The Pied Piper by Ridley Pearson Page B

wall.
    â€œYou’re incompetent! All of you!” the man shouted. “Stop!” he ordered Boldt, taking yet another step closer to the door.
    Boldt moved with him, one final step. Weinstein tracked him, nervously pulled in the same direction. Flemming looked prepared to spring.
    â€œPut the gun down!” Daphne begged, not wanting the risk of a physical intervention. “Please, Sidney. For Trish, for Hayes. Put … the gun … down … now !”
    Weinstein’s face bunched in grief and his shoulders shook. He could no longer support the weight of the weapon. Its barrel sagged toward the floor.
    Flemming sprang like a cat, chopped the man’s arm to the floor, dislodging the gun, yanked an arm back hard and threw a choke hold onto the man, all in one fluid movement. He kneed the back of the man’s legs, dropped him to the floor face down and fell atop him. Boldt reached them, fished under Flemming and cuffed Weinstein’s wrists. “Got him,” Boldt announced.
    â€œCheck it,” Flemming demanded, not letting up the pressure, charged with anger.
    A uniformed cop toed the fallen weapon away and retrieved it.
    Boldt tugged. “Okay. He’s cuffed.” He overheard Flemming whisper menacingly into Weinstein’s ear, “You’re a son-of-a-bitch. You know how hard these people are working for you?” Flemming smacked the man’s forehead to the floor and then climbed off, panting.
    As he stood, the room exploded into applause.

    Weinstein was hauled off to booking, Daphne by his side. Boldt, Hale and Flemming gathered in the coffee lounge. Hale shook Flemming’s hand like a player to the coach. Flemming’s black face shined bright with sweat as he met eyes with Boldt and said, “You’re thinking I was a little rough with him.”
    â€œI’m thinking you’re fast for your size, and I’m grateful for it.”
    â€œHe’d lost control of himself. That’s something I abhor. Emotion and reason—it’s a delicate balance. Got the better of me for a moment.”
    â€œHe’d flipped out,” Hale said, eager to be part of the conversation.
    â€œNot that I don’t empathize,” Flemming added. “I can imagine the loss he’s suffered, a parent’s grief, the guilt. Who wants to sit on the sidelines? I wouldn’t. And given his history—having called nine-one-one but to no good—one can hardly blame him for the anger, the frustration. The rage.”
    Boldt said, “You don’t settle it with a gun.”
    â€œYou have children,” Flemming said. “How would you feel if the situation were reversed?”
    â€œHow I would feel, and what I would do about it are separate matters,” Boldt said.
    â€œAre they? Only if you have reason and emotion balanced and in check,” Flemming explained. “Weinstein didn’t. Once a person loses that balance, there’s no telling what’s going to happen, what he’ll do. I’ve seen it firsthand, maybe you have too. I even feel that way myself sometimes,” he said more quietly, “on the edge like that.”
    â€œI’ve been there.” Hale sounded proud of himself.
    â€œWe all have our breaking points,” Boldt agreed. “Weinstein certainly found his.” Boldt realized he and Flemming had not broken eye contact since the start of their conversation. Flemming came off as an intense man; he took over without any apparent effort on his part. “A born leader,” men like Flemming were called. “Thanks for what you did out there.”
    The two men shook hands again. “Thanks for moving him toward me. We made a pretty good team out there.”
    Boldt didn’t want to think of himself as part of Flemming’s team. He took the stairs back to his own floor, considering the line between emotion and reason, wondering what it had felt like inside Weinstein’s mind