Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

"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. / 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."