Parker ran the PoliLight wand over the envelope. Yes, the right third was lighter than the rest. He did the same with the note and found there was a lighter L-shaped pattern on the top and right side of the paper.
This was interesting. He studied it again.
"See how the corner's faded? I think it's because the paper--and part of the envelope too--were bleached by the sun."
"Where, at his house or the store?" Hardy asked.
"Could be either," Parker answered. "But given the cohesion of the pulp I'd guess the paper was sealed until fairly recently. That would suggest the store."
"But," Lukas said, "it'd have to be a place that had a southern exposure."
Yes, Parker thought. Good. He hadn't thought of that.
"Why?" Hardy asked.
"Because it's winter," Parker pointed out. "There's not enough sunlight to bleach paper from any other direction."
Parker paced again. It was a habit of his. When Thomas Jefferson's wife died, his oldest daughter, Martha, wrote that her father paced "almost incessantly day and night, only lying down occasionally, when nature was completely exhausted." When Parker worked on a document or was wrestling with a particularly difficult puzzle the Whos often chided him for "walking in circles again."
The layout of the lab was coming back to him. He walked to a cabinet, opened it and pulled out an examining board and some sheets of collecting paper. Holding the note by its corner, he ran a camel-hair brush over the surface to dislodge trace elements. There was virtually nothing. He wasn't surprised. Paper is one of the most absorbent of materials; it retains a lot of substances from the places it's been but generally they remain firmly bound into the fibers.
Parker took a large hypodermic syringe from his attache case and punched several small disks of ink and paper out of the note and the envelope. "You know how it works?" he asked Geller, nodding at the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer in the corner.
"Oh, sure," he said. "I took one apart once. Just for the fun of it."
"Separate runs--for the note and the envelope," Parker said, handing him the samples.
"You got it."
"What's it do?" C. P. asked again. Undercover and tactical agents generally don't have much patience for lab work and know little about forensic science.
Parker explained. The GC/MS separated chemicals found at crime scenes into their component parts and then identified them. The machine rumbled alarmingly--in effect it burned the samples and analyzed the resulting vapors.
Parker brushed more trace off the note and envelope and this time managed to collect some material. He mounted the slides on two different Leitz compound scopes. He peered into one, then the other, turned the focusing knobs, which moved with the slow sensuality of oiled, precision mechanisms.
He stared at what he saw then looked up, said to Geller, "I need to digitize images of the trace in here." Nodding at a microscope. "How do we do that?"
"Ah, piece of proverbial cake." The young agent plugged optical cables into the base of the microscopes. They ran to a large gray box, which sprouted cables of its own. These cables Geller plugged into one of the dozen computers in the lab. He clicked it on and a moment later an image of the particles of trace came on the screen. He called up a menu.
Said to Parker, "Just hit this button. They're stored as JPEG files."
"And I can transfer them on e-mail?"
"Just tell me who they're going to."
"In a minute--I'll have to get the address. First, I want to do different magnifications."
Parker and Geller captured three images from each microscope, stored them on the hard drive.
Just as he finished, the GC/MS beeped and data began to appear on the screen of the computer dedicated to the unit.
Lukas said, "I've got a couple of examiners standing by in Materials and Elemental." These were the Bureau's two trace evidence analysis departments.
"Send 'em home," Parker said. "There's somebody else I want to use."
"Who?" Lukas asked, frowning.
"He's in New York."
"N.Y.P.D.?" Cage asked.
"Was. Civilian now."
"Why not somebody here?" Lukas asked.
"Because," Parker answered, "my friend's the best criminalist in the country. He's the one set up PERT."
"Our evidence team?" C. P. asked.
"Right." Parker looked up a number and made a call.
"But," Hardy pointed out, "it's New Year's Eve. He's probably out."
"No," Parker said. "He hardly ever goes out."
"Not even on holidays?"
"Not even on holidays."
*
"Parker Kincaid," the voice in the speaker phone said. "I wondered if someone from down there might be calling in."
"You heard about our problem, did you?" Parker asked Lincoln Rhyme.
