The Devil's Teardrop (10 page)

“Sure,” Lukas said. “Dupont C-i-r-c-l-e, capital
M—
Metro.”

“Of course,” Hardy whispered.

Puzzles are always easy when you know the answer.

“The first site,” Parker mused. “But there’s something written below it. Can you see it? Can you read it?” He jockeyed the sheet again, holding it out to Lukas. “Jesus, it’s hard to see.”

She leaned forward and read. “Just three letters. That’s all I can make out. Lowercase
t-e-l.
”

“Anything else?” Hardy asked.

Parker squinted. “No, nothing.”

“
t-e-l
,” Lukas pondered.

“Telephone, telephone company, telecommunications?” Cage asked. “Television?”

C. P. offered, “Maybe he’s going to hit one of the studios—during a broadcast.”

“No, no,” Parker said. “Look at the position of the letters in relation to the
c-l-e M-e.
If he’s writing in fairly consistent columns then the
t-e-l
comes at the end of the word.” Then Parker caught on. He said, “It’s a—”

Lukas blurted, “Hotel. The second target’s a hotel.”

“That’s right.”

“Or motel,” Hardy suggested.

“No,” Parker said. “I don’t think so. He’s going for crowds. Motels don’t have big facilities. All the events tonight will be in hotel banquet rooms.”

“And,” Lukas added, “he’s probably sticking to foot or public transportation. Motels’re in outlying areas. Traffic’s too bad tonight to rely on a car.”

“Great,” Cage said then pointed out, “but there must be two hundred hotels in town.”

“How do we narrow it down?” Baker asked.

“I’d say go for the bigger hotels. . . .” Parker nodded toward Lukas. “You’re right—probably near public transportation and high population centers.”

With a loud bang Baker dropped the Yellow Pages on the table. “D.C. only?” He flipped them open. C. P. Ardell walked over to the table and began looking over the tactical agent’s shoulder.

Parker considered the question. “It’s the District he’s extorting, not Virginia or Maryland. I’d stick to D.C.”

“Agreed,” Lukas said. “Also we should eliminate any place with ‘Hotel’ first in the name, like ‘Hotel New
York.’ Because of the placement of the letters on the envelope. And no ‘Inns’ or ‘Lodges.’”

Cage and Hardy joined C. P. and Baker. They all bent over the phone book. They started circling possibilities, discussing whether this choice or that was logical.

After ten minutes they had a list of twenty-two hotels. Cage jotted them down in his own precise handwriting and handed the list to Jerry Baker.

Parker suggested, “Before you send anybody there, call and find out if any of the functions tonight are for diplomats or politicians. We can eliminate those.”

“Why?” Baker asked.

Lukas responded, “Armed bodyguards, right?”

Parker nodded. “And Secret Service. The unsub would’ve avoided those.”

“Right,” Baker said and hurried out of the room, opening his cell phone.

But even eliminating those, how many locations would remain? Parker wondered.

A lot. Too many.

Too many possible solutions . . .

Three hawks have been killing a farmer’s chickens. . . .

My fellow citizens . . .

They powdered his forehead, they stuck a plug in his ear, they turned on the blinding lights.

Through the glare, Mayor Jerry Kennedy could just make out a few faces in the blackness of the WPLT newsroom, located just off Dupont Circle.

There was his wife, Claire. There was his press secretary. There was Wendell Jefferies.

My fellow citizens,
Kennedy rehearsed in his mind.
I want to reassure you that our city’s police force and the FBI,
no,
the federal authorities are doing everything in their power to find the perpetrators,
no,
the persons responsible for this terrible shooting.

One of the station’s senior producers, a thin man with a trim, white beard, came up to him and said, “I’ll give you a seven-second countdown. I’ll go silent after four and use my fingers. At one, look into the camera. You’ve done this before.”

“I’ve done this before.”

The producer glanced down and saw no papers in front of Kennedy. “You have anything for the TelePrompTer?”

“It’s in my head.”

The producer gave a brief chuckle. “Nobody does that nowadays.”

Kennedy grunted.

