He lifted the camera, pointed it and pushed the button.
Picture: the man who called himself Jefferson, though that was not his name, the man who was now so intertwined in this case, was resting something on the hood of a car, bending forward to read it. A book? A magazine? No, it glistened like a sheet of glass. All you could really see in the picture was the rigid attention of the man as he wrapped his leather jacket around the glass the way a father might bundle up his infant for a trip outside in the cold night air.
Snap.
*
So. Protect the mayor.
And don't trash the feds.
Anchorman Slade Phillips was in a coffee shop on Dupont Circle. There were still several dozen emergency vehicles parked nearby, lights flashing through the gray evening. Yellow police tape was everywhere.
Phillips had shown his press pass and gotten through the line. He'd been terribly shaken by what he'd seen at the foot of the escalator. The sludge of blood still drying. Bits of bone and hair. He--
"Excuse me?" a woman's voice asked. "You're Slade Phillips. WPLT."
Anchorpeople are forever doomed to be known by both names. Nobody ever says Mister. He looked up from his coffee at the flirty young blonde. She wanted an autograph. He gave her one.
"You're so, like, good," she said.
"Thank you."
Go away.
"I want to be in TV someday too."
"Good for you."
Go away.
She stood for a moment and when he didn't ask her to join him she walked away on high heels, in a gait that reminded Phillips of an antelope's.
Sipping decaf. All the carnage in the Metro--he couldn't get it out of his mind. Jesus . . . Blood everywhere. The chips in the tile and dents in the metal . . . Bits of flesh and bits of bone.
And shoes.
A half-dozen shoes had lain bloody at the base of the escalator. For some reason they were the most horrifying sight of all.
This was the kind of story most reporters dream about in their ambitious hearts.
You're a reporter, go report.
Yet Phillips found he had no desire to cover the crime. The violence repulsed him. The sick mind of the killer scared him. And he thought: Wait. I'm not a reporter. He wished he'd said this to that slick prick, Wendy Jefferies. I'm an entertainer. I'm a soap opera star. I'm a personality.
But he was too deep in Jefferies's pocket for that kind of candor.
And so he was doing what he was told.
He wondered if Mayor Jerry Kennedy knew about his arrangement with Jefferies. Probably not. Kennedy was a stand-up son of a bitch. Better than all the previous mayors of the District rolled into one. Because if Slade Phillips wasn't a Peter Arnett or Tom Brokaw at least he knew people. And he knew that Kennedy did want a chance to fix as much of the city as he could before the electorate threw his ass out. Which would undoubtedly be in the next election.
And this Project 2000 of his . . . Man, it took some balls to tax the corporations in the city even more than they were already taxed. Bad blood there. And Kennedy was also coming down like a Grand Inquisitor on that school construction scandal. Rumors were that he'd wanted to pay that whistle-blower, Gary Moss, an additional bonus from District coffers for coming forward and risking his life to testify (an expense Congressman Lanier had refused to approve, of course). There were rumors too that Kennedy was going to crucify anyone involved in the corruption--including long-time friends.
So Phillips could rationalize taking some of the heat off Kennedy's office. It was for a higher good.
More decaf. Convinced that real coffee would affect his gorgeous baritone, he lived on unleaded.
He looked out the window and saw the man he was waiting for. A slight guy, short. He was a clerk at FBI headquarters and Phillips had been currying him for a year. He was one of the "sources who wish to remain anonymous" that you hear about all the time--sources whose relationship to honesty was a bit dicey. But what did it matter? This was TV journalism and a different set of standards applied.
The clerk glanced at Phillips as he stepped into the coffee shop, looking around cautiously like a bumbling spy. He pulled off his overcoat, revealing a very badly fitting gray suit.
The man was basically a mailboy though he'd told Phillips that he was "privy" (oh, please . . .) to most of the Bureau's "primary decision-making activities."
Ego's such a bitch, Phillips thought. "Hello, Timothy."
"Happy New Year," the man said, sitting down and looking like a butterfly pinned to the wall.
"Yeah, yeah," Phillips said.
