The Devil's Teardrop (28 page)

And shoes.

A half-dozen shoes had lain bloody at the base of the escalator. For some reason they were the most horrifying sight of all.

This was the kind of story most reporters dream about in their ambitious hearts.

You’re a reporter, go report.

Yet Phillips found he had no desire to cover the crime. The violence repulsed him. The sick mind of the killer scared him. And he thought: Wait. I’m
not
a reporter. He wished he’d said this to that slick prick, Wendy Jefferies. I’m an entertainer. I’m a soap opera star. I’m a personality.

But he was too deep in Jefferies’s pocket for that kind of candor.

And so he was doing what he was told.

He wondered if Mayor Jerry Kennedy knew about his arrangement with Jefferies. Probably not. Kennedy was a stand-up son of a bitch. Better than all the previous mayors of the District rolled into one. Because if Slade Phillips wasn’t a Peter Arnett or Tom Brokaw at least he knew people. And he knew that Kennedy
did
want a chance to fix as much of the city as he could before the electorate threw his ass out. Which would undoubtedly be in the next election.

And this Project 2000 of his . . . Man, it took some balls to tax the corporations in the city even more than they were already taxed. Bad blood there. And Kennedy was also coming down like a Grand Inquisitor on that school construction scandal. Rumors were that he’d
wanted to pay that whistle-blower, Gary Moss, an additional bonus from District coffers for coming forward and risking his life to testify (an expense Congressman Lanier had refused to approve, of course). There were rumors too that Kennedy was going to crucify anyone involved in the corruption—including long-time friends.

So Phillips could rationalize taking some of the heat off Kennedy’s office. It was for a higher good.

More decaf. Convinced that real coffee would affect his gorgeous baritone, he lived on unleaded.

He looked out the window and saw the man he was waiting for. A slight guy, short. He was a clerk at FBI headquarters and Phillips had been currying him for a year. He was one of the “sources who wish to remain anonymous” that you hear about all the time—sources whose relationship to honesty was a bit dicey. But what did it matter? This was TV journalism and a different set of standards applied.

The clerk glanced at Phillips as he stepped into the coffee shop, looking around cautiously like a bumbling spy. He pulled off his overcoat, revealing a very badly fitting gray suit.

The man was basically a mailboy though he’d told Phillips that he was “privy” (oh, please . . .) to most of the Bureau’s “primary decision-making activities.”

Ego’s such a bitch, Phillips thought. “Hello, Timothy.”

“Happy New Year,” the man said, sitting down and looking like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

“Yeah, yeah,” Phillips said.

“So what’s good tonight? They have moussaka? I love moussaka.”

“You don’t have time to eat. You have time to talk.”

“Just a drink?”

Phillips flagged down a waitress and ordered more decaf for him and regular for Timothy.

“Well—” He looked disappointed. “I meant a beer.”

The anchorman leaned forward. Whispered, “The crazy guy. The Metro shooter. What’s going on with it?”

“They don’t know too much. It’s weird. Some people’re talking about a terrorist cell. Some people’re talking right-wing militia. Couple people think it’s just a straight extortion scheme. But there isn’t any consensus.”

“I need some focus,” Phillips said.

“Focus? What do you mean ‘focus’?” Timothy glanced at a nearby table, where a man was eating moussaka.

“Kennedy’s taking a hit on this. That’s not fair.”

“Why the hell not? He’s a goon.”

The anchorman wasn’t here to debate the mayor’s competence. Whatever history decided about the tenure of Gerald D. Kennedy, Slade Phillips was being paid $25,000 to suggest to the world that the mayor
wasn’t
a goon. So he continued, “How’s the Bureau handling it?”

“It’s a tough case,” said Timothy, who aspired to be an FBI agent but was forever destined to fall just short of every goal he set for himself in life. “They’re doing their best. They got the perp’s safe house. You hear?”

“I heard. I also heard he pulled an end run and shot the shit out of you.”

“We’ve never been up against anything like this before.”

We?

Phillips nodded sympathetically. “Look, I’m trying to help you guys out. I don’t want to go with the story the station’s got planned. That’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

Timothy’s puppy-dog eyes flickered and he asked, “Story? They’ve got planned?”