"Ah, I hear everything," he said, and Parker remembered that Rhyme could bring off dramatic delivery like no one else. "Don't I, Thom? Don't I hear everything? Parker, you remember Thom, don't you? Long-suffering Thom?"
"Hi, Parker."
"Hi, Thom. He giving you grief?"
"Of course I am," Lincoln said gruffly. "I thought you were retired, Parker."
"I was. Until about two hours ago."
"Funny about this business, isn't it? The way they never let us rest in peace."
Parker had met Rhyme once. He was a handsome man, about Parker's age, dark hair. He was also paralyzed from the neck down. He consulted out of his townhouse on Central Park West. "I enjoyed your course, Parker," Rhyme said. "Last year."
Parker remembered Rhyme, sitting in a fancy candy-apple-red wheelchair in the front row of the lecture hall at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York. The subject was forensic linguistics.
Rhyme continued, "Do you know we got a conviction because of you?"
"I didn't."
"There was a witness at a killing. He couldn't see the killer; he was hiding. But he heard the perp say something to the vic just before he shot him. He said, 'If I were you, you prick, I'd say my prayers.' Then--this is interesting, Parker, are you listening?"
"You bet." When Lincoln Rhyme spoke, you listened.
"Then during the interrogation at police HQ he said to one of the detectives, 'If I were going to confess it wouldn't be to you.' You know how we got him?"
"How, Lincoln?"
Rhyme laughed like a happy teenager. "Because of the subjunctive voice! 'If I were you.' Not 'If I was you.' 'If I were going to confess.' Statistically only seven percent of the general population uses the subjunctive voice anymore. Did you know that?"
"As a matter of fact I do," Parker said. "That was enough for a conviction?"
"No. But it was enough for a confession as part of a plea bargain," Rhyme announced. "Now let me guess. You've got this unsub shooting people in the subway and your only clue to him is the--what? A threat letter? An extortion note?"
"How's he know that?" Lukas asked.
"Another country heard from!" Rhyme called. "To answer the question: I know that there's a note involved because it's the only logical reason for Parker Kincaid to be calling me. . . . Who--excuse me, Parker--whom did I just answer?"
"Special Agent Margaret Lukas," she said.
"She's ASAC at the District field office. She's running the case."
"Ah, the Bureau of course. Fred Dellray was just over here to visit," Rhyme said. "You know Fred? Manhattan office?"
"I know Fred," Lukas answered. "He ran some of our undercover people last year. An arms sale sting."
Rhyme continued. "So, an unsub, a note. Now, talk to me, one of you."
Lukas said, "You're right. It's an extortion scheme. We tried to pay but the primary unsub was killed. Now we're pretty sure his partner--the shooter--may keep going."
"Oh, that's tricky. That's a problem. You've processed the body?"
"Nothing," Lukas told him. "No ID, no significant trace."
"And my belated Christmas present i
s a piece of the case."
"I GC'd a bit of the envelope and the letter--"
"Good for you, Parker. Burn up the evidence. They'll want to save it for trial but you burn up what you have to."
"I want to send you the data. And some pictures of the trace. Can I e-mail it all to you?"
"Yes, yes, of course. What magnification?"
"Ten, twenty and fifty."
"Good. When's the deadline?"
"Every four hours, starting at four, going to midnight."
"Four p.m.? Today?"
"That's right."
"Lord."
She continued, "We have a lead to the four o'clock hit. We think he's going after a hotel. But we don't know anything more specific than that."
"Four, eight and twelve. Your unsub was a man with a dramatic flair."
"Should that be part of his profile?" Hardy asked, jotting more notes. Parker supposed the man would probably spend all weekend writing up a report for the mayor, the police chief and the City Council--a report that would probably go unread for months. Maybe forever.
"Who's that?" Rhyme barked.
"Len Hardy, sir. District P.D."
"You do psych profiling?"
"Actually I'm with Research. But I've taken profiling courses at the Academy and done postgraduate psych work at American University."
