The Devil's Teardrop

by Jeffery Deaver

  "A crematorium!" Parker said. "Yes! And the polished granite--that could be from tombstones. Let's look for a cemetery."

  Cage gazed at the map. He pointed. "Arlington?"

  The National Cemetery took up a huge area on the west side of the Potomac. The area around it must be saturated with granite dust.

  But Parker pointed out: "It's not near any industrial sites. Nothing with significant pollution."

  Then Lukas saw it. "There!" She pointed a finger, tipped with an unpolished but perfectly filed nail. "Gravesend."

  Tobe Geller highlighted the area on the map, enlarged it.

  Gravesend . . .

  The neighborhood was a part of the District of Columbia's Southeast quadrant. Parker had a vague knowledge of the place. It was a decrepit crescent of tenements, factories and vacant lots around Memorial Cemetery, which had been a slave graveyard dating back to the early 1800s. Parker pointed to another part of Gravesend. "Metro stop right here. The unsub could've taken the train directly to Judiciary Square--City Hall. There's a bus route nearby too."

  Lukas considered it. "I know the neighborhood--I've collared perps there. There's a lot of demolition and construction going on. It's anonymous too. Nobody asks any questions about anybody else. And a lot of people pay cash for rent without raising suspicion. It'd be the perfect place for a safe house."

  A young technician near them took a phone call and handed the receiver to Tobe Geller. As the agent listened to the caller his young face broke into an enthusiastic smile. "Good," he said into the phone. "Get it to the document lab ASAP." He hung up. "Get this . . . Somebody got a videotape from the Mason Theater shooting."

  "A tape of the Digger?" Cage asked enthusiastically.

  "They don't know what it's of exactly. Sounds like the quality's pretty bad. I want to start the analysis right away. Are you going to Gravesend?"

  "Yep," Parker said. Looked at his watch. Two and a half hours until the next attack.

  "MCP?" Geller asked Lukas.

  "Yeah. Order one."

  Parker recalled: a mobile command post. A camper outfitted with high-tech communications and surveillance equipment. He'd worked in one several times, analyzing documents at crime scenes.

  "I'll have a video data analyzer installed," Geller said, "and get going on the tape. Where will you be?"

  Lukas and Parker said simultaneously, "There." They found they were pointing at the same vacant lot near the cemetery.

  "Not many apartments around there," Cage pointed out.

  Parker said, "But it's close to the stores and restaurants."

  Lukas glanced at him and nodded. "We should narrow down the search by canvassing those places first. They'll have the most contact with locals. Tobe, pick up C. P. and Hardy and bring 'em with you in the command post."

  The agent hesitated, a dubious look on his face. "Hardy? We really need him?"

  Parker had been wondering the same thing. Hardy seemed like a nice enough guy, a pretty good cop. But he was way out of his depth in this case and that meant he, or somebody else, might get hurt.

  But Lukas said, "If it's not him the District'll just put somebody else on board. At least we can control Hardy. He doesn't seem to mind sitting in the back seat."

  "Politics suck," Cage muttered.

  As Geller pulled on his jacket Lukas said, "And that shrink? The guy from Georgetown? If he's not at headquarters yet have somebody drive him over to Gravesend."

  "Will do." Geller ran for the elevator, where he was, as he'd predicted, thoroughly searched.

  Lukas stared at the map of Gravesend. "It's so damn big."

  "I've got another thought," Parker said. He was thinking back to what he'd learned about the unsub from the note. He said, "We think he probably spent time on a computer, remember?"

  "Right," Lukas said.

  "Let's get a list of everybody in Gravesend who subscribes to an online service."

  Cage protested, "There could be thousands of 'em."

  But Lukas pointed out, "No, I doubt it. It's one of the poorest parts of the city. Computers'd be the last thing people'd spend money on."

  Cage said, "True. Okay, I'll have Com-Tech get us a list."

  "There'll still be a lot of territory to cover," Lukas muttered.

  "I've got a few other ideas," Parker said. And walked to the elevator door, where he too was diligently searched like a suspected shoplifter by the humorless guards.

