A while back, I had worked with Dennis Coulter on an investigation of drug dealers who were trying to connect, and control, the trade in D.C. and Baltimore and everywhere in between. I’d found Coulter to be tough, very egotistical, but good at his job. I remembered he was a big Eubie Blake fan, and that Blake was from Baltimore.

Coulter and his hostages were huddled somewhere inside the house, a gray wood-shingle Colonial on Ailsa Avenue in Lauraville, in the northeast part of Baltimore. Venetian blinds were tightly closed in the windows. What was going on behind the front door was anybody’s guess. Three stone steps climbed to the porch, where a rocking chair and a wooden glider sat. The house had recently been painted, which suggested to me that Coulter probably hadn’t been expecting trouble in his life. So what happened?

Several dozen Baltimore PD, including SWAT team members, had surrounded the house. Weapons were drawn and, in some cases, aimed at the windows and the front door. The Baltimore police helicopter unit Foxtrot had responded.

Not good.

I already had one idea. “What do you think about everybody lowering their guns for starters?” I asked the field commander from the Baltimore PD. “He hasn’t fired on anybody, has he?”

The field commander and SWAT team leader conferred briefly, and then weapons around the perimeter were lowered, at least the ones I could see. Meanwhile, one of the Foxtrot helicopters continued to hover close to the house.

I turned to the commander again. I needed him on my side. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Have you been talking to him?”

He pointed to a man crouched behind a cruiser. “Detective Fescoe has the honor. He’s been on the horn with Coulter for about an hour.”

I made a point of walking over to Detective Fescoe and introducing myself. “Mick Fescoe,” he said, but he didn’t seem overjoyed to meet me. “Heard you were coming. We’re fine here.”

“This intrusion isn’t my idea,” I told him. “I just left the force in D.C. I don’t want to get in anybody’s way.”

“So don’t,” Fescoe said. He was a slender, wiry man who looked as if he might have played some ball at one time. He moved like it.

I rubbed my hand over my chin. “Any idea why he asked for me? I don’t know him that well.”

Fescoe’s eyes drifted toward the house. “Says he’s being set up by Internal Affairs. Doesn’t trust anybody connected to the Baltimore PD. He knew you’d gone over to the FBI recently.”

“Would you tell him I’m here? But also tell him I’m being briefed now. I want to hear how he sounds before I talk to him.”

Fescoe nodded, then he called the house. It rang several times before it was picked up.