Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

"Not always. But usually."

Lukas asked, "The information about the Digger-you had that all along, didn't you? You didn't go to the library."

"Nope. Hell, that's why I named Hughes the Digger. So you'd think he had some ridiculous revenge scheme against the government. But…" He looked around the room, "How'd you get here?"

"To this house?" Parker couldn't resist. "Perfection," he said and watched the arrogant smile slide off the killer's face. He continued. "To escape after the perfect crime you'd want the perfect passports. You'd find the best forger in the business. He happens to be a friend of mine. Well, let's just say we're close; I put him in prison once."

For a moment Fielding was flustered. "But he didn't know my real name or address."

"No, but you called him," Parker countered.

"Not from here," Fielding said, argumentative, whiny.

Lukas too wanted part of deconstructing the man. "From the phone booth up the street." She nodded toward the corner. "We ran the pen register numbers through Bell Atlantic security." Then she held up a computer picture of Fielding. "We lifted it from the tape in the FBI headquarters security camera. Just showed it to a half-dozen people in the neighborhood tonight and got a beeline to your front door."

"Shit." He closed his eyes.

The little things…

Parker said, "There's this saying among forgers that the expression 'You can't think of everything' doesn't count. You have to think of everything."

Fielding said, "I knew you were the strong link, Parker. The biggest risk. I should've had the Digger take care of you right up front."

Cage asked, "You didn't have any problem sacrificing your friend?"

"The Digger? Wouldn't exactly call him a friend." Fielding added, "He was a dangerous person to keep alive. Anyway, you may've guessed, this was going to be my last job. I didn't need him anymore."

An agent walked into the doorway. "Okay, Fielding. Your ride's here."

They started to lead him off. He paused at the doorway. Turned back.

"Admit it, Parker, I'm good," he said churlishly. "After all, I nearly did it."

Parker shook his head. "Either an answer to a puzzle's right or it's wrong. There's no 'nearly' about it."

But when he was led out of the door Fielding was smiling.

The workmen were lashing the burnt bus to a flatbed.

The medical examiner had carted off the Diggers body, in whose hands was fused, horribly, a scorched black machine gun.

Edward Fielding sat in federal detention, legs shackled and wrists cuffed.

As Parker said goodnight to Cage, looking around for Margaret Lukas, he noticed Mayor Gerald Kennedy start toward them. He'd been here, with a skeleton crew of journalists, surveying the damage and talking to police and rescue workers.

He walked up to them.

"Your honor," Cage said.

"I have you to thank for that little news story, Agent Cage? Implicating me in the screwup at the boat?"

A shrug. "Investigation had priority, sir. Shouldn't've showed up at the Ritz. Probably would've been better to keep politics out of it."

Kennedy shook his head. "So I understand you've caught the man behind this."

"We did, sir."

Kennedy turned his jowly face to Parker. "And you're Agent-"

"Jefferson, your honor. First name's Tom."

"Oh, you're the one I've been hearing about. The document examiner?"

"That's right," Parker said. "I saw you do some pretty nifty shooting there."

"Not nifty enough." The Mayor nodded ruefully toward the smoking bus. The mayor asked, "Say, you related to Thomas Jefferson?"

"Me?" Parker laughed. "No, no. It's a common name."

"My aide's name is Jefferies," he said as if making cocktail party conversation.

Then Lukas arrived. She nodded to the mayor and Parker could see the tension in her face, as if she were expecting a confrontation.

But all Kennedy said was, "I'm sorry about your friend, Agent Ardell."

Lukas said nothing. She stared at the scorched bus.

A reporter called, "Mayor, there's a rumor that you chose not to call out the National Guard tonight because you thought it would interfere with tourist traffic. Could you comment on that?"

"No, I couldn't." He too gazed at the bus.

Lukas said, "Tonight didn't turn out very well for anybody, did it?"

"No, Agent Lukas," Kennedy said slowly. "I suspect things like this never do."

He took his wife's hand and walked to their limousine.

Margaret Lukas handed Cage some documents-maybe evidence reports or arrest records. Then, eyes still on the bus, she walked to her Explorer. Parker wondered, Was she leaving without saying goodbye?

She opened the door, started the engine and put the heater on-the temperature had dropped and the sky was overcast with thick clouds, which were still shedding fat grains of snow. She left the truck's door open, leaned back into the seat.

Cage shook Parker's hand then muttered, "What can I say?" To Parker's surprise the agent threw his arms around him, hugged him once hard, wincing at the pain, then started off down the street. "Night, Lukas," Cage shouted. "Night, Parker. Man, my side hurts. Happy New Year, everybody. Happy goddamn New Year."

Parker zipped up his jacket and walked toward Lukas's truck, noticing that she was looking at something in her hand. Parker wasn't sure what it was. It seemed to be an old postcard that had been folded up. She stared at it. She glanced at Parker then seemed to hesitate. Just before he got to the truck she put the card away in her purse.

She pulled a bottle of beer out of her pocket, a Sam Adams, cracked it open with a church key that rested on the dash.

"They sell those in vending machines at headquarters now?"

"Present from my witness, Gary Moss." She offered it to him. He took a long sip, handed it back. Lukas remained in the Ford but turned sideways, facing Parker. "What a night, hm?"

"What a night," he repeated. He reached forward and offered his hand.

She gripped his solidly They'd both removed their gloves and though their hands were red from the cold, their flesh was the identical temperature; Parker felt no cold or heat coming from her skin.

Neither of them let go. He enclosed her hand with his left.

"How're the kids?" she asked. "What do you call them again?"

"The Whos."

"Whos. Right. Have you talked to them?"

"They're fine." Reluctantly he released his grip. Was she reluctant too? He couldn't tell. Then he asked, "You'll need a report, I assume?" He remembered all the paperwork U.S. attorneys required to get ready for federal criminal trials. Mountains of it. But Parker didn't mind; after all, documents were his business.

"We will," Lukas responded. "But there's no hurry."

"I'll do one on Monday. I'm finishing a project this weekend."

"Document? Or home improvement?"

"You mean home improvement as in tools?" He laughed. "Oh, I don't do that. Kitchens I know. Workbenches, uh-uh. No, it's a possible forgery. A letter supposedly written by Thomas Jefferson. A dealer in New York wants it analyzed."

"Is it real?"

"My gut feeling is yes. I have some more tests to run. Oh, here." He handed her the pistol.

Lukas, in the skirt now, was no longer dressed for hiding backup weapons on her ankle. She slipped the gun into her glove compartment. Parker's eyes strayed to her profile again.

Why on earth would you envy me? he wondered silently.

Sometimes puzzles answer themselves, in their own time.

And sometimes you just never do find the answer. And that's because, Parker Kincaid had come to believe, you weren't meant to.

"Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?" he asked suddenly. "Want to have a ridiculously suburban dinner?"