The Devil's Teardrop (24 page)

“It’s broke,” Sloan snapped. “You’re going to pay for it. Oh, you bet you are.”

Cage undid the cuffs. Sloan stood unsteadily. “I think I sprained my thumb. It hurts like a bitch.”

“I’m sorry about that, Andy,” Cage said. “And how’re your wrists?”

“They hurt. I gotta tell you, I’m going to have to file a complaint. She put ’em on way too tight. I’ve cuffed people. You don’t have to make ’em that tight.”

What the hell was he going to do, Parker was thinking. He stared at the ground, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Andy,” Cage asked, “were you the one following us on Ninth Street tonight? An hour ago?”

“Maybe I was. But I wasn’t breaking any laws there either. Look it up, Officer. In public I can do whatever I want.”

Cage walked up to Lukas. He whispered to her. She grimaced, looked at her watch then nodded reluctantly.

“Look, Mr. Sloan,” Parker said. “Is there anyway we could talk about this?”

“Talk? What talk? I give my client the tape, I tell her what I saw. That’s all there is to it. I may sue
you
too.”

“Andy, here’s your wallet.” Cage walked up to him and handed it back. Then the tall agent lowered his head and whispered into Sloan’s ear. Sloan started to speak but Cage held up a finger. Sloan continued to listen. Two minutes later Cage stopped talking. He looked into Sloan’s eyes. Sloan asked one question. Cage shook his head, smiling.

The agent walked back to Lukas and Parker, Sloan right behind.

Cage said, “Now, Andy, tell Mr. Kincaid who your employer is.”

Parker, still lost in his hopelessness, listened with half an ear.

“Northeast Security Consultants,” the private eye said, hands together in front of him, as if he were still cuffed.

“And what’s your position with them?”

“I’m a security specialist.”

Cage asked, “And who’s the client you’re working for tonight?”

“Mrs. Joan Marel,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What did she hire you for?” Cage asked like a cross-examining attorney.

“To follow her husband. I mean, her ex-husband. And to get evidence against him for a child custody action.”

“And have you seen anything that Mrs. Marel could use to her advantage in that action?”

“No, I haven’t.”

This got Parker’s attention.

The man continued, “In fact Mr. Kincaid seems to me to be a . . .” Sloan’s voice faltered.

Cage prompted, “Flawless.”

“Flawless father . . .” Sloan hesitated. He said, “You know, I’d probably say ‘perfect.’ I’d feel more comfortable saying that.”

“All right,” Cage said. “You can say ‘perfect.’”

“A perfect father. And I’ve never witnessed anything . . . uhm.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve never witnessed him
do
anything that would jeopardize his children or their happiness.”

“And you didn’t get any videotape of him doing anything dangerous?”

“Nosir. I didn’t take any tape at all. I didn’t see anything that might be helpful to my client by way of evidence.”

“What are you going to go back and tell your client? About tonight, I mean?”

Sloan said, “I’m going to tell her the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That Mr. Kincaid went to visit a friend in the hospital.”

“What hospital?” Cage asked Sloan.

“What hospital?” Sloan asked Parker.

“Fair Oaks.”

“Yeah,” Sloan said, “that’s where I went.”

“You’ll work on that?” Cage asked. “Your delivery was a little rough.”

“Yeah. I’ll work on it. I’ll get it down real good.”

“Okay, now get the hell out of here.”

Sloan ejected the tape from what was left of the video camera. He handed it to Cage, who tossed it into a burning oil drum.

The private eye disappeared, looking back uneasily as if to see which of the agents was going to shoot him in the back.

“How the hell’d you do that?” Parker muttered.

Cage offered a shrug Parker didn’t recognize. He understood it to mean “Don’t ask.”

Cage the miracle worker . . .

“Thanks,” Parker said. “You don’t know what would’ve happened if—”

“Kincaid, where the hell was your weapon?” Lukas’s abrupt voice interrupted him. He turned to her.

“I thought I had it. It must be in the car.”

“Don’t you remember procedure? Every time you deploy at a scene you check to make sure your weapon is with you and functioning. You learned that the first week in the Academy.”

“I—”

But Lukas’s face was again contracted with cold fury. In a gruff whisper: “What do you think we’re doing here?”

Parker began, “I keep telling you I’m not tactical . . . I don’t think in terms of weapons.”

“‘Think in terms’?” she spat out cynically. “Look, Kincaid, you’ve been living life on Sesame Street for the last few years. You can go back to that world right now and God bless and thanks for the help. But if you’re staying on board you’ll carry your weapon and you’ll pull your share of the load.
You
may be used to baby-sitting but we’re not. Now, you going or staying?”

Cage was motionless. Not even the faintest shrug moved his shoulders.

“I’m staying.”

“Okay.”

Lukas looked neither satisfied with his acquiescence nor apologetic for her outburst. She said, “Now get that weapon and let’s get back to work. We don’t have much time.”

The large Winnebago camper
rocked along the streets of Gravesend.

