The Devil's Teardrop

  The doctor continued. "Now, he asked for twenty million. And he was willing to kill hundreds of people to get it. He wasn't a progressive offender but he did raise the stakes because he knew--well, he believed-- he could get away. He believed he was good--but he was good. In other words his arrogance was backed up by talent."

  "Making the prick all the more dangerous," C. P. grumbled.

  "Exactly. No false sense of ego to trip him up. He was brilliant--"

  "Kincaid said he was highly educated." Lukas said, wishing again that the document examiner were here to kick these ideas around with. "He tried to disguise it in the note but Parker saw right through it."

  Evans nodded slowly at this information. Then asked, "What was he wearing when they brought him into the morgue?"

  C. P. found the list and read it to the doctor.

  Evans summarized, "So, cheap clothes."

  "Right."

  "Not exactly the sort of thing you'd expect from somebody with the intelligence to set this whole thing up and who was asking for twenty million dollars."

  "True," Cage said.

  "Which means what?" Lukas asked.

  "I see a class issue here," Evans explained. "I think he preferred to kill rich people, society people. He saw himself as better than them. Sort of a heroic common man."

  Hardy pointed out, "But in the first attack he had the Digger gun down everybody, not just the wealthy."

  Evans said, "But consider where. Dupont Circle. It's Yuppieville there. Hardly Southeast. And the Mason Theater? Tickets for the ballet must've been selling for sixty bucks each. And there was the third location too," Evans reminded. "The Four Seasons. Even though he didn't hit it he sent us there. He was familiar with it. And it's very upscale."

  Lukas nodded. It seemed obvious to her now and she was upset she hadn't realized it earlier. She thought again about Parker--how he approached puzzles. Thinking broadly. It was so hard sometimes, though.

  Focus . . .

  "I think he was angry at the rich. At society's elite."

  "Why?" Cage asked.

  "I don't know yet. Not on the facts we have. But he did hate them. Oh, he was full of hate. And we should remember that when we're trying to figure out what his next target will be."

  Lukas pulled the morgue shot of the unsub closer, stared at him.

  What had been in his mind? What were his motives?

  Evans glanced at her and gave a short laugh.

  "What?" Lukas asked.

  He nodded at the extortion note. "I feel like it's the note I've been analyzing. Like that's the perpetrator."

  She'd been thinking just the same.

  Exactly what Parker Kincaid had said too.

  Focus . . .

  "Hold on, folks," Geller said. "We're getting something." Everyone leaned toward the screen on which they could see the words ". . . two miles south. The R . . ."

  Behind that phrase the computer was inserting combinations of the letters from the fragments of ash. It would reject them if the pen stroke of one letter didn't match a stroke from the one to its left. But the system had now added a letter i behind the R. Another one was forming behind that.

  "It's that funny i with a dot Parker was telling us about," Geller said.

  "The devil's teardrop," Lukas whispered.

  "Right," Geller said. "Then after that . . . a letter t. Is that a t? Damn tears, I can't see anything."

  "Yep," Lukas said. "Definitely a t. R-i-t."

  "What's that next letter?" Hardy asked, leaning toward the screen.

  "I can't tell," Lukas muttered. "It's too fuzzy. A short letter--without any--what'd Parker call them?--ascenders or descenders."

  She leaned over the tech's shoulders. The smell of smoke on him was strong. On the screen the letters were very faint, but, yes, there definitely was an i and a t. The next one though was just a blur.

  "Damn," Geller muttered. "The computer says that that's the letter that fits. The strokes match. But I can't make it out. Anybody see better than me?"

  "Looks like a zigzag or something," Lukas said. "An a or x maybe?"

  Cage's head shot up. "Zigzag? Could it be a z?"

  "Ritz!" Hardy blurted. "Maybe the Ritz-Carlton?"

  "That's got to be it!" Lukas said, nodding at Evans. "He's going after more rich people."

  "Sure!" Evans said. "And it makes sense--given his tendency to fool us--he'd figure we'd eliminate hotels because he used one before."

  In the office chair Geller rolled to a different computer. In five seconds he had a Yellow Pages telephone directory on the screen. "Two Ritzes in the area. One at Tysons Corner. And one in Pentagon City."

