other side of the city—wait, Daniel had called his brother to find out where Chris was, maybe Andy would know?
Andy’s voice was slurred and sleepy, but within seconds he must have picked up on the confusion in his brother’s voice and then he was lucid and able to give some idea of how to go about finding Daniel.
“Why do you need to talk to him?”
“The message he left me—it seemed wrong.”
The coffee was lukewarm, and the somewhat suspicious looks he was getting from the guy in charge were enough to freeze what was left of the dishwater-strong caffeine in the plastic cup. It certainly wasn’t quality like he would get at Ame’s, but then he wasn’t exactly sitting pretty in the warm coffee shop dispensing caffeine and muffins to New Yorkers. In fact, he hadn’t set foot in Ame’s since he had left on a mission to find out what the hell had happened to his lover.
No one had helped him; no one would tell him anything. He was only informed that “Officer Daniel Bailey was on duty, and when he returned a message would be given to him.” It went from bad to worse when not even the cop he recognized from the second time Daniel visited the coffee shop would look him in the eye.
In the end he slid past busy, rushing cops and ended up in some kind of main office, placing his cell on the first available desk and talking loud enough so the cop flicking through papers actually listened to him.
“My friend left a message for me” was all Chris said, playing back the few words, wanting to shout, see, I’m important to him , but not really clear on how much Daniel’s colleagues knew of him being gay or not. He wanted to demand answers; surely they had some way of contacting Daniel, telling him that his friend Chris was worried. The cop at the desk, Johnson by the name on the badge on his chest, finally stopped filing the papers and glanced up. The entire room had fallen silent, uniformed and plainclothes alike, everyone just stopped. Chris looked around, tension coiling inside him. Something was wrong here. Reaching forward, the cop picked up the cell and then gestured for Chris to follow.
“Boss will need to talk to you.”
And now, an hour later, it was the blurry light of early morning, making everything seem surreal, and the hostage situation was a million times worse than anything that Chris had ever seen in the movies. Wasn’t there supposed to be an FBI guy, a clever-smart and wiseass FBI negotiator, getting the wife, Daniel, and Daniel’s partner out of the building?
Snow drifted steadily around the cordon of cop cars and tape, and still the situation had not been resolved. They were in a standoff, but Chris wanted to be doing something. Anything. The hostage-taker, Ansell Stewart, ex-Marine, allegedly had emotional problems—but didn’t appear to have any solid reason for taking his ex-wife hostage apart from some kind of mental breakdown. Daniel had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, answering an alarm at the offices. This much Chris had gleaned from standing in the small and changing crowd of people as close to the cordon as he could get.
His fingers were numb; he was exhausted, emotional, and was on the edge of grabbing a gun and going in himself. Forget what the experts said. Then he thought of Daniel, trapped in this rundown building, a complicated rabbit warren of rooms in the office block where the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Stewart was a cleaner. Suddenly he wasn’t so cold or eager to rush in and put Daniel’s life in danger anymore.
One of the cops from Daniel’s precinct had taken pity on him, fed him the limited information that he could, and had even supplied more of the police issue weak-as-piss coffee. There was some kind of commotion near one of the big white vans and friendly-cop gave Chris the thumbs up—clearly something was happening—maybe they were coming out and he held his breath, waiting.
It was over in an instant, a man being dragged out in
Andy’s voice was slurred and sleepy, but within seconds he must have picked up on the confusion in his brother’s voice and then he was lucid and able to give some idea of how to go about finding Daniel.
“Why do you need to talk to him?”
“The message he left me—it seemed wrong.”
The coffee was lukewarm, and the somewhat suspicious looks he was getting from the guy in charge were enough to freeze what was left of the dishwater-strong caffeine in the plastic cup. It certainly wasn’t quality like he would get at Ame’s, but then he wasn’t exactly sitting pretty in the warm coffee shop dispensing caffeine and muffins to New Yorkers. In fact, he hadn’t set foot in Ame’s since he had left on a mission to find out what the hell had happened to his lover.
No one had helped him; no one would tell him anything. He was only informed that “Officer Daniel Bailey was on duty, and when he returned a message would be given to him.” It went from bad to worse when not even the cop he recognized from the second time Daniel visited the coffee shop would look him in the eye.
In the end he slid past busy, rushing cops and ended up in some kind of main office, placing his cell on the first available desk and talking loud enough so the cop flicking through papers actually listened to him.
“My friend left a message for me” was all Chris said, playing back the few words, wanting to shout, see, I’m important to him , but not really clear on how much Daniel’s colleagues knew of him being gay or not. He wanted to demand answers; surely they had some way of contacting Daniel, telling him that his friend Chris was worried. The cop at the desk, Johnson by the name on the badge on his chest, finally stopped filing the papers and glanced up. The entire room had fallen silent, uniformed and plainclothes alike, everyone just stopped. Chris looked around, tension coiling inside him. Something was wrong here. Reaching forward, the cop picked up the cell and then gestured for Chris to follow.
“Boss will need to talk to you.”
And now, an hour later, it was the blurry light of early morning, making everything seem surreal, and the hostage situation was a million times worse than anything that Chris had ever seen in the movies. Wasn’t there supposed to be an FBI guy, a clever-smart and wiseass FBI negotiator, getting the wife, Daniel, and Daniel’s partner out of the building?
Snow drifted steadily around the cordon of cop cars and tape, and still the situation had not been resolved. They were in a standoff, but Chris wanted to be doing something. Anything. The hostage-taker, Ansell Stewart, ex-Marine, allegedly had emotional problems—but didn’t appear to have any solid reason for taking his ex-wife hostage apart from some kind of mental breakdown. Daniel had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, answering an alarm at the offices. This much Chris had gleaned from standing in the small and changing crowd of people as close to the cordon as he could get.
His fingers were numb; he was exhausted, emotional, and was on the edge of grabbing a gun and going in himself. Forget what the experts said. Then he thought of Daniel, trapped in this rundown building, a complicated rabbit warren of rooms in the office block where the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Stewart was a cleaner. Suddenly he wasn’t so cold or eager to rush in and put Daniel’s life in danger anymore.
One of the cops from Daniel’s precinct had taken pity on him, fed him the limited information that he could, and had even supplied more of the police issue weak-as-piss coffee. There was some kind of commotion near one of the big white vans and friendly-cop gave Chris the thumbs up—clearly something was happening—maybe they were coming out and he held his breath, waiting.
It was over in an instant, a man being dragged out in
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