Mama's getting some romance because-"

"Carly go get yourself one of those cookies, or something else to put in your mouth."

"You said I had enough cookies."

"I changed my mind."

"That's about enough snickering over there," Phoebe said, waving a hand toward Phin and Loo. And over here, too," she added to Duncan. "Are we having some romance?" he asked her. He grabbed her, dropped her into a romance-novel dip. "Let's have some more." Phin's wolf whistle joined, the buzzing in her ears before she could struggle her way up again. "I think that's about all the romance I can handle in a public forum. I'm going to go have another cookie." Romance, she thought after she'd given Duncan a final kiss good night. That was more complicated than an affair, no question about it. But it was foolish to pretend a romance wasn't what she was having. And enjoying.

So she wasn't going to pick it apart or second-guess it. She was just going to keep enjoying it for as long as it lasted.

She undressed, thinking how wonderful a shower would feel after a day on the water. When her phone rang, she half-expected it would be Duncan, calling her minutes after he left to tell her something to make her laugh.

The display on the Caller ID had her stomach sinking. "Hello, Roy." Less than ten minutes later she was stalking downstairs and grabbing a half gallon of cookie dough ice cream from the freezer.

Essie walked in as Phoebe scooped it straight out of the carton and into her mouth. "Oh! You had a fight with Duncan."

"I didn't have a fight with Duncan. I didn't have a fight with anyone. I wanted some damn ice cream."

"Mind that tone," Essie warned with steel in her voice. "You only eat ice cream that way when you're upset. Duncan's barely out the door, so-"

"I said I didn't have a fight with Duncan. Duncan's not the center of my universe. I don't make men the center of my universe and I'm not about to..." She heard herself, could nearly see the nasty edge to the words slicing out like little shards of broken glass.

"I'm sorry. I am upset." She dropped down at the table, dug out more ice cream. "I haven't got enough of this in me yet to calm down or get good and sick, and not take it out on someone else."

Essie walked to the drawer, got out another spoon. She sat, spooned some ice cream out of the carton for herself. "What happened?"

"Roy called. He's getting married again."

"Oh." Essie took a second, bigger spoonful. "To anyone we know? So we know where to send our condolences?"

"Thanks, Mama. He's getting married to someone named Mizzy. Can you believe that? She's twenty-four."

"A bimbo, no doubt about it. Poor thing."

"The bimbo comes from money, and they're moving to Cannes, or maybe it was Marseilles. My ears started ringing by that point. Her family has interests there he's going to help run. And he tells me all this as he doesn't want my panties in a twist if the next couple child support checks are a bit late. Due to changing his location and banking and so on."

"He's always been timely with that anyway."

"Yes, because it's an automatic withdrawal from his account, so he doesn't even have to think of it. Of her." It wasn't rage anymore in her voice, on her face. It was grief. "He never even asked about her, Mama. He never asked how she was, never thought to suggest he might tell his daughter himself, or invite her to the wedding."

"She wouldn't go. And, baby girl, you wouldn't like it if she did."

"That's beside the point. It is. And I know I'm getting upset over something that isn't any different than it was, really. Except the son of a bitch is marrying someone almost ten years younger than me, named Mizzy, and his daughter isn't even an afterthought."

"What was it my grandmother used to say? A skunk doesn't change its stink. It's a little crude, but it fits. His life's about as deep as a puddle of spit-and that's crude, too. She won't care, Phoebe. Roy isn't so much as a bump against Carly's heart. You shouldn't let him be one against yours."

"You're right. I know you're right. She never had enough of him to miss any of it."

"But you did."

"I had the illusion." Phoebe scraped more ice cream from carton to spoon, studied it. Ate it. "Maybe that's worse. He can't help being what he is. Even if what he is is a goddamn skunk. Thanks."

Roy wasn't worth even her anger, Phoebe told herself as she went upstairs to shower. But the phone call had reminded her why romance was a slippery slope. Better, much better, to keep it all up front, keep it all simple. So no one got hurt.

It might be time to slow things down just a little with Duncan.

She'd already made another date with him while the dream of the day had been on her. But that was fine. She'd just explain to him that she wasn't looking for anything more than friendship, companionship and sex.

What man could argue with that?