The Unquantifiable Variable
By BeckyS
April, 2005


The Eppes family and the characters and situations from the TV show "NUMB3RS" are the property of the Scotts and the creation of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.

Chapter Two, Part Three

Don flashed his badge at the policeman guarding the yellow tape at the scene, and searched for the center of activity. He automatically noted that both an outer and inner perimeter had been established, as well as the beginnings of what looked like a command post. A frantic gray-haired black woman was being gently but forcibly held by another police officer safely behind a van while a female officer tried to question her. An older black man in a silvery-gray suit stood off to the side. Don kept his badge in hand as he approached. "Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI," he said softly. "My office said you called for us?"

"Detective Tom Nolan, LAPD." He led Don a few steps away, still keeping the van between them and the scene. "Two men robbed the savings and loan, then ran into the hardware store." He tilted his head in that direction. "Her granddaughter is still in there. They grabbed the girl on the way in, shoved the woman out the door. Two shots have been fired, but we don't know if anyone inside is hurt."

Don grimaced. "Do you know how many hostages?"

"Can't get anything out of her." He shook his head. "Not that I don't sympathize – I've got a granddaughter myself. It doesn't help us, though." He looked around, searching the lot. "You're the only one? I thought you Feds sent teams out."

"I was just around the corner – the rest are on the way." He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked over at the woman. "Let me try?"

Nolan raised an eyebrow. "As long as my people hear it, too."

"No problem," Don said. "What's her name?"

"Alana Gibson. The girl's name is Leeda."

"Thanks."

He studied the woman as he approached, noting she was still trying to get loose from the policeman. She was all of five feet tall and maybe fifty years old, but she fought him like a tiger.

He held out his badge. "Mrs. Gibson? Don Eppes, FBI."

She turned her head slightly toward him. "FBI?" she asked bitterly. "And what are you going to do? Tell me, like them, to just sit here and do nothing while my Leeda is inside?"

She reminded him forcibly of his father – hadn't he just had a similar conversation with him? "No, ma'am, I'm not. I know you're worried about her. I'm going to ask you to give me as much information as you can, so we can get Leeda out. I need you to tell me just exactly what happened."

"I told these folks a man ran in and grabbed my granddaughter and then shot at me."

She tugged again, trying to get her arm loose, but at least she was talking to him.

"How many shots, Mrs. Gibson?"

"How many—?" She stopped pulling and finally gave him her full attention. "It was . . . it was one. Just one."

"How many men?"

"Two. The tall one shot at me. He—he shot at me." Her eyes opened wide and she suddenly swayed.

Don caught her around the waist and nodded at the two officers, who moved back to talk with Nolan. She looked like she didn't have the strength to take a single step. He guided her to the open side of the van and eased her down to sit on the step to the van. "Mrs. Gibson," he said, trying to get her attention. He crouched squarely in front of her. "Mrs. Gibson, tell me about Leeda."

"She's seven. Just seven years old." She raised her eyes to his. "She's my son's daughter."

"Okay. I want you to know that we're going to do everything we can to get her back to you safely."

She looked at him, lost. "I just wanted to get some new knobs for my dresser. I was taking Leeda back to her mother and I was only going to take a minute." She grabbed his arm, hard. "Why would they take her from me? Why?"

"Mrs. Gibson, I don't have an answer for that yet." He suspected the robbers had acted on impulse, knowing that all law enforcement officers would think twice about firing a weapon when there was a child nearby. "I know this is hard, but I need you to help me. I need you to tell me what happened; I need you to tell me what you saw."

Her breath hitched, but she regained control. "Yes. Yes, I'll do whatever I can to help."

"Good," he encouraged. "Anything you can tell me might help get Leeda and the other people back. Tell me what you saw."

"The other—? Oh." Her focus suddenly shifted and she frowned. "Yes, there would be others. There was the cashier, a sweet girl. I think she's related somehow to the manager. They look a lot alike. He was there, too. I remember seeing him coming out of his office." She glanced up.

"And?" he asked. "Who else did you see?"

She nodded. "There were two young men, one tall and blonde, looked very strong with big muscles. He looked like he was in his twenties. I saw him over in the piping section, over on the left side of the store. The other man is shorter. Thin. He has curly black hair and the sweetest smile. He was up front by the cash registers."

Don felt his heart sink. "Did you hear any names, ma'am?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't in there very long."

"Do you know if they left before you?"

