"I knew him," she said. "He's been coming by the field office for the past few months. Just flashed a badge and said he needed some stats on felonies in the District for a congressional report. District P.D.'s Research and Statistics does it a couple times a year. It's all public information--not ongoing investigations--so nobody bothered to check. Today he showed up and said he's been assigned as liaison for the case."
"And it's one of those obscure departments," Parker pointed out. "So that if the mayor or the police chief really did send somebody from Major Crimes or Investigation over here for liaison he probably wouldn't have known there was no Len Hardy."
Lukas said, "So he's been planning this for two months." Sighing in disgust.
"Probably six," Parker muttered. "Planned every detail. He was a goddamn perfectionist. His shoes, his nails, his clothes . . . Flawless."
Cage asked, "But the guy in the morgue, the one we thought was the unsub. Who's he?"
Parker said, "A runner. Somebody Hardy--or whatever his name is--hired to deliver the letter."
"But," Cage said, "he was killed in an accident."
"No, it wasn't an accident," Lukas said, stealing the words from Parker's throat.
Nodding, he said, "Hardy murdered him, ran him down in a stolen truck to make it look accidental."
Lukas continued, "So we'd think the perp was dead and bring the money back to the evidence room. He knew we'd have tracking devices in the bags. Or that we'd try to collar him at the drop."
Cage, wincing again from the cracked rib, said, "He left the transmit bags downstairs. Repacked the money. And ripped off the tracking labels too."
"But he came up with the info about the Digger, didn't he?" the deputy director asked. "Because of him we stopped the shooter before he could do any real damage on the Mall."
"Well, of course," Parker responded, surprised they didn't get it.
"What do you mean?" the dep director asked.
"That's why he picked the Vietnam Memorial. It's not far from here. He knew we'd be shorthanded and that we'd virtually empty the building to get everybody out, looking for the Digger."
"So he could just waltz into Evidence and pick up the money," Lukas said bitterly. "It's just what Evans said. That he had everything planned out. I told him that we'd rigged the bags with tracers but Evans said he had some plan to counter that."
Cage asked Parker, "The prints on the note?"
"Hardy never touched it without gloves but he made sure the runner did--so we could verify the body was the unsub's."
"And he picked sombody with no record and no military service," Lukas added, "so we couldn't trace the runner. . . . Jesus, he thought of everything."
A computer beeped. Cage leaned forward and read. "It's an AFIS report and VICAP and Connecticut State Police files. Here we go . . ." He scrolled through the information. A picture came up on the screen. It was Hardy. "His real name is Edward Fielding, last known address, Blakesly, Connecticut, outside of Hartford. Oh, our friend is not a very nice man. Four arrests, one conviction. Juvie time too but those records're sealed. Treated repeatedly for antisocial behavior. Was an aide and orderly at Hartford State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He left after a nurse he was accused of sexually harassing was found stabbed to death.
"The hospital administration," Cage continued, reading from the screen, "thinks Fielding talked a patient, David Hughes, into killing her. Hughes was admitted two years ago. Christmas Day. He had severe brain damage following a gunshot wound and was highly suggestible. Fielding probably helped Hughes escape. The Hospital Board and the police were going to investigate Fielding but he disappeared after that. That was in October of last year."
"Hughes is the Digger," Parker announced softly.
"You think?"
"Positive." He continued, "And the Hartford newspaper shooting--what got Czisman started on Fielding's trail--that was in November." Recalling the clipping in Czisman's book. "That was their first crime."
A Chronicle of Sorrow . . .
"But why so much death?" the dep director asked. "It can't just be for the money. He must've had some terrorist leanings."
"Nope," Parker said definitively. "Not terrorism at all. But you're absolutely right. It has nothing to do with the money. Oh, I recognize him."
"You know Fielding?"
"No, I mean I recognize the type. He's like a document forger."
"Forger?" asked Lukas.
"Serious forgers see themselves as artists, not thieves. They don't really care about the money. The point is to create a forgery that fools everyone. That's their only goal: a perfect forgery."
