Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

He noticed the glass windows the tourists paraded past every day, nine to four, as part of the FBI headquarters tour. The corridor was now dark and ominous.

Parker watched the other members of the team find seats at desks and lab tables. The room was cluttered, smelly and uncomfortable, the way real working laboratories were. But he preferred to be here-rather than in the glitzy Crisis Center-because he firmly believed in something he'd learned from his father, a historian who specialized in the Revolutionary War. "Always fight your battles on familiar ground," the professor had told his boy. He'd chosen not to give this answer to Lukas; another thing William Kincaid had told his son was "You don't have to share everything with your allies."

He glanced into Stan Lewis's office again. Saw the books that he himself had used when this had been his department: Harrison 's Suspect Documents, Housely and Farmer's An Introduction to Handwriting Identification and Scientific Examination of Questioned Documents by Hilton. And the Bible of the profession: Questioned Documents by Albert S. Osborn. He looked at the credenza behind the office chair and recognized the four bonsai trees he'd cultivated then left for Lewis.

"Where's the note?" he asked Cage impatiently.

"On its way. On its way."

Parker turned on several of the instruments. Some hummed, some clicked. And some were silent, their dim indicator lights glowing like cautious eyes.

Waiting, waiting…

And trying not to think about his talk with the children an hour before-when he'd told them that their holiday plans were changing.

Both of the Whos had been in Robby's room, the floor still awash with Legos and Micro Machines.

"Hey, Whos."

"I got to the third level," Stephie'd said, nodding at the Nintendo. "Then I got bomped."

Robby'd had a full-scale invasion of his bed underway-with helicopters and landing craft.

Parker had sat on the bed. "You know those people who were here before?"

"The pretty lady you kept looking at," his son had said coyly.

("They're sharper than you'll ever guess," reports the Handbook.)

"Well, they told me that a friend of mine is sick and I have to go visit him for a little while. Who do you want to baby-sit?"

In addition to the standard cast of high-school and college sitters, Parker had a number of friends in the neighborhood-parents he socialized with-who'd gladly take the children for the evening. There was also his friend Lynne, who lived in the District. She would have driven to Fairfax to help him out but he was sure she'd have a date tonight (it was impossible to imagine Lynne without a date on New Year's Eve) and their relationship was no longer at the level where he could ask for a sacrifice like that.

"You have to go?" Robby'd asked. "Tonight?"

When he was disappointed, the boy would become very still, his expression remaining unchanged. He never pouted, never grumbled-which Parker would have preferred. He just froze, as if sadness threatened to overwhelm him. As Robby had looked up at him, unmoving, holding a tiny toy helicopter, Parker'd felt his son's disappointment in his own heart.

Stephie was less emotional and wore those emotions less visibly; her only response had been to toss her hair from her face and give him a frown, asking, "Is he going to be all right? Your friend?"

"I'm sure he'll be okay. But it would be a good thing for me to see him. So-do you want me to call Jennifer? Or Mrs. Cavanaugh?"

"Mrs. Cavanaugh!" they'd said, almost in unison, Robby coming out of his dolor. Mrs. Cavanaugh, the neighborhood grandmother, baby-sat on Tuesdays-when Parker sat in on a local poker game.

Parker had stood up, surrounded by the sea of toys.

"But you'll be back before midnight," Robby'd asked, "won't you?"

("Never make promises if there's any chance you can't keep them.")

"I'm going to try as hard as I can."

Parker had hugged both of the children and then walked to the door.

"Daddy?" Stephie had asked, pure innocence in her baggy black jeans and Hello Kitty T-shirt. "Would your friend like me to make him a get-well card?"

Parker had felt his betrayal as a physical blow. "That's okay, honey. I think he'd like it better if you just had fun tonight."

Now, intruding on these difficult thoughts, the door to the document lab swung open. A lean, handsome agent with swept-back blond hair walked into the room. "Jerry Baker," he announced, walking up to Parker. "You're Parker Kincaid."

They shook hands.

He looked across the lab. "Margaret," he called in greeting. Lukas nodded back.

"You're the tactical expert?" Parker asked him.

"Right."

Lukas said, "Jerry's got some S &S people lined up."

Search and Surveillance, Parker recalled.

"Some good shooters too," Baker said. "Just dying for a chance to light up this beast."

Parker sat down in the gray chair. He said to Lukas, "You've processed the unsub's body?"

"Yes," Lukas said.

"Do you have the inventory?"

"Not yet."

"No?" Parker was troubled. He had very definite ideas of running investigations and he could see Lukas would have definite ideas too. He wondered how much of a problem he'd have with her. Handle it delicately or not? Glancing at her tough face-pale as pale marble-Parker decided he had no time for niceties. In a case with so few leads they needed as many K's-known aspects of the unsub-as they could find. "We better get it," he said.

She responded coolly, "I've ordered it sent up here ASAP."

Parker would have sent somebody-Hardy maybe-to pick it up. But he decided not to fight this skirmish. He'd give it another few minutes. He looked at Baker. "How many good guys do we have?"

"Thirty-six of ours, four dozen District P.D."

Parker frowned. "We'll need more than that."

"That's a problem," Cage said. "Most actives are on alert because of the holiday. There're a couple hundred thousand people in town. And a lot of Treasury and Justice agents're on security detail, what with all the diplomatic and government parties."

Len Hardy muttered, "Too bad this happened tonight."

Parker gave a short laugh. "It wouldn't have happened at any other time."

The young detective gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

He was about to answer but Lukas said, "The unsub picked tonight because he knew we'd be shorthanded."

"And because of the crowds in town," Parker added. "The shooter's got himself a fucking firing range. He…"

He paused, listening to himself. He didn't like what he heard. Living with the children, working largely alone, he'd softened since he'd left the Bureau; the rough edges were gone. He never swore and he tempered everything he said with the Whos in mind. Now he found himself back in his former life, his hard life. As a linguist, Parker knew that the first thing an outsider does to adapt to a new group is to talk their talk.

Parker opened his attaché case-a portable document examination kit. It was filled with the tools of his trade. Also, it seemed, a Darth Vader action figure. A present from Robby.

"'The Force be with you,'" Cage said. "Our mascot for the night. My grandkids love those movies."

Parker propped it up on the examination table. "Wish it were Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Who?" Lukas frowned, shook her head.

Hardy blurted out, "You don't know?" Then blushed when she glanced at him coldly.

Parker was surprised too. How could somebody not know about Star Wars?

"Just a character in a movie," C. P. Ardell told her.

Without a reaction she turned back to a memo she was reading.

Parker found his hand glass, which was wrapped in black velvet. It was a Leitz lens, twelve power, and was the essential tool of a document examiner. Joan had given it to him for their second anniversary.