  Lukas said, "Parker said he'd stick to the District. I'm voting in Pentagon City."

  She called Jerry Baker and told him about the latest target. "I want every tactical agent in the District and Northern Virginia mobilized. And send skeleton crews to Tysons." She added, "You're not going to like it but no hoods and helmets."

  She meant: without Nomex hoods and Kevlar helmets--shorthand in the Bureau for going plainclothes.

  "You sure?" Baker asked uncertainly. When officers dress for undercover surveillance they can't wear as much body armor as in an overt tactical operation. It's far riskier, especially with a perp armed with an automatic weapon.

  "Has to be, Jerry. We've almost nailed this guy once and he's gonna be skittish as a deer. He sees anything out of the ordinary he's going to bolt. I'll take responsibility."

  "Okay, Margaret. I'll get on it."

  She hung up.

  She found Len Hardy staring at her. His face suddenly seemed older, tougher. She wondered if he was going to confront her again about his being on a tactical team. But he asked, "You're running the operation plainclothes?"

  "Right. Is there a problem with that, Detective?"

  "Does that mean you're not going to evacuate the hotel?"

  "No, I'm not," she answered.

  "But there'll be a thousand people there tonight."

  Lukas said, "It's got to be business as usual. The Digger can't suspect a thing."

  "But if he gets past us . . . I mean, we aren't even sure what he looks like."

  "I know, Len."

  He shook his head. "You can't do it."

  "We don't have a choice."

  The detective said, "You know what I do for a living--compile statistics. You want to know how many bystanders die in covert tactical operations? There's probably an eighty percent chance of significant fatalities among innocents if you try to take him down in a situation like that."

  "What do you suggest?" she snapped back, letting him see a flash of temper.

  "Keep your people plainclothes but get all the guests out. Leave the employees inside if you have to but move everybody else out."

  "The best we could do is get fifty or sixty agents inside the hotel," she pointed out. "The Digger walks in the front door, expecting to see five hundred guests, and he finds that few? He'd take off. And he'd go shoot up someplace else."

  "For Christ sake, Margaret," Hardy muttered, "at least get the kids out."

  Lukas fell silent, eyes on the note.

  "Please," the detective persisted.

  She looked into his eyes. "No. If we tried to evacuate anybody word would spread and there'd be panic."

  "So you're just going to hope for the best?"

  She glanced at the extortion note.

  The end is night . . .

  It seemed to be sneering at her.

  "No," Lukas said. "We're going to stop him. That's what we're going to do." A glance at Evans: "Doctor, if you could stay here." Then a glance at Hardy. "You handle communications."

  Hardy sighed angrily. He said nothing else.

  "Let's go," Lukas said to Cage. "I've got to stop by my office."

  "For what?" Cage asked, nodding to her empty ankle holster. "Oh, another backup?"

  "No, for some party clothes. We've got to blend."

  *

  "He's got som
ething good for us." Wendell Jefferies, the sleeves of his custom-made shirt rolled high, revealing health-club-toned arms.

  By "he" the aide meant Slade Phillips, Mayor Kennedy knew.

  The two men were in the City Hall office. The mayor had just given another embarrassing press conference, attended by only a dozen reporters, who, even as he spoke, took cell phone calls and checked pagers in hopes of getting better news from other sources. Who could blame them? Christ, he didn't have anything to say. All he could report on was the morale of some of the victims he'd been to visit at hospitals.

  "He's going on the air at nine," Jefferies now told the mayor. "A special report."

  "With what?"

  "He won't tell me," Jefferies said. "Somehow he thinks that would be unethical."

  Kennedy stretched and leaned back in the couch--a fake Georgian settee his predecessor had bought. The finish was chipping off the arms. And the hassock on which his size 12 feet rested was cheap; a piece of folded cardboard was stuffed under one leg to keep it from rocking.

  A glance at the brass clock.

  Dear your honor, thank you very much for coming to speak with us today. It has been an honor to hear you. You are a very good person for us children and students and we would like to commem . . . commem . . . commemorate your visit with this gift, which we hope you will like . . .

  The minute hand clicked forward one stoke. In an hour, he thought, how many more people would be dead?

