Lights blinked on in surrounding hotel rooms. Curtains slid back, shutters flashed wide, glass doors opened.
Shit.
Stay inside, people. And for the love of God, no posting to YouTube.
Out of his peripheral, he could see Sam already in position, blocking access to the elevators. Hickok was closing in from the other side, completing the pincer movement. This was over. The suspect just didn’t know it yet.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Jason called. “Drop the bag.”
The suspect looked to the elevators and then back at Hickok.
Jason repeated, “Drop the bag. Get on the ground.”
The suspect hesitated. Was he just stupid? Or really stupid? Did he have a weapon? Jason’s hand tightened on the Glock’s grip. Sweat prickled his hairline.
“You. On the ground. Facedown on the ground.”
“Okay! Okay!” The suspect showed his palms. A blur of white. No gloves. No weapon. “I’m with the press.”
“On. The. Fucking. Ground.”
The suspect complied, dropping to his knees, still protesting. “I’m with the press. Chris Shipka. You know me.”
Maybe yes, maybe no. Still, Jason’s tension eased a fraction. Their unsub was exhibiting the right mix of alarm and indignation you’d expect from a citizen who felt he was being unjustly accused. “Arms spread to your side. Palms up.”
“Lie down and shut up.” Hickok came up behind the suspect, planting a foot in his backpack and knocking him prone. “Arms outstretched.”
“Watch my camera!”
“Don’t move a muscle, asshole.”
Shipka continued to protest as Hickok patted him down with rough efficiency.
Jason kept his pistol trained unwaveringly on Shipka. His heart was still pounding hard. But hey, compared to eight months ago? When having to pull his weapon had practically triggered an anxiety attack? Here was progress.
“He’s unarmed,” Hickok informed Jason. He yanked open Shipka’s backpack and swore. “Unless you count this.” He held up a Nikon camera in one hand and a telephoto lens in the other.
“Be careful with that! For fuck’s sake,” Shipka protested. “Haven’t you Nazis heard of freedom of the press?”
Shit. Shit. And triple shit. Speaking of YouTube videos.
Jason slowly lowered his pistol. Sam reached them, holstering his own weapon. He took in the camera Hickok held aloft and swore. “That’s just goddamned great. ID?”
Hickok pulled out a wallet, thumbed through the contents, and said morosely, “Christopher Shipka, age 35, lives in Van Nuys.” He looked up at Jason and Sam. “He’s got a press card. He works for the Valley Voice.”
“I told you.” Shipka’s muffled voice sounded incensed. “Can I get up now?”
“No. You sure as hell can’t,” Hickok snapped.
“What the hell were you doing outside that hotel room?” Jason asked.
“I followed you.” Shipka raised his head to peer at Jason. “I followed you from the museum.”
“Me?” Alarm washed through Jason. “What are you talking about? You followed—you did what?” He could feel both Sam and Hickok staring at him.
“I’m the one writing those stories about you,” Shipka said. He sounded sort of sheepish and sort of defiant.
“Christ,” Hickok said. “It’s the president of your fan club.”