Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

Evans said, "But consider where. Dupont Circle. It's Yuppieville there. Hardly Southeast. And the Mason Theater? Tickets for the ballet must've been selling for sixty bucks each. And there was the third location too," Evans reminded. "The Four Seasons. Even though he didn't hit it he sent us there. He was familiar with it. And it's very upscale."

Lukas nodded. It seemed obvious to her now and she was upset she hadn't realized it earlier. She thought again about Parker-how he approached puzzles. Thinking broadly. It was so hard sometimes, though.

Focus…

"I think he was angry at the rich. At society's elite."

"Why?" Cage asked.

"I don't know yet. Not on the facts we have. But he did hate them. Oh, he was full of hate. And we should remember that when we're trying to figure out what his next target will be."

Lukas pulled the morgue shot of the unsub closer, stared at him.

What had been in his mind? What were his motives.

Evans glanced at her and gave a short laugh.

"What?" Lukas asked.

He nodded at the extortion note. "I feel like it's the note I've been analyzing. Like that's the perpetrator."

She'd been thinking just the same.

Exactly what Parker Kincaid had said too.

Focus…

"Hold on, folks," Geller said. "We're getting something." Everyone leaned toward the screen on which they could see the words "… two miles south. The R…"

Behind that phrase the computer was inserting combinations of the letters from the fragments of ash. It would reject them if the pen stroke of one letter didn't match a stroke from the one to its left. But the system had now added a letter i behind the R. Another one was forming behind that.

"It's that funny i with a dot Parker was telling us about," Geller said.

"The devil's teardrop," Lukas whispered.

"Right," Geller said. "Then after that… a letter t. Is that a t. Damn tears, I can't see anything."

"Yep," Lukas said. "Definitely a t. R-i-t."

"What's that next letter?" Hardy asked, leaning toward the screen.

"I can't tell," Lukas muttered. "It's too fuzzy. A short letter-without any-what'd Parker call them?-ascenders or descenders."

She leaned over the tech's shoulders. The smell of smoke on him was strong. On the screen the letters were very faint, but, yes, there definitely was an i and a t. The next one though was just a blur.

"Damn," Geller muttered. "The computer says that that's the letter that fits. The strokes match. But I can't make it out. Anybody see better than me?"

"Looks like a zigzag or something," Lukas said. "An a or x maybe?"

Cage's head shot up. "Zigzag? Could it be a z?"

"Ritz!" Hardy blurted. "Maybe the Ritz-Carlton?"

"That's got to be it!" Lukas said, nodding at Evans. "He's going after more rich people."

"Sure!" Evans said. "And it makes sense-given his tendency to fool us-he'd figure we'd eliminate hotels because he used one before."

In the office chair Geller rolled to a different computer. In five seconds he had a Yellow Pages telephone directory on the screen. "Two Ritzes in the area. One at Tysons Corner. And one in Pentagon City."

Lukas said, "Parker said he'd stick to the District. I'm voting in Pentagon City."

She called Jerry Baker and told him about the latest target. "I want every tactical agent in the District and Northern Virginia mobilized. And send skeleton crews to Tysons." She added, "You're not going to like it but no hoods and helmets."

She meant: without Nomex hoods and Kevlar helmets-shorthand in the Bureau for going plainclothes.

"You sure?" Baker asked uncertainly. When officers dress for undercover surveillance they can't wear as much body armor as in an overt tactical operation. It's far riskier, especially with a perp armed with an automatic weapon.

"Has to be, Jerry. We've almost nailed this guy once and he's gonna be skittish as a deer. He sees anything out of the ordinary he's going to bolt. I'll take responsibility."

"Okay, Margaret. I'll get on it."

She hung up.

She found Len Hardy staring at her. His face suddenly seemed older, tougher. She wondered if he was going to confront her again about his being on a tactical team. But he asked, "You're running the operation plainclothes?"

"Right. Is there a problem with that, Detective?"

"Does that mean you're not going to evacuate the hotel?"

"No, I'm not," she answered.

"But there'll be a thousand people there tonight."

Lukas said, "It's got to be business as usual. The Digger can't suspect a thing."

"But if he gets past us… I mean, we aren't even sure what he looks like."

"I know, Len."

He shook his head. "You can't do it."

"We don't have a choice."

The detective said, "You know what I do for a living-compile statistics. You want to know how many bystanders die in covert tactical operations? There's probably an eighty percent chance of significant fatalities among innocents if you try to take him down in a situation like that."

"What do you suggest?" she snapped back, letting him see a flash of temper.

"Keep your people plainclothes but get all the guests out. Leave the employees inside if you have to but move everybody else out."

"The best we could do is get fifty or sixty agents inside the hotel," she pointed out. "The Digger walks in the front door, expecting to see five hundred guests, and he finds that few? He'd take off. And he'd go shoot up someplace else."

"For Christ sake, Margaret," Hardy muttered, "at least get the kids out."

Lukas fell silent, eyes on the note.

"Please," the detective persisted.

She looked into his eyes. "No. If we tried to evacuate anybody word would spread and there'd be panic."

"So you're just going to hope for the best?"

She glanced at the extortion note.

The end is night…

It seemed to be sneering at her.

"No," Lukas said. "We're going to stop him. That's what we're going to do." A glance at Evans: "Doctor, if you could stay here." Then a glance at Hardy. "You handle communications."

Hardy sighed angrily. He said nothing else.

"Let's go," Lukas said to Cage. "I've got to stop by my office."

"For what?" Cage asked, nodding to her empty ankle holster. "Oh, another backup?"

"No, for some party clothes. We've got to blend."

"He's got something good for us." Wendell Jefferies, the sleeves of his custom-made shirt rolled high, revealing health-club-toned arms.

By "he" the aide meant Slade Phillips, Mayor Kennedy knew.

The two men were in the City Hall office. The mayor had just given another embarrassing press conference, attended by only a dozen reporters, who, even as he spoke, took cell phone calls and checked pagers in hopes of getting better news from other sources. Who could blame them? Christ, he didn't have anything to say. All he could report on was the morale of some of the victims he'd been to visit at hospitals.

"He's going on the air at nine," Jefferies now told the mayor. "A special report."

"With what?"

"He won't tell me," Jefferies said. "Somehow he thinks that would be unethical."

Kennedy stretched and leaned back in the couch-a fake Georgian settee his predecessor had bought. The finish was chipping off the arms. And the hassock on which his size 12 feet rested was cheap; a piece of folded cardboard was stuffed under one leg to keep it from rocking.

A glance at the brass clock.

Dear your honor, thank you very much for coming to speak with us today. It has been an honor to hear you. You are a very good person for us children and students and we would like to comment… commem… commemorate your visit with this gift, which we hope you will like…

The minute hand clicked forward one stoke. In an hour, he thought, how many more people would be dead?