The Devil's Teardrop (33 page)

“No!” Lukas snapped, drawing the attention of a cluster of partyers nearby.

“They got lights and everything. The shooter sees this, he’ll take off. It’s like a circus.”

“I’ll be right there.”

* * *

“Your honor, this is a federal operation and I’ll have to ask you to leave right now.”

They were in the parking garage. Lukas noted immediately that there was a controlled entrance and exit—to get in you needed to take a ticket. That meant that license plates were recorded and that in turn meant that the Digger would probably not come in this way—the unsub would have told him not to leave a record of his visit. But Mayor Kennedy and his damn entourage were headed for the main entrance to the hotel, where he and his uniformed bodyguards could be spotted in a minute by the killer.

And for God’s sake, a
camera crew?

Kennedy looked down at Lukas. He was a head taller. He said, “You have to get the guests out of here. Evacuate them. When the killer shows up let me talk to him.”

Lukas ignored him and said to C. P., “Any of them get into the hotel itself?”

“No, we stopped ’em here.”

Kennedy continued. “Evacuate! Get them out!”

“We can’t do that,” she said. “The Digger’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Well, tell them to go their rooms at least.”

“Think about it, Mayor,” she snapped. “Most of them aren’t guests. They’re just locals—here for dinner and parties. They don’t
have
rooms.”

Lukas looked around the entrance to the hotel and
the street outside. It wasn’t crowded—the stores were all closed for the holiday. She whispered fiercely, “He could be here at any minute. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Thought about adding “sir.” She didn’t.

“Then
I’m
going to have to go over your head. Who’s your supervisor?”

“I am,” Cage said. No shrugs now. Just a cold glare. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

The mayor snapped, “So, who’s
your
supervisor?”

“Somebody you don’t want to call, believe me.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“No,” Lukas said firmly, glancing at her watch. “The Digger could be in the building right now. I don’t have time to argue with you. I want you and your people out of here now!”

Kennedy looked at his aide—what was his name? Jefferies, she believed. A reporter was nearby, filming the entire exchange.

“I’m not going to let the FBI risk those people’s lives. I’m going to—”

“Agent Ardell,” she said, “put the mayor in custody.”

“You can’t arrest him,” Jefferies snapped.

“Yes, she can,” Cage said angrily now, with the most minute of shrugs. “And she can arrest you too.”

“Get him out of here,” Lukas said.

“Lockup?”

Lukas considered. “No. Just stay with him and keep him out of our hair until the operation’s over.”

“I’m call my lawyer and—”

A flash of anger burst inside her, as bright as the one that made her explode at Kincaid. She looked up at him, pointed a finger at his chest. “Mayor, this is
my
operation and you’re interfering with it. I’ll let you go on your way
with Agent Ardell or, so help me, I’ll have you detained downtown. It’s entirely up to you.”

There was a pause. Lukas wasn’t even looking at the mayor; her eyes were scanning the parking lot, the sidewalks, the shadows. No sign of anyone who might be the Digger.

Kennedy said, “All right.” He nodded toward the hotel. “But if there’s any bloodshed tonight, it’ll be on your hands.”

“Goes with the territory,” she muttered, recalling she’d threatened Kincaid with the same words. “Go on, C. P.”

The agent led the mayor back to his limo. The two men got inside. Jefferies stared defiantly at Lukas for a moment but she turned quickly, and together she and Cage walked back toward the hotel.

“Shit,” Cage said.

“No, I think it’s okay. I don’t think the Digger could’ve seen anything.”

“That’s not what I mean. Think about it—if Kennedy found out we were here, that means we’ve got a leak. Where the hell do you think it is?”

“Oh, I
know
that.” She opened her cell phone and made a call.

* * *

“Detective,” Lukas said, struggling to control her anger, “you know that information about tac operations is secure. You want to give me a reason why I shouldn’t refer what you did to the U.S. attorney?”

She expected Len Hardy to deny or at least offer some slippery excuse about a mistake or getting tricked. But he surprised her by saying briskly, “Refer whatever
you want but Kennedy wanted a chance to negotiate with the shooter. I gave it to him.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re willing to let, what, a dozen people die? Two dozen?”

