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of charcoal gray, the color of the blazer she had given Paul for his birthday, the one he’d been wearing that morning. Still upright. Still alive.
    She watched that sleeve until Frank put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
    “A camera,” she told him. “We need a camera—”
    “Security has cameras in the lobby, remember? We’ll have a feed as soon as Jason here connects the monitor.” He introduced the young man as Chris Cavanaugh’s assistant.
    “Don’t you usually set up in a van or something?” she demanded of him.
    “Usually, but the A/C is on the blink, and we’d get heatstroke if we tried to work out there. And there’s not as much equipment as you’d think—all Chris really needs is a phone.”
    “And where is Chris?”
    “He’s on his way.”
    Theresa wiped her forehead, leaving a streak of makeup on the sleeve of her lab coat. She took it off and pulled her silk blouse away from her wet body to feel the clammy chill of air-conditioning. “Where’s everybody else? I expected a mob scene.”
    “Oh, it is,” Frank assured her. “We have fifteen units on the streets, cordoning off the area and redirecting traffic. The Fed security guys guided the employees from the building to the Hampton Inn; they’re sending most of them home just to get them out of the way. Snipers are picking their spots now. And the higher-ups are in the staff offices.” He jerked his head, indicating the low, constant murmuring that made its way over the headers. “Hashing out who’s in charge here.”
    “Who’s in charge ? Paul’s got a gun to his head, and they’re divvying up the glory?”
    The librarian paused, as if only sympathy restrained her from asking Theresa to keep her voice down. Over her head two stylized Greek gods stared at the group disapprovingly.
    “Don’t worry, Tess. It’s better they work it out now so it won’t get in the way later.”
    “So who is in charge?”
    “Technically, the Fed security force were the first responders, but with Paul in there and the possible Ludlow connection, Cleveland PD is involved. However, since it’s both a bank robbery and on federal property, the FBI can take over the whole show if they want to, and they want to. So right now the Feebs are nodding solemnly and promising to work together with the utmost cooperation, and not meaning a word of it. Not that I’m bitter or anything.”
    Theresa had great faith in the FBI—though she was too politic to admit as much to Frank—but found it scant comfort at themoment. The cavalry should be riding to the rescue, not huddled over a table behind stacks of books. “Terrific. And while they’re all making nice, are they paying any attention to what’s happening across the street? Shouldn’t we be calling these guys or something? Finding out what they want? You know, doing something?”
    Jason had sorted out a phone handset, a tape recorder, a large console studded with knobs and buttons, and enough wires to stretch across the city if placed end to end. “We don’t want to do anything right now except let the hostage takers calm down. The first thirty minutes or so of any crisis are the most dangerous.”
    She crossed her arms, both chilled and impatient. “And besides, Chris isn’t here.”
    Jason answered in a diplomatically even tone, “Yes.”
    “Won’t the FBI use their own hostage negotiator?”
    “They’ll fly one in, but you never want to disturb rapport once it’s been established. So if Chris has already opened negotiations, they’ll leave him in place and the FBI negotiator will be the secondary. I just hope it isn’t Laura.” He rummaged through a plastic bin and came up with an electrical adapter and a book, which he thrust into Theresa’s hands. “This is Chris’s.”
    She examined the glossy cover. Secrets of Hostage Negotiation by Christopher Cavanaugh. The artwork featured a ninjalike warrior with an automatic rifle, and she wondered if he was supposed to be the good guy