She shook her head, watching him carefully. "I don't know about the taller man, but the young one – he was still deciding on a flashlight while I paid." She paused and leveled a keen gaze on him. "You're going to get them out, aren't you." It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

Her utter faith in his abilities shook him. "Mrs. Gibson, the only promise I can make is that I will do everything I can to get Leeda back to you."

Her eyes filled, but she blinked them back. "I'm not asking you for a miracle. I'll be saying my prayers for that. But you seem to me to be a strong, resourceful sort of person. I think you'll do as well as anyone could."

He took her hand and squeezed it once, gently, then stood. Eye to eye, they made their promises. He, to do everything possible; she, to have faith in him.

"Detective Nolan," he called.

The LAPD officer broke off from his discussion with his team and waved him over. "What did she say?"

"At least five hostages. The owner, Benito Mendez, Hispanic, about fifty-five with white hair and a white moustache; his daughter, Solana, who's twenty-five years old, five foot seven or so, hair just below her shoulders; two men, Caucasian – one big, tall, blonde, maybe twenty-five; the other not that much taller than Solana," he held out a hand at about his eye level, "twenty-nine with longish, curly black hair and dark brown eyes – and the little girl, seven years old."

Nolan whistled. "I'm impressed. She told you all that?"

Don shook his head. "She told me who was in there. I know the Mendezes. I grew up a few blocks away, and he's had the store a long time. My family still lives here – that's how I got here so fast. Do you have a description of the suspects?"

"Not much. We have the film coming from the savings and loan, but in the meantime, the teller said they were wearing nylon masks, so all she could guess was black hair for both of them. One was tall and thin, but looked strong; the other was short and compact. The short one told her he had a gun in his pocket, but what scared her was what she thought were wires under the taller guy's jacket."

"Wires? Explosives?"

Nolan hooked his thumbs in his pockets and sighed. "She's not sure – just going by what she's seen in movies. She's knows it might not have been real, but didn't want to take chances."

"Smart," Don nodded.

"I've got men checking every car in the vicinity. They're running the plates on them, checking them with DMV. As soon as we get some names, we'll pass them on to your people."

"Good – we'll see if we can come up with anyone who has a record with us." Don looked around and saw that his team had finally arrived, though as unobtrusively as possible so as not to alarm the gunmen. They hadn't used sirens and had parked out of sight, but they were here, flak jackets and all. Terry had an extra in her hand – his.

"Terry, David, this is LAPD Detective Tom Nolan. Detective, Agent Lake and Agent Sinclair."

"The rest of the team is on their way," Terry said. "There's an incident at LAX, so we're drawing people and equipment in from all over the city." She angled away from them, drawing Don with her body language. "Fill me in?" she suggested.

David took the hint and drew Nolan back to his men, asking about the layout of the stores so they could position their snipers in the best possible locations. Terry and Don walked over behind his car to speak in private.

"Charlie?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's inside."

"Oh, Don! Do you know if he's okay?" She glanced at the storefront. "Does your dad know?"

"He's on his way over. I made him wait at the house to make sure Charlie didn't turn up, and Amita's gonna bring him. We don't know if the hostages are okay; there were two shots fired. One took out one of the front windows, but we don't know where the other one went. They haven't tried to contact us so far, and these guys don't have a command post, so we haven't been able to figure out what's going on in there."

"Well, we can take care of that as soon as our CP gets here," she answered.

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. "First things first, get more information. And we try to set up communications with them, get them talking to us." He paused. "And Nolan—"

"Let me guess. He doesn't know one of the hostages is your brother?"

"No."

"We have to tell him. We have to use every bit of information we have, and Charlie's a big variable."

Don ran his hand through his hair. "I know. But I don't want him yanking the operation out from under us just because my brother is in there."

She stepped in front of him and grabbed both of his arms and stared him straight in the eye. "Don, I have to ask – are you okay with this?"

"No," he said, leaning wearily against the car. "I'm not. That's my brother in there, someone who shouldn't have to deal with this kind of thing, someone I'm supposed to be protecting – so he can scrawl stuff I'll never understand on his blackboards and teach kids to solve problems that'll make the world a better place. Maybe even a place where people like us aren't needed so much. Damn it, Charlie belongs inside those ivy-covered walls, in those weird buildings, in an ivory tower where everything can be measured and evaluated and fit into its own little corner – not out here in the real world, this filthy place where people can get killed—" He cut himself off and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I'm sorry."

"You needed to say it, to get it out. No need to be sorry." She handed him the vest. "Now you can concentrate on your job. Right?"

He heaved a sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, now I can get on with it." He slipped into the vest and set his mind on the job to be done. "C'mon. Let's get the command post set up."