Lukas nodded. "So the other crimes--in Hartford and Boston and Philly--they were just exercises. Stealing one watch, a few thousand dollars. It was just to perfect his technique."
"Exactly. And this was the culmination. This time he got a big chunk of money and's going to retire."
"Why do you think that?" Cage asked.
But Lukas knew the answer to that one too. "Because he sacrificed his errand boy so he could escape. He told us where the Digger was."
Recalling how Hardy had fired at the bus, Parker added, "He may actually have been the one who shot the Digger on the Mall. If they took him alive he might have talked."
"Hardy was laughing at us," Cage said, slamming his fist down on the table. "The whole fucking time he was sitting right next to us and laughing."
"But where is he?" the dep director asked.
Parker said, "Oh, he'll have his escape all planned out. He's outthought us every step of the way. He won't stumble now."
"We can get his picture off the video camera down in the lobby," Cage said. "Get it to all the TV stations."
"At two in the morning?" Parker said. "Who's going to be watching? And we've already missed the newspaper deadlines. Anyway, he'll be out of the country by sunup and on a plastic surgeon's operating table in two days."
"The airports're closed," the dep director pointed out. "He can't get any flights till morning."
"He'll be driving to Louisville or Atlanta or New York," Lukas said. "But we'll put out a bulletin to the field offices. Get agents to all the airports, Amtrak stations and bus terminals. Rental-car companies too. Check DMV and deeds offices for an address. And call Connecticut State Police." She paused, looking at Parker. He could see that she was thinking exactly what he was.
"He's thought of all that," Parker said. "I'm not saying we don't have to do it. But he's anticipated it."
"I know," she said and seemed all the more angry because of her helplessness.
The dep director said, "I'll authorize ten-most-wanted status."
But Parker wasn't listening. He was staring at the extortion note.
"Perfect forgery," he whispered to himself.
"What?" Lukas asked.
He looked at his watch. "I'm going to go see somebody."
"I'm going with you," Lukas said.
Parker hesitated. "Better if you didn't."
"No, I'm going."
"I don't need any help."
"I'm going with you," she said firmly.
And Parker looked into her blue eyes--stone or no stone?
He couldn't tell.
He said, "Okay."
*
They drove through the streets of the District, mostly deserted now. Parker was at the wheel.
A car paused at an intersection, to their right. In the glare Parker caught Lukas's profile, her thin mouth, her rounded nose, her sweep of throat.
He turned back to the street and drove deeper into Alexandria, Virginia.
Maybe she envies you.
How much he wanted to take her hand, sit with her in a bar or on his couch at home. Or lie in bed with her.
And talk. Talk about anything.
Perhaps about the secret of Margaret Lukas, whatever that might be.
Or just do what he and the Whos did sometimes--talk about nothing. Talk silly, they called it. About cartoons or neighbors or the Home
Depot sale or recipes or vacations past and vacations planned.
Or maybe he and Lukas would share the war stories that cops--federal or state or crossing guards--loved to relive.
The secret could wait.
She'd have years to tell him, he thought.
Years . . .
Suddenly he realized that he was considering a connection with her that might last more than a single night or a week or month. What did he have to base this fantasy on? Nothing really. It was a ridiculous thought.
Whatever connection there might be between them--she the soldier, he the hausfrau--was pure illusion.
Or was it? He remembered the Whos in the Dr. Seuss book, the race of creatures living on a dust mote, so small no one could see them. But they were there nonetheless, with all their crazy grins and contraptions and bizarre architecture. Why couldn't love be found in something that seemed invisible too?
He looked at her once again and she at him. He found his hand reaching out tentatively and touching her knee. Her hand closed on his, nothing tentative about it.
Then they were at the address he sought. He removed his hand. He parked the car. Not a word said. Not a look between them.
Lukas climbed out. Parker too. He walked around to her side of the car and they stood facing each other. How badly he wanted to hold her. Put his arms around her, slip his hands into the small of her back, pull her close. She glanced at him and slowly unbuttoned her blazer. He caught a glimpse of the white silk blouse. He stepped forward to kiss her.