“If it meant stopping the shooter then, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m willing to do.”

“Kennedy said he could talk to him. Talk him into taking the money. He—”

“You know he showed up with a goddamn TV crew?”

Hardy’s voice was no longer so certain. “He . . . what?”

“A TV crew. He was playing it for media. If the Digger’d seen the lights, the police bodyguard . . . he’d just leave and find another target.”

“He said he wanted to talk to him,” Hardy said. “I didn’t think he was going to use it for PR.”

“Well, he did.”

“Did the Digger—?”

“I don’t think he could’ve seen anything.”

Silence for a moment. “I’m sorry, Margaret.” He sighed. “I just wanted to do something. I didn’t want any more people to die. I’m sorry.”

Lukas gripped her phone. She knew she should fire him, kick him off the team. Probably file a report with the District police commission too. And yet she had an image of the young man returning to his house, a house as silent as the one she returned to every night after Tom and Joey had died—a silence that hurts like a slap from a lover. He’d spend the holiday alone, forced to suffer a false mourning for Emma—a wife not alive and not dead.

He seemed to sense her weakening and said, “It won’t happen again. Give me another chance.”

Yes? No?

“Okay, Len. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Thanks, Margaret.”

“We’ve got to get back on stakeout.”

She clicked off the phone abruptly and if Hardy said anything else she never heard it. She returned to the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.

Lukas slipped her weapon off her hip once more, held it at her side and began to circulate through the crowd. Cage tapped his watch. It was a few minutes to eight.

* * *

They looked over the railing at the dark water and joked about the
Titanic,
they ate the shrimp and left the chicken livers, they talked about wine and about interest rates and about upcoming elections and about congressional scandals and about sitcoms.

Most of the men were in tuxedos or dinner jackets, most of the women in dark dresses whose hems hovered an inch above the lacquered deck.

“Isn’t this something? Look at the view.”

“Will we be able to see the fireworks?”

“Where’d Hank get to? He’s got my beer.”

The hundreds of partyers had stationed themselves all over the lengthy yacht. There were three decks and four bars and everyone at the New Year’s Eve bash was feeling great.

Lawyers and doctors, finding a few hours of peace from their clients’ and patients’ woes. Parents, enjoying a respite from their children. Lovers, thinking about finding an empty stateroom.

“So what’s he going to do I heard he was going to run but the polls suck why should he oh what about Sally
Claire Tom did they really get that place in Warrenton well I don’t know how he can afford it . . . ”

Minutes clicked past and the time grew closer to eight o’clock.

Everyone was happy.

Pleasant people enjoying a party, enjoying the company of friends.

Thankful for the view they’d have of the fireworks at midnight, thankful for the chance to celebrate and be away from the pressures of the nation’s capital for the evening.

Thankful for the creature comforts conferred upon them by the crew and caterers on board the luxury yacht the
Ritzy Lady,
which floated regally in her dock on the Potomac, exactly two miles south of the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

Robby had moved
from J. R. R. Tolkien to Nintendo.

He didn’t seem upset anymore and Parker could stand it no longer; he had to find out about the Digger, about the most recent attack. Had Lukas and Cage succeeded? Had they found him?

Had they killed him?

He maneuvered through the toys on the floor and walked downstairs, where Stephie was in the kitchen with Mrs. Cavanaugh. The girl was squinting in concentration as she scrubbed one of Parker’s stainless-steel pots. She’d made a caramel corn Christmas tree, sprinkled with green sugar. It sat, charmingly lopsided, on a plate on the counter.

“Beautiful, Who,” he told her.

“I tried to put silver balls on it but they fell off.”

“Robby’ll love it.”

He started for the den but saw a hollowness in her face.

He put his arm around the girl. “Your brother’s okay, you know.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry tonight’s gone all ka-flooey.”

“That’s okay.”

Which meant of course that it wasn’t quite okay.

“We’ll have fun tomorrow . . . But, honey, you know my friend? I may have to go back and see him.”

“Oh, I know,” Stephie said.

“You do?”

