DETECTIVE COULTER HAD ASKED FOR ME. What the hell was that all about? I hadn't known we were so close. Because we weren't. I'd met him only a couple of times. We were friendly, but not exactly friends. So why did Dennis Coulter want me here? 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.