"Listen," Rhyme said to him, "I don't believe in psych profiles. I believe in evidence. Psychology is slippery as a fish. Look at me. I'm an oven of neuroses. Right, Amelia? . . . My friend here's not talking but she agrees. All right. We've got to move on this. Send me your goodies. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
Parker took down Rhyme's e-mail address and handed it to Geller. A moment later, the agent had uploaded the images and the chemical profiles from the chromatograph/spectrometer.
"He's the best criminalist in the country?" Cage asked skeptically.
But Parker didn't respond. He was gazing at the clock. Somewhere in the District of Columbia those people that he and Margaret Lukas were willing to sacrifice had only thirty minutes left to live.
10
This hotel is beautiful, this hotel is nice.
The Digger walks inside, with puppies on his shopping bag, and no one notices him.
He walks into the bar and buys a sparkling water from the bartender. It tickles his nose. Funny . . . He drinks it down and leaves money and a tip, the way the man who tells him things told him to do.
In the lobby the crowds are milling. There're functions here. Office parties. Lots of decorations. More of those fat babies in New Year's banners. My, aren't they . . . aren't they . . . aren't they cute?
And here's Old Man Time, looking like the Grim Reaper.
He and Pamela . . . click. . . . and Pamela went to some parties in places like this.
The Digger buys a USA Today. He sits in the lobby and reads it, the puppy bag at his side.
He looks at his watch.
Reading the articles.
USA Today is a nice newspaper. It tells him many interesting things. The Digger notices the weather around the nation. He likes the color of the high-pressure fronts. He reads about sports. He thinks he used to do some sports a long time ago. No, that was his friend, William. His friend enjoyed sports. Some other friends too. So did Pamela.
The paper has lots of pictures of nice basketball players. They look very big and strong and when they dunk balls they fly through the air like whirligigs. The Digger decides he must not have played sports. He isn't sure why Pamela or William or anyone would want to. It's more fun to eat soup and watch TV.
A young boy walks past him and pauses.
He looks down at the bag. The Digger pulls the top of the bag closed so the boy won't see the Uzi that's about to kill fifty or sixty people.
The boy is maybe nine. He has dark hair and it's parted very carefully. He's wearing a suit that doesn't fit well. The sleeves are too long. And a happy red Christmas tie bunches up his collar awkwardly. He's looking at the bag.
At the puppies.
The Digger looks away from him.
"If anybody looks at your face, kill them. Remember that."
I remember.
But he can't help looking at the boy. The boy smiles. The Digger doesn't smile. (He recognizes a smile but he doesn't know what it is exactly.) The boy, with his brown eyes and the little bit of a smile on his face, is fascinated with the bag and the puppies. Their happy ribbons. Like the ribbons the fat New Year's babies wear. Green and gold ribbons on the bag. The Digger looks at the bag too.
"Honey, come on," a woman calls. She's standing beside a pot of poinsettias, as red as the rose Pamela wore on her dress at Christmas last year.
The boy glances once again at the Digger's face. The Digger knows he should look away but he just stares back. Then the boy walks to the crowd of people around tables filled with little dots of food. Lots of crackers and cheese and shrimps and carrots.
No soup, the Digger notices.
The boy walks up to a girl who is probably his sister. She's about thirteen.
The Digger looks at his watch. Twenty minutes to four. He takes the cell phone out of his pocket and carefully punches the buttons to call his voice mail. He listens. "You have no new messages." He shuts the phone off.
He lifts the bag onto his lap and looks out over the crowd. The boy is in a blue blazer and his sister is wearing a pink dress. It has a sash on it.
The Digger clutches the puppy bag.
Eighteen minutes.
The boy is standing at the food table. The girl is talking to an older woman.
More people enter the hotel. They walk right past the Digger, with his bag and his nice newspaper that shows the weather all across the nation.
But no one notices him.
*
The phone in the document lab began ringing.
As always, when a telephone chirped and he was someplace without the Whos, Parker felt an instant of low-voltage panic though if one of the children had had an accident Mrs. Cavanaugh would of course have called his cell phone and not the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
He glanced at the caller ID box and saw a New York number. He snagged the receiver. "Lincoln. It's Parker. We've got fifteen minutes. Any clues?"