“I could tell. Sometimes you’re all-the-way here and sometimes you’re partway here. And tonight, when you came back, you were only partway here.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be all-the-way here. It’s supposed to snow. You want to go sledding?”

“Yeah! Can I make the hot chocolate?”

“I was hoping you would.” He hugged his daughter then rose and walked into the den to call Lukas. He didn’t want her to overhear his conversation.

But through the curtained window he saw motion on the sidewalk, a man, he thought.

He walked quickly to the window and looked out. He couldn’t see anyone—only a car he didn’t recognize.

He slipped his hand into his pocket. And kneaded the cold metal of Lukas’s gun.

Oh, not again . . . Thinking of the Boatman, remembering that terrible night.

The gun is too loud! . . .

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” he called abruptly, glancing into the kitchen. He saw Stephie blink. Once again his brusque manner had startled one of his children. Still, there was no time to comfort her.

Hand in his pocket, he looked through the window in the door and saw an FBI agent he recognized from earlier
in the evening. He relaxed, leaned his head against the doorjamb. Breathed deeply to calm himself then opened the door with a trembling hand. A second agent walked up the steps. He remembered Lukas’s comment about sending some men to watch the house.

“Agent Kincaid?”

He nodded. Looking over his shoulder to make sure Stephie was out of earshot.

“Margaret Lukas sent us to keep an eye on your family.”

“Thanks. Just park out of sight if you would. I don’t want to upset the children.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

He glanced at his watch. He was relieved. If the Digger had struck again, Cage or Lukas would have called. Maybe they’d actually caught the son of a bitch.

“The shooter in the Metro killing?” he asked. “The Digger. They got him?”

The look that passed between the two men chilled Parker.

Oh, no . . .

“Well, sir—”

Inside the house the phone started to ring. He saw Mrs. Cavanaugh answer it.

“The shooter, he got on board a party yacht on the Potomac. Killed eleven, wounded more than twenty. I thought you knew.”

Oh, God. No . . .

Nausea churned inside him.

Here I was reading children’s books while people were dying.
You’ve been living life on
Sesame Street . . .

He asked, “Agent Lukas . . . she’s all right? And Agent Cage?”

“Yessir. They weren’t anywhere near the boat. They found some clue that said ‘Ritz,’ so they thought the Digger was going to hit one of the Ritz hotels. But that wasn’t it. The name of the boat was the
Ritzy Lady.
Bad luck, huh?”

The other agent said, “Security guard got off a couple shots and that scared the shooter off. So it wasn’t as bad as it might’ve been. But they didn’t hit him, they don’t think.”

Bad luck, huh?

No, not luck at all. When you don’t solve the puzzle it’s not because of luck.

Three hawks . . .

He heard Mrs. Cavanaugh’s voice, “Mr. Kincaid?”

He glanced into the house.

Eleven dead . . .

“Phone for you.”

Parker walked into the kitchen. He picked up the phone, expecting to hear Lukas or Cage.

But it was a smooth-sounding, pleasant baritone he didn’t recognize. “Mr. Kincaid?”

“Yes? Who’s this?”

“My name’s Slade Phillips, WPLT News. Mr. Kincaid, we’re doing a special report on the New Year’s Eve shootings. We have an unnamed source reporting that you’ve been instrumental in the investigation and may be responsible for the mix-up in sending the FBI to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel when in fact the killer had targeted another location. We’re going on the air with that story at nine. We want to give you the chance to tell your side. Do you have anything to say?”

Parker inhaled sharply. He believed his heart stopped beating momentarily.

This was it . . . Joan would find out. Everyone would find out.

“Mr. Kincaid?”

“I have no comment.” He hung up, missing the cradle. He watched the phone spiral downward and hit the floor with a resounding crack.

* * *

The Digger returns to his comfy motel room.

Thinking of the boat—where he spun around like . . .
click
 . . . like a whirligig among red and yellow leaves and fired his Uzi and fired and fired and fired . . .

And watched the people fall and scream and run. Things like that.

It wasn’t like the theater. No, no, he got a lot of them this time. Which will make the man who tells him things happy.