. . . responsible for this terrible crime. And to that person out there, I am asking you please, please . . .
no, just one please
. . . I’m asking you please to reestablish contact so that we can continue our dialog. On this, the last day of a difficult year, let’s put the violence behind us and work together so that there’ll be no more deaths. Please contact me personally . . .
no
. . . Please call me personally or get a message to me . . .

“Five minutes,” the producer called.

Kennedy waved aside the makeup artist and motioned Jefferies over to him. “You heard anything from the FBI?
Anything?
”

“Nothing. Not a word.”

Kennedy couldn’t believe it. Hours into the operation, the new deadline approaching, his only contact with the feds had been a fast phone call from some District detective named Len Hardy, who was calling on behalf of that agent, Margaret Lukas, to ask Kennedy to make this appeal to the killer over the air. Lukas, Kennedy reflected angrily, hadn’t even bothered to call him herself. Hardy, a District cop who sounded intimidated by the feds he was supposed to be liaising with, hadn’t known any details of the investigation—or, more likely, didn’t have permission to give out any. He’d tried to call Lukas but she’d been too busy to take his call. Cage too. The mayor had spoken briefly with the head
of the District’s police department but short of providing cops to work under FBI supervision the chief had had nothing to do with the case.

Kennedy was furious. “They don’t take us seriously. Jesus. I want to do something. I mean, other than this.” He waved his hand at the camera. “It’s going to sound like I’m begging.”

“It’s a problem,” Wendy Jefferies conceded. “I’ve called the press conference but half the stations and papers aren’t sending anybody. They’re camped out at Ninth Street, waiting for somebody at the Bureau to talk to them.”

“It’s like the city doesn’t exist, it’s like I’m sitting on my hands.”

“That’s sort of what it’s looking like.”

The producer started toward him but the mayor gave him a polite smile. “In a minute.” The man veered back into the shadows.

“So?” Kennedy asked his aide. He’d seen a cagey look behind the young man’s Armani glasses.

“Time to call in some markers,” Jefferies whispered. “I can do it. Surgically. I know how to handle it.”

“I don’t—”

“I don’t want to do it this way either,” Jefferies said fiercely, never one to glove his advice to his boss, “but we don’t have any choice. You heard the commentary on WTGN.”

Of course he had. The station, popular with about a half-million listeners in the metro area, had just aired an editorial about how, during his campaign, Kennedy had pledged to take back the streets of Washington from criminals and yet had been more than willing to pay terrorists a multimillion-dollar ransom today. The commentator, a surly, old journalist, had gone on to cite
Kennedy’s other campaign promise of cleaning up corruption in the District while being completely oblivious to, and possibly even participating in, the Board of Education school construction scandal.

Jefferies repeated, “We really don’t have any choice, Jerry.”

The mayor pondered this for a minute. As usual, the aide was right. Kennedy had hired the man because, as a white mayor, he
needed
a senior black aide. He didn’t apologize for such tactical hiring. But he’d been astonished that the young man possessed a political sense that transcended grassroots community relations.

His aide said, “This is the time for hardball, Jerry. There’s too much at stake.”

“Okay, do what you have to.” He didn’t bother to add, Be careful. He knew Jefferies would.

“Two minutes,” came a voice from above.

Kennedy thought to the Digger: Where are you? Where? He looked up at a darkened camera and stared at it as if he could see through the lens and cables to some TV set out there—see through the screen to the Digger himself. He thought to the killer,
Who
are you? And why did you and your partner pick
my
city to visit like the angel of death?

. . . in the spirit of peace, on this last day of the year, contact me so that we might come to some understanding . . . Please . . .

Jefferies bent close to the mayor’s ear. “Remember,” he whispered, waving his hand around the TV studio, “if he’s listening, the killer, this might be the end of it. Maybe he’ll go for the money and they’ll get him.”

Before Kennedy could respond the voice from on high called out, “One minute.”

* * *

The Digger’s got a new shopping bag.

All glossy red and Christmasy, covered with pictures of puppies wearing ribbons ’round their necks. The Digger bought the bag at Hallmark. It’s the sort of bag he might be proud of though he isn’t sure what proud means. He hasn’t been sure of a lot of things since the bullet careened through his skull, burning away some of his spongy gray cells and leaving others.