  *

  Kennedy paced in a slow circle around the dark green carpet in his office.

  Jefferies was on his cell phone. He clicked it off.

  "Slade's got a few ideas but nothing's going to happen fast."

  Kennedy gestured toward the radio. "Well, they were damn fast to report that I've been sitting on my butt while the city's getting the hell shot out of it. They were fast to report that I didn't lift the hiring freeze at the police department so we'd have more money for Project 2000. Jesus, the media's making it sound like I'm an accomplice."

  Kennedy had just been to three hospitals to see the people wounded in the Digger's attacks and their families. But none of them seemed to care about his visit. All anyone asked was why wasn't he doing more to catch the killer?

  "Why aren't you at FBI headquarters?" one woman had demanded tearfully.

  Because they haven't fucking invited me, Kennedy thought furiously. Though his answer was a gentle "I'm letting the experts do their job."

  "But they're not doing their job. And you're not either."

  When he left her bedside Kennedy didn't offer to shake hands; her right arm had been so badly shot up it had been amputated.

  "Slade'll come up with something," Jefferies now said.

  "Too little, too late. Now, that man is too damn pretty," Kennedy spat out. "Pretty people . . . I never trust them." Then he heard the paranoid words and he laughed. Jefferies did too. The mayor asked, "Am I turning into a crank, Wendy?"

  "Yessir. It's my duty to tell you your brains've gone to grits."

  The mayor sat down in his chair. He looked at his desk calendar. If it weren't for the Digger he would have been attending four parties tonight. One at the French embassy, one at his alma mater, Georgetown University, one at the city workers' union hall, and--the most important, where he'd actually ring in the New Year--the African-American Teachers' Association in the heart of Southeast. This was the group that was lobbying hard to get his Project 2000 accepted among rank-and-file teachers throughout the District. He and Claire needed to be there tonight, as a show of support. And yet it would be impossible for him to attend any parties, do any celebrating, with that madman stalking the citizens of his city.

  A wave of anger passed through him and he grabbed the phone.

  "What," Jefferies asked cautiously, "are you going to do?"

  "Something," he answered. "I'm going to goddamn do something." He began dialing a number from a card on his Rolodex.

  "What?" asked Jefferies, now even more uneasy.

  But by then the call to FBI headquarters had been connected and Kennedy didn't respond to his aide.

  He was patched through several locations. A man's voice answered. "Yes."

  "This's Mayor Jerry Kennedy. Who'm I speaking to?"

  A pause. Kennedy, who often made his own phone calls, was used to the silence that greeted his salutation. "Special Agent C. P. Ardell. What can I do for you?"

  "That Agent Lukas, she's still in charge of the METSHOOT operation?"

  "That's right."

  "Can I speak to her?"

  "She's not here, sir, no. I can patch you through to her cell phone."

  "That's all right. I'm actually trying to reach the District liaison officer, Detective Hardy."

  Agent Ardell said, "Hold on. He's right here."

  A moment later a voice said tentatively, "Hello?"

  "This Hardy?"

  "Len Hardy, that's right."

  "This's your mayor again."

  "Oh. Well. How are you, sir?" Caution now mix
ed with the youth in the man's voice.

  "Can you update me on the case? I haven't heard a word from Agents Lukas or Cage. You have any idea where the Digger's going to hit next?"

  Another pause. "Nosir."

  The pause was too long. Hardy was lying about something.

  "No idea at all?"

  "They aren't exactly keeping me in the loop."

  "Well, your job's liaison, right?"

  "My orders are just to write a report on the operation. Agent Lukas said she'd contact Chief Williams directly."

  "A report? That's ass covering. Listen to me. I have a lot of confidence in the FBI. They do this shoot-'em-up stuff all the time. But how close are they to stopping this killer? Bottom line. No bullshit."

  Hardy sounded uneasy. "They have a few leads. They think they know the neighborhood where the unsub's safe house is--the guy who was killed by the truck."

  "Where?"

  Another pause. He pictured poor Hardy twisting in the wind, feds on one side, his boss on the other. Well, too fucking bad.