"So what's good tonight? They have moussaka? I love moussaka."
"You don't have time to eat. You have time to talk."
"Just a drink?"
Phillips flagged down a waitress and ordered more decaf for him and regular for Timothy.
"Well--" He looked disappointed. "I meant a beer."
The anchorman leaned forward. Whispered, "The crazy guy. The Metro shooter. What's going on with it?"
"They don't know too much. It's weird. Some people're talking about a terrorist cell. Some people're talking right-wing militia. Couple people think it's just a straight extortion scheme. But there isn't any consensus."
"I need some focus," Phillips said.
"Focus? What do you mean 'focus'?" Timothy glanced at a nearby table, where a man was eating moussaka.
"Kennedy's taking a hit on this. That's not fair."
"Why the hell not? He's a goon."
The anchorman wasn't here to debate the mayor's competence. Whatever history decided about the tenure of Gerald D. Kennedy, Slade Phillips was being paid $25,000 to suggest to the world that the mayor wasn't a goon. So he continued, "How's the Bureau handling it?"
"It's a tough case," said Timothy, who aspired to be an FBI agent but was forever destined to fall just short of every goal he set for himself in life. "They're doing their best. They got the perp's safe house. You hear?"
"I heard. I also heard he pulled an end run and shot the shit out of you."
"We've never been up against anything like this before."
We?
Phillips nodded sympathetically. "Look, I'm trying to help you guys out. I don't want to go with the story the station's got planned. That's why I wanted to talk to you tonight."
Timothy's puppy-dog eyes flickered and he asked, "Story? They've got planned?"
"Right," Phillips said.
"Well, what is it?" Timothy asked. "The story?"
"The screw-up at the Mason Theater."
"What screw-up? They stopped him. Hardly anybody got killed."
"No, no, no," Phillips said. "The point is they could've capped the shooter. But they let him get away."
"The Bureau didn't screw up," Timothy said defensively. "It was a high-density tac op. Those're a bitch to run."
High-density tac op. Tactical operation, Phillips knew. He also knew that Timothy had probably learned the phrase not at FBI headquarters but from a Tom Clancy novel.
"Sure. But add that to the other rumor . . ."
"What other rumor?"
"That Kennedy wanted to pay the perps but the Bureau set up some kind of trap. Only they fucked up and the shooter found out about it and now he's killing people just to kill them."
"That's bullshit."
"I'm not saying--" Phillips began.
"That's not fair." Timothy came close to whining. "I mean, we got agents all over town ought to be home with their families. It's a holiday. I've been taking faxes to people all night . . ." His voice faded as he realized the veil covering his true function at FBI headquarters had slipped.
Phillips said quickly, "I'm not saying I feel that way. I'm just saying that's the story they've got planned. This asshole's killing people. They need to point fingers."
"Well . . ."
"Is there anything else to focus on? Something other than the Bureau."
"Oh, that's what you meant by focus."
"Did I
say focus?"
"Yeah, earlier you did . . . How about the District metro police? They could be the screw-up factor."
Phillips wondered how much money Wendy Jefferies would pay for a story that the District police, which ultimately reported to Mayor Kennedy, was the quote screw-up factor.
"Keep going. That one doesn't excite me."
Timothy thought for a moment. Then he smiled. "Wait. I have an idea."
"Is it a good idea?" Phillips asked.
"Well, I was at HQ? And I heard something odd. . . ." Timothy frowned, his voice fading.
The anchorman said, "Hey, that moussaka does look good. How 'bout we get some?"
"Okay," said Timothy. "And, yeah, I think it's a good idea."
III
Three Hawks
A study of variations in the writing is especially important. These qualities should all be carefully examined. Repeated words should be compared and natural variation or unnatural uniformity looked at.
-OSBORN AND OSBORN, QUESTION DOCUMENT PROBLEMS
20
The capital of the free world.
The heart of the last superpower on earth.
And Cage nearly shattered an axle once again as his government-issue Crown Victoria crashed into another pothole.
"Goddamn city," he muttered.