Funny how that works. Funny how . . .

Funny . . .

The Digger’s sitting in a comfy chair in his lousy motel, with a glass of water and the empty bowl of soup at his side.

He’s watching TV.

Something is on the screen. It’s a commercial. Like a commercial he remembers watching after the bullet tapped a hole above his eye and did a scorchy little dance in his crane crane cranium. (Somebody described the bullet that way. He doesn’t remember who. Maybe his friend, the man who tells him things. Probably was.)

Something flickers on the TV screen. Brings back a funny memory, from a long time ago. He was watching a commercial—dogs eating dog food, puppies eating puppy food, like the puppies on the shopping bag. He was watching the commercial when the man who tells him things took the Digger’s hand and they went for a long walk. He told him that when Ruth was alone . . . “You know Ruth?”

“I, uhm, know Ruth.”

When Ruth was alone the Digger should break a mirror and find a piece of glass and put the glass in her neck.

“You mean—” The Digger stopped talking.

“I mean you should break the mirror and find a long piece of glass and you should put the glass in Ruth’s neck. What do I mean?”

“I should break the mirror and find a long piece of glass and I should put the glass in her neck.”

Some things the Digger remembers as if God Himself had written them on his brain.

“Good,” said the man.

“Good,” repeated the Digger. And he did what he was told. Which made the man who tells him things happy. Whatever that is.

Now the Digger is sitting with the puppy bag on his lap in his room at the motor lodge, kitchenettes free cable reasonable rates. Looking at his bowl of soup. The bowl is empty so he must not be hungry. He thinks he’s thirsty so he takes a drink of water.

Another program comes on the TV. He reads the words, mutters them out loud, “‘Special Report.’ Hmm. Hmmm. This is . . .”

Click.
This is . . .

Click.

A WPLT Special Report.

This is important. I should listen.

A man the Digger recognizes comes on the air. He’s seen pictures of this man. It’s . . .

Washington D.C. Mayor Gerald D. Kennedy.
That’s what it says on the screen.

The mayor’s talking and the Digger listens.

“My fellow citizens, good afternoon. As you all know by now, a terrible crime was committed this morning in the Dupont Circle Metro station and a number of people tragically lost their lives. At this time the killer or killers are still at large. But I want to reassure you that our
police force and the federal authorities are doing everything in their power to make sure there will be no recurrence of this incident.

“To the persons responsible for this carnage, I am asking you from my heart, please, please, contact me. We need to reestablish communication so that we can continue our dialog. On this, the last night of the year, let’s put the violence behind us and work together so that there’ll be no more deaths or injuries. We can—”

Boring . . .

The Digger shuts the TV off. He likes commercials for dog food with cute puppies much better. Car commercials too.
Ohhhhhh, everyday people . . .
The Digger calls his voice mail and punches in the code, one-two-two-five. The date of Christmas.

The woman, who doesn’t sound like Pamela his wife but does sound like Ruth—before the glass went into her neck, of course—says that he has no new messages.

Which means it’s time for him to do what the man who tells him things told him.

If you do what people tell you to do, that’s a good thing. They’ll like you. They’ll stay with you forever.

They’ll love you.

Whatever love is.

Merry Christmas, Pamela, I got this for you . . . And you got something for me! Oh my oh my . . . A present.

Click click.

What a pretty yellow flower in your hand, Pamela. Thank you for my coat. The Digger pulls this overcoat on now, maybe black, maybe blue. He loves his coat.

He carries his soup bowl into the kitchenette and puts it in the sink.

He wonders again why he hasn’t heard from the man
who tells him things. The man told him that he might not call but still the Digger feels a little ping in his mind and he’s sorry he hasn’t heard the man’s voice. Am I sad? Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

He finds his leather gloves and they are very nice gloves, with ribs on the backs of the fingers. The smell makes him think of something in his past though he can’t remember what. He wears latex gloves when he loads the bullets into the clips of his Uzi. But the rubber doesn’t smell good. He wears his leather gloves when he opens doors and touches things that are near where he shoots the gun and watches people fall like leaves in a forest.