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the only woman on the hostage negotiator team, and, at twenty-seven, with two years as a full-fledged negotiator under her belt, she was the youngest and least experienced. Add to that the fact that she was the daughter of New Orleans’ superintendent of police, and attractive enough so that she was more or less constantly fending off come-ons from her fellow cops, and skepticism as to her performance abilities had initially abounded. Caroline took pride in the fact that she had laid those concerns to rest. No, she had used them, harnessing them to fuel herself to be the best at her job that she could be.
    Which was pretty damned good, if she did say so herself.
    She had earned the respect of her fellow officers because she deserved it.
    She said, “I’d like to try to establish a connection with the perp before anyone else goes in there. In case he does have the house set to blow.”
    The men looked at one another. Villard shrugged. Lagasse looked dubious. Dixon nodded.
    “Okay,” Dixon said. “Go ahead.” To the others he added, “She’s good.” Then his eyes slashed back to Caroline and gleamed with sudden humor. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”
    Caroline shot him a withering look.
    “We got eyes in the house,” a man’s voice called excitedly from inside the van.
    “Way to go, Isaacs,” Dixon boomed back. He made a gesture for Caroline to precede him into the van. She did, ascending the fold-down steps into dim overhead lighting and walls lined with desks and computer equipment in a space about the size of a tin can.
    “Hey.” Walking forward, she nodded at the two technicians, Rob Isaacs and Kevin Holder, who were seated in front of the control panels. As Dixon stepped inside, behind her she found her attention riveted on the eye-level monitors. There was a row of them, fed by the telescoping antennas that stretched up from the van’s roof like a bug’s feelers.
    They were showing scenes from inside the house.
    “I was able to hack into the mansion’s security system,” Isaacs said to Dixon.
    Caroline barely heard him.
    On the monitor to her far left was her father, Col. Martin Wallace, in full dress uniform, not a strand of his snow-white hair out of place, his craggy face set in angry lines. He was seated in a chair in what looked to be a large, wood-paneled library or conference room. Men in tuxedos and women in ball gowns sprawled facedown on the floor in front of him. In a moment she would do a head count, check for visible injuries.
    But for now, all she could do was look at her father’s grim face—and at the handsome, black-haired man who held a gun to his head.
    Her breathing suspended.
    She knew him. More than knew him, in fact. She’d once had a hell of a thing for him.
    Over long ago, of course.
    One of the NOPD’s own: Detective Reed Ware.
    What the hell?
    The shock she felt upon identifying him threatened to tip her world on its axis.
    She’d be damned if she was going to let it.
    “He’s one of us,” she said tightly. “What’s the story?”
    Scowling at the monitor, Dixon folded his arms over his chest. “No idea. Nobody’s had a chance to talk to him yet. Only word we’ve gotten about what’s happening in there is from people fleeing the scene.”
    “Who called it in?”
    His eyes shifted in her direction. “Initial call went out on a silent alarm when somebody hit a panic button in the library. Since then, 911’s been blowing up with cell phone calls. I’d say, everybody in the damned place.”
    First things first . “Anybody dead? Wounded?”
    “None known so far.”
    Caroline felt a glimmer of relief. The situation had not yet totally spiraled out of control. “That’s a plus.”
    “You all right to do this?” Dixon asked her. “I know it’s hitting close to home, what with your father being involved. But at midnight on Christmas Eve, getting anybody else out here is going to take some time.”
    “I’m fine,” she said, and she was.