She glanced down, unholstered her weapon and buttoned her blazer once more. Squinted as she looked past him, checking out the neighborhood.
Oh. Parker stepped back.
"Where to?" she asked matter-of-factly.
Parker hesitated, looked at her cool eyes. Then nodded at a winding path that led into an alley. "This way."
*
The man was about five feet tall.
He had a wiry beard and bushy hair. He wore a ratty bathrobe and Parker had obviously wakened him when he banged fiercely on the rickety door.
He stared at Parker and Lukas for a moment then, without a word, retreated quickly back into the apartment, as if he'd been tugged back by a bungee cord.
Lukas preceded Parker inside. She looked around then holstered her weapon. The rooms were cluttered, filled to overflowing with books and furniture and papers. On the walls hung a hundred signed letters and scraps of historical documents. A dozen bookshelves were chockablock with more books and portfolios. An artist's drawing table was covered with bottles of ink and dozens of pens. It dominated the tiny living room.
"How you doing, Jeremy?"
The man rubbed his eyes. Glanced at an old-fashioned windup alarm clock. He said, "My, Parker. It's late. Say, look at what I've got here. Do you like it?"
Parker took the acetate folder Jeremy was holding up.
The man's fingertips were yellow from the cigarettes he loved. Parker recalled that he smoked only outside, however. He didn't want to risk contaminating his work. As with all true geniuses Jeremy's vices bent to his gift.
Parker took the folder and held it up to a light. Picked up a hand glass and examined the document inside. After a moment he said, "The width of the strokes . . . it's very good."
"Better than good, Parker."
"Okay, I'll grant you that. The starts and lifts are excellent. Also looks like the margins are right and the folio size matches. The paper's from the era?"
"Of course."
"But you'd have to fake the aging of the ink with hydrogen peroxide. That's detectable."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Jeremy smiled. "Maybe I've got something new up my sleeve. Are you here to arrest me, Parker?"
"I'm not a cop anymore, Jeremy."
"No, but she is, isn't she?"
"Yes, she is."
Jeremy took the sheet back. "I haven't sold it. I haven't even offered it for sale." To Lukas he said, "It's just a hobby. A man can have a hobby, can't he?"
"What is it?" Lukas asked.
Parker said, "It's a letter from Robert E. Lee to one of his generals." He added, "I should say, purporting to be from Robert E. Lee."
"He forged it?" Lukas asked, glancing at Jeremy.
"That's right."
"I never admitted anything. I'm taking the Fifth."
Parker continued. "It's worth maybe fifteen thousand."
"Seventeen . . . If somebody were going to sell it. Which I never would. Parker arrested me once," Jeremy said to Lukas, tweaking his beard with his middle finger and thumb. "He was the only one in the world who caught me. You know how he did it?"
"How?" she asked. Parker's attention was not on the excellent forgery but on Margaret Lukas, who seemed both amused and fascinated by the man. Her anger had gone away for the moment and Parker was very pleased to see that.
"The watermark on the letterhead," Jeremy said, scoffing. "I got done in by a watermark."
"A few years ago," Parker said, "Jeremy . . . let's say, came into possession of a packet of letters from John Kennedy."
"To Marilyn Monroe?" Lukas asked.
Jeremy's face twisted up. "Those? Oh, those were ridiculous. Amateurish. And who cares about them? No, these were between Kennedy and Khrushchev. According to the letters, Kennedy was willing to compromise on Cuba. What an interesting historical twist that would have been. He and Khrushchev were going to divvy up the island. The Russians would have one half, the U.S. the other."
"Was that true?" Lukas asked.
Jeremy was silent and stared at the Robert E. Lee letter with a faint smile on his face.
Parker said, "Jeremy makes up things." Which happened to be the delicate way he described lying when he was speaking with the Whos. "He forged the letters. Was going to sell them for five thousand dollars."
"Four thousand eight hundred," Jeremy corrected.
"That's all?" Lukas was surprised.
"Jeremy isn't in this business for the money," Parker said.