"Careful," Parker ordered, nodding toward the glass sheets wrapped carefully and sitting on his lap like a newborn baby. He'd looked briefly at the yellow sheets. But they were badly damaged and he couldn't see any reference to the third and fourth targets. He'd have to analyze them in the lab.
Over crumbling pavement, under streetlights burnt out months ago and never replaced, past the empty poles that once held directional signs, which had long ago been stolen or blown down.
More potholes.
"I don't know why I live here." Cage shrugged.
Accompanied by Parker and Dr. John Evans, the agent was speeding back to headquarters through the dark streets of the District of Columbia.
"And it snows, we're fucked," he added.
Snow removal wasn't one of the District's strong suits either and a blizzard could hamper Jerry Baker's tactical efforts if they found the Digger's hidey-hole or the site of the next attack.
Evans was on his cell phone, apparently talking to his family. His voice was singsong, as if he were talking to a child but from the snatches of the conversation it seemed that his wife was on the other end of the line. Parker thought it was odd that a psychologist would talk to another adult this way. But who was he to talk about relationships? When Joan was drunk or moody Parker often found himself dealing with her the way he would a ten-year-old.
Cage juggled his own phone and called the hospital. He asked about Geller's condition.
When he hung up he said to Parker, "Lucky man. Smoke inhalation and a sprained toe from jumping out the window. Nothing worse than that. They're going to keep him in overnight. But it's just a precaution."
"Should get a commendation," Parker suggested.
"Oh, he will. Don't you worry."
Parker was coughing some himself. The pungent taste of the smoke was sickening.
They continued on for another half-dozen blocks before Cage gave Parker a telling "So."
"So," Parker echoed. Then: "What does that mean?"
"Wooee, we having a good time yet?" the agent said and slapped the steering wheel.
Parker ignored him and tucked a tiny scrap of burnt paper back under the glass protecting the unsub's notes.
Cage sped around a slow-moving car. After a few moments he asked, "How's your love life these days? You seeing anybody?"
"Not right now."
It had been nine months, he reflected, since he'd been going with someone regularly. He missed Lynne. She was ten years younger than he, pretty, athletic. They'd had a lot of fun together--jogging, dinners, day trips to Middleburg. He missed her vivacity, her sense of humor (the first time she'd been over to his house she'd glanced at a signature of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and, with perfect deadpan delivery, said, "Oh, I've heard of him. He's the guy started the Franklin Mint. I've got the thimble collection"). But the maternal side of her hadn't blossomed even though she was nearly thirty. When it came to his children, she had fun going to the museums and the cineplex but Parker could see that any more of a commitment to the Whos--and to him--would soon become a burden to her. Love, like humor, Parker believed, is all in the timing. In the end they drifted apart with the agreement that in a few years, when she was ready for children, they might reconsider something more permanent. (Both knowing, of course, that, as lovers, they were saying goodbye for good.) Cage now said, "Uh-huh. So you're just sitting at home?"
"Yeah," Parker said. "With my head in the sand like Ozzie the Ostrich."
"Who?"
"It's a kids' book."
"Don't you get the feeling there's stuff going on around you and you're missing it?"
"No, Cage, I don't. I get the feeling that my kids're growing up and I'm not missing it."
"That's important. Uh-huh. I can see where that would be kind of important."
"Very important."
Evans, still on the phone, was telling his wife he loved her. Parker tuned the words out. They depressed him.
"Whatta you think about Lukas?" Cage finally asked.
"What do I think? She's good. She'll go places. Maybe to the top. If she doesn't implode first."
"Explode?"
"No, implode. Like a lightbulb."
"That's good." Cage laughed. "But that's not what I'm asking. Whatta you think about her as a woman?"
Parker coughed. Shivered at the memory of the bullets and the flames. "You trying to set us up, Lukas and me?"
"Of course not." Then: "It's just I wish she had more friends. I'd forgot that you're a fun guy. You could hang out together some."
"Cage--"
"She's not married. No boyfriends. And, I don't know if you noticed," the wily agent said, "but she's good-looking. Don't you think?"