  The phone rang. Kennedy glanced at it lethargically and let Jefferies answer.

  "Hello?"

  A pause.

  "Sure. Hold on." He handed the receiver to Kennedy, saying, "This is interesting."

  The mayor took the receiver. "Yes?"

  "Mayor Kennedy?"

  "That's right."

  "This is Len Hardy."

  "Detective Hardy?"

  "That's right. Is . . . Is anybody else listening?"

  "No. It's my private line."

  The detective hesitated then said, "I've been thinking . . . About what we were talking about."

  Kennedy sat up, took his feet off the couch.

  "Go ahead, son. Where are you?"

  "Ninth Street. FBI headquarters."

  There was silence. The mayor encouraged, "Go on."

  "I couldn't just sit here anymore. I had to do something. I think she's making a mistake."

  "Lukas?"

  Hardy continued, "They found out where he's going to hit tonight. The Digger, the shooter."

  "They did?" Kennedy's strong hand gripped the phone hard. Gestured to Jefferies to hand him a pen and paper. "Where?"

  "The Ritz-Carlton."

  "Which one?"

  "They aren't sure. Probably Pentagon City. . . . But, Mayor, she's not evacuating them."

  "She's what?" Kennedy snapped.

  "Lukas isn't evacuating the hotel. She's--"

  "Wait," Kennedy said. "They know where he's going to hit and she's not telling anyone?"

  "No, she's going to use the guests for bait. I mean, that's the only way to say it. Anyway, I thought about what you said. I decided I had to call you."

  "You did the right thing, Officer."

  "I hope so, I really hope that. I can't talk any longer, Mayor. I just had to tell you."

  "Thank you." Jerry Kennedy hung up and rose to his feet.

  "What is it?" Jefferies asked.

  "We know where he's going to hit. The Ritz. Call Reggie, I want my car now. And a police escort."

  As he strode to the door Jefferies asked, "How 'bout a news crew?"

  Kennedy glanced at his aide. The meaning of the look was unmistakable. It meant: Of course we want a news crew.

  *

  They're both standing awkwardly, side by side, four arms crossed, in the Digger's motel room.

  They're both watching TV.

  Funny.

  The pictures on the TV look familiar to the Digger.

  The pictures are from the theater. The place where he was supposed to spin around like he did in the Connecticut forest and send bullets into a million leaves. The theater where he wanted to spin, where he was supposed to spin, but he couldn't.

  The theater where the . . . click . . . where the scary man with the big jaws and tall hat came to kill him. No, that's not right . . . Where the police came to kill him.

  He watches the boy as the boy watches TV. The boy says, "Shit." For no reason, it seems.

  Just like Pamela.

  The Digger calls his voice mail and hears the woman's electronic voice say, "You have no new messages."

  He hangs up.

  The Digger does not have much time. He looks at his watch. The boy looks at it too.

  He is thin and frail. The area around his right eye is slightly darker than his dark skin and the Digger knows that the man he killed had hit the boy a lot. He thinks he's happy he shot the man. Whatever happy is.

  The Digger wonders what the man who tells him things would think about the boy. The man did tell him to kill anybody who got a look at his face. And the boy has gotten a look at his face. But it doesn't . . . click . . . it doesn't seem . . . click . . . seem right to kill him.

  Why, it seems to me that every day,

  I love you all the more.

  He goes into the kitchenette and opens a can of soup. He spoons some into a bowl. Looks at the boy's skinny arms and spoons some more in. Noodles. Mostly noodles. He heats it in the microwave for exactly sixty seconds, which is what the instructions tell him to do to get the soup "piping hot." He sets the bowl in front of the boy. Hands him a spoon.

  The boy takes one bite. Then another. Then he stops eating. He's looking at the TV screen. His small, bullet-shaped head lolls from one side to the other, his eyes droop, and the Digger realizes he's tired. This is what the Digger's head and eyes do when he's tired.

  He and the boy are a lot alike, he decides.

  The Digger motions to the bed. But the boy looks at him fearfully and doesn't give a response. The Digger motions to the couch and the boy gets up and goes to the couch. He lies down. Still staring at the TV. The Digger gets a blanket and drapes it over the boy.