“Right,” Phillips said.

“Well, what
is
it?” Timothy asked. “The story?”

“The screw-up at the Mason Theater.”

“What screw-up? They stopped him. Hardly anybody got killed.”

“No, no, no,” Phillips said. “The point is they could’ve capped the shooter. But they let him get away.”

“The Bureau didn’t screw up,” Timothy said defensively. “It was a high-density tac op. Those’re a bitch to run.”

High-density tac op.
Tactical operation, Phillips knew. He also knew that Timothy had probably learned the phrase not at FBI headquarters but from a Tom Clancy novel.

“Sure. But add that to the other rumor . . .”

“What other rumor?”

“That Kennedy wanted to pay the perps but the Bureau set up some kind of trap. Only they fucked up and the shooter found out about it and now he’s killing people just to kill them.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I’m not saying—” Phillips began.

“That’s not fair.” Timothy came close to whining. “I mean, we got agents all over town ought to be home with their families. It’s a holiday. I’ve been taking faxes to people all night . . .” His voice faded as he realized the veil covering his true function at FBI headquarters had slipped.

Phillips said quickly, “I’m not saying
I
feel that way. I’m just saying that’s the story they’ve got planned. This asshole’s
killing
people. They need to point fingers.”

“Well . . .”

“Is there anything
else
to focus on? Something other than the Bureau.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant by focus.”

“Did I say focus?”

“Yeah, earlier you did . . . How about the District metro police? They could be the screw-up factor.”

Phillips wondered how much money Wendy Jefferies would pay for a story that the District police, which ultimately reported to Mayor Kennedy, was the quote screw-up factor.

“Keep going. That one doesn’t excite me.”

Timothy thought for a moment. Then he smiled. “Wait. I have an idea.”

“Is it a good idea?” Phillips asked.

“Well, I was at HQ? And I heard something odd. . . .” Timothy frowned, his voice fading.

The anchorman said, “Hey, that moussaka
does
look good. How ’bout we get some?”

“Okay,” said Timothy. “And, yeah, I think it’s a good idea.”

A study of variations in the writing is especially important. These qualities should all be carefully examined. Repeated words should be compared and natural variation or unnatural uniformity looked at.

–O
SBORN AND
O
SBORN
,
Q
UESTION
D
OCUMENT
P
ROBLEMS

The capital
of the free world.

The heart of the last superpower on earth.

And Cage nearly shattered an axle once again as his government-issue Crown Victoria crashed into another pothole.

“Goddamn city,” he muttered.

“Careful,” Parker ordered, nodding toward the glass sheets wrapped carefully and sitting on his lap like a newborn baby. He’d looked briefly at the yellow sheets. But they were badly damaged and he couldn’t see any reference to the third and fourth targets. He’d have to analyze them in the lab.

Over crumbling pavement, under streetlights burnt out months ago and never replaced, past the empty poles that once held directional signs, which had long ago been stolen or blown down.

More potholes.

“I don’t know why I live here.” Cage shrugged.

Accompanied by Parker and Dr. John Evans, the
agent was speeding back to headquarters through the dark streets of the District of Columbia.

“And it snows, we’re fucked,” he added.

Snow removal wasn’t one of the District’s strong suits either and a blizzard could hamper Jerry Baker’s tactical efforts if they found the Digger’s hidey-hole or the site of the next attack.

Evans was on his cell phone, apparently talking to his family. His voice was singsong, as if he were talking to a child but from the snatches of the conversation it seemed that his wife was on the other end of the line. Parker thought it was odd that a psychologist would talk to another adult this way. But who was he to talk about relationships? When Joan was drunk or moody Parker often found himself dealing with her the way he would a ten-year-old.

Cage juggled his own phone and called the hospital. He asked about Geller’s condition.

When he hung up he said to Parker, “Lucky man. Smoke inhalation and a sprained toe from jumping out the window. Nothing worse than that. They’re going to keep him in overnight. But it’s just a precaution.”

“Should get a commendation,” Parker suggested.