The criminalist's voice was troubled. "Oh, not much, Parker. Speaker me . . . Don't you linguists hate it when people verb nouns?"
Parker hit the button.
"Somebody grab a pen," Rhyme called. "I'll tell you what I've got. Are you ready? Are you ready?"
"We're ready, Lincoln," Parker said.
"The most prominent trace embedded in the letter is granite dust."
"Granite," Cage echoed.
"There's evidence of shaving and chiseling on the stone. And some polishing too."
"What do you think it's from?" Parker asked.
"I don't know. How would I know? I don't know Washington. I know New York."
"And if it were in New York?" Lukas asked.
Rhyme rattled off, "New building construction, old building renovation or demolition, bathroom, kitchen and threshold manufacturers, tombstone makers, sculptors' studios, landscapers . . . The list's endless. You need somebody who knows the lay of the land there. Understand? That's not you, is it, Parker?"
"Nope. I--"
The criminalist interrupted him. "--know documents. You know unsubs too. But not geography."
"That's true."
Parker glanced at Lukas. She was gazing at the clock. She looked back at him with a face devoid of emotion. Cage had mastered the shrug; Lukas's waiting state was the stony mask.
Rhyme continued. "There're also traces of red clay and dust from old brick. Then there's sulfur. And a lot of carbon--ash and soot, consistent with cooking meat or burning trash that has meat in it. Now--the data from the envelope showed a little of the same trace substances I found on the letter. But also something more--significant amounts of salt water, kerosine, refined oil, crude oil, butter--"
"Bu
tter?" Lukas asked.
"That's what I said," Rhyme groused. He added sourly, "Don't know the brand. And there's some organic material not inconsistent with mollusks. So, all the evidence points to Baltimore."
"Baltimore?" Hardy asked.
From Lukas: "How do you figure that?"
"The seawater, kerosine, fuel oil and crude oil mean it's a port. Right, right? What else could it be? Well, the port nearest to D.C. that does major crude oil transfer is Baltimore. And Thom tells me--my man knows food--that there are tons of seafood restaurants right on the harbor. Bertha's. He keeps talking about Bertha's Mussels."
"Baltimore," Lukas muttered. "So he wrote the note at home, had dinner on the waterfront the night before. He came to D.C. to drop it off at City Hall. Then--"
"No, no, no," Rhyme said.
"What?" Lukas asked.
Parker, the puzzle master, said, "The evidence is fake. He staged it, didn't he, Lincoln?"
"Just like a Broadway play," Rhyme said, sounding pleased Parker had caught on.
"How do you figure?" Cage asked.
"There's a detective I've been working with--Roland Bell. N.Y.P.D. Good man. He's from North Carolina. He's got this expression. 'Seems a little kind of too quick and too easy.' Well, all that trace . . . There's too much of those elements. Way too much. The unsub got his hands on some trace and impregnated the envelope. Just to send us off track."
"And the trace on the letter?" Hardy asked.
"Oh, no, that's legit. The amount of material in the fibers was consistent with ambient substances. No, no, the letter'll tell us where he lived. But the envelope . . . ah, the envelope tells us something else."
Parker said, "That there was more to him than meets the eye."
"Exactly," the criminalist confirmed.
Parker summarized. "So, where he lived there's the granite, clay dust, brick dust, sulfur, soot and ash from cooking or burning meat."
"All that dust--might be a demolition site," Cage said.
"That seems the most likely," Hardy said.
"Likely? How could it be likely?" Rhyme asked. "It's a possibility. But then isn't everything a possibility until one alternative's proven true? Think about that . . ." Rhyme's voice faded slightly as he spoke to someone in the room with him, "No, Amelia, I'm not being pompous. I'm being accurate . . . Thom! Thom! Some more single-malt. Please."
"Mr. Rhyme," Lukas said, "Lincoln . . . This is all good and we appreciate it. But we've got ten minutes until the shooter's next attack. You have any thoughts about which hotel the unsub might've picked?"
Rhyme answered with a gravity that chilled Parker. "I'm afraid I don't," he said. "You're on your own there."
The Devil's Teardrop Page 10