  The Digger looks at the TV. More news. He finds a channel that has commercials. Selling hamburgers and cars and beer.

  Things like that.

  He says to the boy, "What's . . ." Click . . . "What's your name?"

  The boy looks at him with half-closed lids. "Tye."

  "Tye." The Digger repeats this several times to himself. "I'm going . . . I'm going out."

  "Butyoubeback?"

  What does he mean? The Digger shakes his head--his head with the tiny indentation above the temple.

  "You comin' back?" the boy mutters again.

  "I'm coming back."

  The boy closes his eyes.

  He tries to think of something else to say to Tye. There're some words he feels he wants to say but he doesn't remember what they are. It doesn't matter anyway because the boy is asleep. The Digger pulls the blanket up higher.

  He goes to the closet, unlocks it and takes out one of the boxes of ammunition. He pulls on the plastic gloves and reloads two clips for the Uzi and then he repacks the silencer. He locks up the closet again.

  The boy remains asleep. The Digger can hear his breathing.

  The Digger looks at the torn puppy bag. He is about to crumple it up and throw it out but he remembers that Tye looked at the bag and he seemed to like it. He liked the puppies. The Digger smooths it and puts it beside the boy so that if he wakes up while the Digger is gone he'll see the puppies and he won't be afraid.

  The Digger doesn't need the puppy bag anymore.

  "Use a plain brown bag for the third time," the man who tells him things told him.

  So the Digger has a brown paper bag.

  The boy turns over but is still asleep.

  The Digger puts the Uzi into the brown bag, pulls his dark coat and gloves on and leaves the room.

  Downstairs he gets into his car, a nice Toy
ota Corolla.

  He loves those commercials.

  Ohhhhh, everyday people . . .

  He likes those better than Oh, what a feeling . . .

  The Digger knows how to drive. He's a very good driver. He used to drive with Pamela. She'd drive fast when she drove and he'd drive slow. She got tickets and he never did.

  He opens the glove compartment. There are several pistols inside. He takes one and puts it in his pocket. "After the theater," warned the man who tells him things, "there'll be more police looking for you. You'll have to be careful. Remember, if anybody sees your face . . ."

  I remember.

  *

  Upstairs, in Robby's room, Parker sat with his son. The boy was sitting in bed, Parker in the bentwood rocker he'd bought at Antiques 'n' Things and tried unsuccessfully to refinish himself.

  Two dozen toys were on the floor, a Nintendo 64 plugged into the old TV, Star Wars posters on the walls. Luke Skywalker. And Darth Vader . . .

  Our mascot for the evening.

  Cage had said that. But Parker was trying not to think about Cage. Or Margaret Lukas. Or the Digger. He was reading to his son. From The Hobbit.

  Robby was lost in the story even though he'd heard his father read it to him a number of times. They gravitated to this book when Robby was frightened--because of the scene of slaying a fierce dragon. That part of the book always gave the boy courage.

  When he'd walked in the front door of his house not long ago the boy's face had lit up. Parker had taken his son's hand and they'd walked to the back porch. He'd patiently showed the boy once again that there were no intruders in the backyard or the garage. They decided that crazy old Mr. Johnson had let his dog out again without closing the fence.

  Stephie had hugged her father too and asked how his friend was, the sick one.

  "He's fine," Parker had said, looking for but finding not a bit of truth to hang the statement on. Oh, the guilt of parents . . . What a hot iron it is.

  Stephie had watched sympathetically as Robby and Parker had gone upstairs to read a story. At another time she might have joined them but she instinctively knew now to leave them alone. This was something about his children that Parker had learned: They bickered like all healthy youngsters, tried to outshine each other, engaged in typical sibling sabotage. Yet when something affected the core of one child--like the Boatman--the other knew instinctively what was needed. The girl had vanished into the kitchen, saying, "I'm making Robby a surprise for dessert."

  As he read he would glance occasionally at his son's face. The boy's eyes were closed and he looked completely content. (From the Handbook: "Sometimes your job isn't to reason with your children or to teach them or even to offer a sterling example of maturity. You simply must be with them. That's all it takes.") "You want me to keep reading?" he whispered.