  "I'm not supposed to give out tactical information to anyone, sir. I'm sorry."

  "It's my city that's under attack and my citizens who're being slaughtered. I want answers."

  More silence. Kennedy looked up at Wendell Jefferies, who shook his head.

  Kennedy forced his anger down. He tried to sound reasonable as he said, "Let me tell you what I have in mind. The whole point of this scheme was for those men to make money. It's not to kill."

  "I think that's true, sir."

  "If I can just have a chance to talk to the killer--at this safe house or where he's going to hit at eight--I think I can convince him to give up. I'll negotiate with him. I can do that."

  Kennedy did believe this. Because one of his talents (in this respect like his namesake from the sixties) was his ability to persuade. Hell, he'd sweet-talked two dozen of the toughest presidents and CEOs in the District into accepting the tax that would fund Project 2000. He'd talked poor Gary Moss into naming names in the Board of Education scandal.

  Twenty minutes with this killer--even staring down the barrel of that machine gun of his--would be enough. He'd work out some kind of arrangement.

  "The way they're describing him," Hardy said, "I don't think he's the sort you can negotiate with."

  "You let me be the judge of that, Detective. Now, where's his safe house?"

  "I . . ."

  "Tell me."

  The line hummed. Still, the detective said nothing.

  Kennedy's voice lowered. "You don't owe the feds a thing, son. You know how they feel about you being on the task force. You're a step away from fetching coffee."

  "That's wrong, sir. Agent Lukas's made me part of the team."

  "Has she?"

  "Pretty much."

  "You don't feel like a third wheel? I'm asking that 'cause I feel like one. If Lanier had his way--you know Congressman Lanier?"

  "Yessir."

  "If he had his way my only job tonight'd be sitting in the reviewing stand on the Mall watching fireworks. . . . You and me--the District of Columbia's our city. So, come on, son, where's that goddamn safe house?"

  Kennedy watched Jefferies cross his fingers. Please . . . It would be perfect. I show up there, I try to talk the man into coming out with his hands up. Either he surrenders or they kill him. And either way, my credibility survives. Either way, I'm no longer the mayor who watched the murder of his city on CNN while he kicked back with a beer.

  Kennedy heard voices from the other end of the line. Then Hardy was back. "I'm sorry, Mayor, I have to go. There're people here. I'm sure Agent Lukas will be in touch."

  "Detective . . ."

  The line went blank.

  *

  Gravesend.

  The car carrying Parker and Cage bounded over gaping potholes and eased to a stop at a curb where trash and rubble spilled into the street. The burnt-out torso of a Toyota rested, ironically, against a fire hydrant.

  They climbed out. Lukas had driven in her own car, a red Ford Explorer, and was already at the vacant lot that was the rendezvous point. She was standing with her hands on her trim hips, looking around.

  The smells of urine and shit and burning wood and trash were very strong.

  Parker's parents, who became world travelers after his father had retired from teaching history, had once found themselves in a slum in Ankara, Turkey. Parker still could remember the letter he'd received from his mother, who was an ardent correspondent. It was the last letter he'd received from them before they'd died. It was framed and up on the wall of his study downstairs, next to the Whos' wall of fame.

  They're impoverished, the people here, and that, more than racial differences, more than culture, more than politics, more than religion, turns their hearts to stone.

  He thought of her words now, as he looked over the desolation of the area.

  Two black teenagers, who'd been leaning against a wall graffiti'd with gang colors, looked at the men and women arriving--obviously law enforcers--and walked away slowly, uneasiness and defiance on their faces.

  Parker was troubled--though not by the danger; by the hugeness of the place. It was three or four square miles of slums and row houses and small factories and vacant lots. How could they possibly find the unsub's safe house in this much urban sprawl?

  There were some riddles that Parker had never been able to figure out.

  Three hawks . . .

  Smoke wafted past him. It was from fires in the oil drums where the homeless men and women and the gangstas burned wood and trash for warmth. He saw more hulks of stripped cars. Across the street was a building that seemed deserted; the only clue to habitation was a bulb burning behind a red towel covering a broken window.