"And you caught him?"
"My technique was flawless, Parker, you have to admit that."
"Oh, it was," Parker confirmed. "The craftsmanship was perfect. Ink, handwriting attack, starts and lifts, phraseology, margins . . . Unfortunately, the Government Printing Office changed the presidential letterhead in August of 1963. Jeremy got his hands on several of those new sheets and used them for his forgeries. Too bad the letters were dated May of '63."
"I had bad intelligence," Jeremy muttered. "So, Parker, is it cuffs and chains? What've I done now?"
"Oh, I think you know what you've done, Jeremy. I think you know."
Parker pulled up a chair for Lukas and one for himself. They both sat.
"Oh, dear," Jeremy said.
"Oh, dear," echoed Parker.
34
Finally, it was snowing.
Large squares of flakes parachuting to the ground. Two inches already, muting the night.
Edward Fielding, lugging the burdensome silk bag of money on his back and carrying a silenced pistol in his right hand, waded through a belt of trees and brush in Bethesda, Maryland. From FBI headquarters he'd driven here via two "switch wheels"--getaway cars that professional thieves hide along escape routes to trick pursuers. He'd stayed on major highways the whole way, keeping exactly to the speed limit. He parked on the other side of this grove of trees and walked the rest of the way. The money slowed him down but he certainly wasn't going to leave the cash in the car, despite the relative safety in this placid, upscale Washington suburb.
He eased through the side yard and paused by a fence separating his rented house from the one next door.
On the street, every car was familiar.
Inside his house, no movement or shadows he didn't recognize.
Across the street, the lights in all the houses facing his were dark except for the Harkins' place. This was normal. Fielding had observed that the Harkins rarely went to bed before 2 or 3 A.M.
He set the knapsack holding the money besid
e a tree on the property next door to his house. And stood upright, letting his muscles enjoy the freedom from the heavy load. He moved along the fence, checking out the ground in the front, back and side yards around his house. No footprints in the snow there or on the sidewalk in front of the houses.
Fielding picked up the money once again and continued along the walk to his house. There were several security devices he'd rigged to let him know if there'd been any unwanted visitors--homemade tricks, rudimentary but effective: thread across the gate, the front door latch lined up with a tiny fleck of dried paint on the storm door, the corner of the rattan mat curled and resting against the door.
He'd learned these from a right-wing Web site on the Internet about protecting yourself from blacks, Jews and the federal government. Despite the snow, which would have revealed any intruders, he checked them carefully. Because that was what you did when you committed the perfect crime.
He unlocked the door, thinking of his next steps. He'd only be here for five or ten minutes--long enough to pack the money into boxes that had contained children's toys, collect his other suitcases then drive, via three safe cars already planted along the route, to Ocean City, Maryland. There he'd get on the chartered boat and be in Miami in two days. Then a chartered plane would take him to Costa Rica and that night he'd fly on to Brazil.
Then he'd--
He wasn't sure where she'd been hiding. Maybe behind the door. Maybe in the closet. Before Fielding even had time to feel the shock of adrenaline flooding through his body the pistol had been ripped from his hand and Margaret Lukas was screaming, "Freeze, freeze, federal agents!"
Fielding found himself not freezing at all but tumbling forward and lying flat on his belly, under her strong grip. Gun in his ear. The cash was pulled off him and his hands were cuffed by two large male agents. Fingers probed through his pockets.
They pulled him to his feet and pushed him into an armchair.
Cage and several other men and women walked through the front door, while yet another agent inventoried the money.
He had a completely mystified expression on his face. She said, "Oh, those trip wires and things? You do realize we bookmark the same Web site as everybody else--that Aryan militia crap."
"But the snow?" he asked. Shivering now from the shock. "There were no footprints. How'd you get in?"
"Oh, we borrowed a hook and ladder from the Bethesda Fire Department. The SWAT team and I climbed in through your upstairs window."
Just then Parker Kincaid walked through the front door. Lukas nodded toward him and explained to Fielding, "The fire truck was his idea."
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