Sure, I think. For a lady cop. Of course Parker was attracted to her--and by more than just her appearance. He remembered a certain look in her eyes as she watched Robby run up the stairs earlier in the day. The way to a man's heart is through his children. . . .
But what he told Cage was, "She can't wait till this case is over and she doesn't have to see me again."
"You think?" he asked, but cynically this time.
"You heard her--about my weapon."
"Hell, she just didn't want to send you back to your kids with your ass in a sling."
"No, it's more than that. I've been stepping on her toes and she doesn't like it. But I've got news for her. I'm going to keep on stepping if I think I'm right."
"Hey, there you go."
"What do you mean?"
"That's just what she'd say. Aren't you two a pair. . . ."
"Cage, take a break."
"Look, Margaret's only agenda is collaring perps. There's a ton of ego in her, sure, but it's good ego. She's the second- best investigator I know." Parker ignored the glance that accompanied this sentence. Cage thought for a moment. "You know what's good about Lukas? She takes care of herself."
"What does that mean?"
"I'll tell you. Couple months ago her house got broken into."
"Where's she live?"
"Georgetown."
"That happens there, yeah," Parker said. As much as he enjoyed the District he'd never live there, not with the children. Crime was terrible.
Cage continued, "She comes home from the office and sees the door's been jimmied. Okay? Her dog's in the backyard and--"
"She's got a dog? What kind?"
"I don't know. How do I know? Big black dog. Lemme finish. She makes sure her dog's okay then, instead of calling it in, she goes back to her van, puts on body armor, takes her MP-5 and secures the house herself."
Parker laughed. The thought of any other thin, attractive blonde stalking through a townhouse, armed with a laser-
sighted machine gun, would have seemed absurd. But for some reason it was perfectly natural with Lukas. "Still don't get your point, Cage."
"No point. I'm only saying Lukas doesn't need anybody to take care of her. People being together, Parker, you know, men and women, don't you think it works out best that way? Nobody taking care of anybody else? That's a rule. Write it down."
Parker supposed the agent was talking about Joan. Cage had seen Parker and Joan together a number of times. And, sure, Parker had been drawn to his ex-wife because she was looking for someone to take care of her, and Parker--newly orphaned when they met--was desperate to nurture. Parker thought back several hours, Lukas addressing the troops in Gravesend. Maybe that was what had stirred him so much, listening to her: not so much her expertise as her independence.
They drove in silence for a moment.
"MP-5?" Parker asked, picturing the heavy black Heckler & Koch machine gun.
"Yep. Said her biggest worry was if she had to light up the perp she might ruin some of her wall decorations. She sews too. Makes these quilts you wouldn't believe."
"You told me that before. The perp--she bag him?"
"Naw. He'd booked."
Parker recalled her anger in Gravesend. He asked Cage, "Then what do you think it is? Why she's been on my case?"
After a moment the agent answered, "Maybe she envies you."
"Envies me? What do you mean?"
But he wouldn't answer. "That's not for me to say. Just hold that thought and when she gives you any static cut her some slack."
"You're making no sense, Cage. She envies me?"
"Think of it like one of your puzzles. Either you figure it out or she'll tell you the answer. That's up to her. But I'm not giving you any clues."
"Why would I want to know the answer to Margaret Lukas?"
But Cage only skidded around another canyon of a pothole and said nothing.
Evans closed his phone, poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermos. It must have held a half gallon of coffee. This time Parker accepted the offered cup and drank several sips of the strong brew.
"How's the family?" Parker asked him.
"I owe the kids big time." The shrink smiled ruefully.
"How many do you have?"
"Two."
"Me too," Parker said. "How old?"
"In their teens. They're a handful." He didn't give any details and didn't seem to want to say anything more. He asked, "Yours?"
"Eight and nine."
"Ah, you've got a few years of peace and quiet."
Cage said, "Grandkids are the best. Take it from me. You play with 'em, get 'em all dirty, let 'em spill ice cream on themselves, spoil 'em crazy and then you send 'em home to their parents. You go have a beer and watch the game. How can you beat that?"
The Devil's Teardrop Page 21