“Oh, he will. Don’t you worry.”

Parker was coughing some himself. The pungent taste of the smoke was sickening.

They continued on for another half-dozen blocks before Cage gave Parker a telling “So.”

“So,” Parker echoed. Then: “What does that mean?”

“Wooee, we having a good time yet?” the agent said and slapped the steering wheel.

Parker ignored him and tucked a tiny scrap of burnt paper back under the glass protecting the unsub’s notes.

Cage sped around a slow-moving car. After a few moments he asked, “How’s your love life these days? You seeing anybody?”

“Not right now.”

It had been nine months, he reflected, since he’d been going with someone regularly. He missed Lynne. She was ten years younger than he, pretty, athletic. They’d had a lot of fun together—jogging, dinners, day trips to Middleburg. He missed her vivacity, her sense of humor (the first time she’d been over to his house she’d glanced at a signature of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and, with perfect deadpan delivery, said, “Oh, I’ve heard of him. He’s the guy started the Franklin Mint. I’ve got the thimble collection”). But the maternal side of her hadn’t blossomed even though she was nearly thirty. When it came to his children, she had fun going to the museums and the cineplex but Parker could see that any more of a commitment to the Whos—and to him—would soon become a burden to her. Love, like humor, Parker believed, is all in the timing. In the end they drifted apart with the agreement that in a few years, when she was ready for children, they might reconsider something more permanent. (Both knowing, of course, that, as lovers, they were saying goodbye for good.)

Cage now said, “Uh-huh. So you’re just sitting at home?”

“Yeah,” Parker said. “With my head in the sand like Ozzie the Ostrich.”

“Who?”

“It’s a kids’ book.”

“Don’t you get the feeling there’s stuff going on around you and you’re missing it?”

“No, Cage, I don’t. I get the feeling that my kids’re growing up and I’m
not
missing it.”

“That’s important. Uh-huh. I can see where that would be kind of important.”

“
Very
important.”

Evans, still on the phone, was telling his wife he loved her. Parker tuned the words out. They depressed him.

“Whatta you think about Lukas?” Cage finally asked.

“What do I think? She’s good. She’ll go places. Maybe to the top. If she doesn’t implode first.”

“Explode?”

“No, implode. Like a lightbulb.”

“That’s good.” Cage laughed. “But that’s not what I’m asking. Whatta you think about her as a woman?”

Parker coughed. Shivered at the memory of the bullets and the flames. “You trying to set us up, Lukas and me?”

“Of course not.” Then: “It’s just I wish she had more friends. I’d forgot that you’re a fun guy. You could hang out together some.”

“Cage—”

“She’s not married. No boyfriends. And, I don’t know if you noticed,” the wily agent said, “but she’s good-looking. Don’t you think?”

Sure, I think.
For a lady cop.
Of course Parker was attracted to her—and by more than just her appearance. He remembered a certain look in her eyes as she watched Robby run up the stairs earlier in the day. The way to a man’s heart is through his children. . . .

But what he told Cage was, “She can’t wait till this case is over and she doesn’t have to see me again.”

“You think?” he asked, but cynically this time.

“You heard her—about my weapon.”

“Hell, she just didn’t want to send you back to your kids with your ass in a sling.”

“No, it’s more than that. I’ve been stepping on her
toes and she doesn’t like it. But I’ve got news for her. I’m going to keep on stepping if I think I’m right.”

“Hey, there you go.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s just what
she’d
say. Aren’t you two a pair. . . .”

“Cage, take a break.”

“Look, Margaret’s only agenda is collaring perps. There’s a ton of ego in her, sure, but it’s good ego. She’s the
second-
best investigator I know.” Parker ignored the glance that accompanied this sentence. Cage thought for a moment. “You know what’s good about Lukas? She takes care of herself.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you. Couple months ago her house got broken into.”

“Where’s she live?”

“Georgetown.”

“That happens there, yeah,” Parker said. As much as he enjoyed the District he’d never live there, not with the children. Crime was terrible.

Cage continued, “She comes home from the office and sees the door’s been jimmied. Okay? Her dog’s in the backyard and—”