  Just past the Metro stop, over a tall, decaying brick wall, the chimney of the crematorium rose into the night sky. There was no smoke rising from it but the sky above the muzzle rippled in the heat. Perhaps its fires always burned. Parker shivered. The sight reminded him of old-time pictures of--

  "Hell," Lukas muttered. "It looks like hell."

  Parker glanced at her.

  Cage shrugged in agreement.

  A car arrived. It was Jerry Baker, wearing a bulky windbreaker and body armor. Parker saw that, as befit a tactical agent, he was also wearing cowboy boots. Cage handed him the stack of computerized pictures of the unsub--the death mask portrait from the morgue. "We'll use these for the canvas. At the bottom? That's the only description we have of the Digger."

  "Not much."

  Another shrug.

  More unmarked cars and vans began to pull up, their dashboard flashers reflecting in the bands of storefront windows. FBI government-issue wheels. White-and-teal District police cars too, their light bars revolving. There were about twenty-five men and women in total, half of them federal agents, half uniformed cops. Baker motioned to them and they congregated around Lukas's truck. He distributed the printouts.

  Lukas said to Parker, "Want to brief them?"

  "Sure."

  She called, "If you could listen to Agent Jefferson here."

  It took a second before Parker recognized the reference to his stage name. He decided he would've been a failure at undercover work. He said, "The man in the picture you've got there was the perp responsible for the Metro and Mason Theater shootings. We think he was working out of a safe house somewhere here in Gravesend. Now, he's dead but his accomplice--the shooter--is still at large. So we need to find the safe house and find it fast."

  "You have a name?" one of the District cops called.

  "The unsub--the dead one--is a John Doe," Parker said, holding up the picture. "The shooter's got a nickname. The Digger. That's all. His description's on the bottom of the handout."

  Parker continued. "You can narrow down the canvassing area some. The safe house is probably near a demolition or construction site and won't be far from the cemetery. He also recently bought some paper like this--" Parker held up the clear sleeves hold
ing the extortion note and the envelope. "Now, the paper was sun-bleached so it's possible that he bought it in a store that displays their office supplies in or near a south-facing window. So hit every convenience store, drugstore, grocery store and newsstand that sells paper. Oh, and look for the type of pen he used too. It was an AWI black ballpoint. Probably cost thirty-nine or forty-nine cents."

  That was all he could think of. With a nod he handed off to Lukas. She stepped in front of the agents. Looked over them, silent, until she had everyone's attention. "Now, listen up. Like Agent Jefferson said, the unsub's dead but the shooter sure as hell isn't. We don't know if he's in Gravesend and we don't know if he's living in the safe house. But I want everybody here to assume he's ten feet behind you and has a clear path to target. He's got no problem lighting up law enforcement personnel. So as you go through the neighborhood I want everyone to be looking for ambush positions. I want weapon hands free, I want jackets and coats unbuttoned, I want holster thongs unsnapped."

  She paused for a moment. She had their complete attention, this thin woman with silver-blond hair.

  "At eight o'clock--yep, that's right, just over two hours--our perp is going to find someplace that's filled with people and he's going to empty his weapon at them again. Now I do not want to work that crime scene and have to look into the eyes of someone who's just lost a parent or a child. I do not want to have to tell them I'm sorry but we couldn't find this beast before he killed again. That is not going to happen. I'm not going to let it. And you're not."

  Parker found himself drawn into her words, delivered in a firm, even voice. He thought about the Band of Brothers speech from Shakespeare's Henry V, which had been Robby's introduction to theater. The boy had memorized the speech the day after they returned from Kennedy Center.

  "All right," Lukas said. "Any questions?"

  "Anything more on his armament?"

  "He's been armed with a full-auto Uzi loaded with long clips and a suppressor. We have no further information."

  "How green-lighted are we?" one agent asked.

  "To light up the shooter?" Lukas replied. "Totally green-lighted. Anything else?" No one raised a hand. "Okay. We're on emergency frequency. I don't want any chatter. Don't report in that you haven't found anything. I don't care about that. You see the suspect, call for backup, clear your background and engage. Now go find me that safe house."