It was the MCP. The mobile command post. And it was plastered with bumper stickers:
NORTH CAROLINA AKC DOG SHOW. WARNING: I BRAKE FOR BLUE RIBBONS. BRIARDS ARE OUR BUSINESS.

He wondered whether the stickers were intentional—to fool perps—or if the Bureau had bought the van secondhand from a real breeder.

The camper eased up to the curb and Lukas motioned Cage and Parker inside. One whiff of the air told him that it
had
belonged to dog owners. Still, it was warm inside—with the cold and the scare from the private eye Parker was shivering hard and he was glad to be out of the chill.

Sitting at a computer console was Tobe Geller. He was staring at a video monitor. The image on the screen was broken into a thousand square pixels, an abstract mosaic. He tapped buttons, spun the trackball on his computer, typed in commands.

Detective Len Hardy sat nearby and C. P. Ardell, in his size 44 jeans, was wedged into one of the booths against the wall. The psychologist from Georgetown University hadn’t yet arrived.

“The video from the Mason Theater shooting,” Geller said, not looking away from the screen.

“Anything helpful?” Lukas asked.

“Nuthin’ much,” the young agent muttered. “Not yet anyway. Here’s what it looks like full screen, real time.”

He hit some buttons and the image shrank, became discernible. It was a dim view of the interior of the theater, very jumbled and blurry. People were running and diving for cover.

“When the Digger started shooting,” C. P. explained, “some tourist in the audience turned on his camcorder.”

Geller typed more and the image grew slightly clearer. Then he froze the tape.

“There?” Cage asked, touching the screen. “That’s him?”

“Yep,” Geller said. He started the tape again, running it in slow motion.

Parker could see virtually nothing distinct. The scene was dark to begin with and the camera had bobbed around when the videotaper had huddled for cover. As the frames flipped past, in slow motion, faint light from the gun blossomed in the middle of the smudge that Geller had identified as the Digger.

Hardy said, “It’s almost scarier, not exactly seeing what’s going on.”

Parker silently agreed with him. Lukas, leaning forward, stared intently at the screen.

Geller continued. “Now, this one’s about the clearest.” The frame froze. The image zoomed in but as the pixel
squares grew larger they lost all definition. Soon the scene was just a hodgepodge of light and dark squares. “I’ve been trying to enhance it to see his face. I’m ninety percent sure he’s white. But that’s about all we can say.”

Parker had seen something. “Back out again,” he said. “Slowly.”

As Geller pushed buttons the squares grew smaller, began to coalesce.

“Stop,” Parker ordered.

The image was of the Digger from the chest up.

“Look at that.”

“At what?” Lukas asked.

“I don’t see anything,” Hardy said, squinting.

Parker tapped the screen. In the center of what was probably the Digger’s chest were some bright pixels, surrounded by slightly darker ones in a V-shape, which were in turn surrounded by very dark ones.

“It’s just a reflection,” Lukas muttered, distracted and impatient. She looked at her watch.

Parker persisted. “But what’s the light reflecting
off
of?”

They stared for a moment. Then: “Ha,” Geller said, his handsome face breaking into a grin. “Think I’ve got it.”

“What, Tobe?” Parker asked.

“Aren’t you a good Catholic, Parker?”

“Not me.” He was a lapsed Presbyterian who found the theology of
Star Wars
more palatable than most religions.

“I went to a Jesuit school,” Hardy said. “If that helps.”

But Geller wasn’t interested in anyone’s spiritual history. He pushed himself across the tiny space in his wheeled office chair. “Let’s try this.” He opened a drawer and took out a small digital camera, handed it to Parker. He plugged it into a computer. He then bent a paper clip into the shape of an X, unhooked two buttons of his shirt
and held the clip against his chest. “Shoot me,” he said. “Just push that button.”

Parker did and handed the camera back. Geller turned to the computer, typed and a dark image of the young agent came up on the screen. “Handsome fella,” said Geller. He hit more buttons, keeping the bright silver of the paperclip in the center of the screen as he zoomed in. The image disappeared into exactly the same arrangement of bright squares as in the picture of the Digger.

“Only difference,” Geller pointed out, “is that his has a yellowish tint. So our boy’s wearing a gold crucifix.”

“Add that to our description of the shooter, send it out,” Lukas ordered. “And tell them we’ve confirmed he’s white.” Cage radioed Jerry Baker with the information and told him to pass the word to the canvassers.

The Digger’s only identifying characteristic—that he wore a cross.

Was he religious?

Was it a good-luck charm?

Or had he ripped it from the body of one of his victims as a trophy?

Cage’s phone rang. He listened. Hung up. Shrugged, discouraged. “My contact at the FAA. They’ve called all the fixed-base operators in the area about chopper rentals. Man fitting the description of the unsub contracted to charter a helicopter from a company in Clinton, Maryland. Gave his name as Gilbert Jones.”

“
Jones?
” C. P. asked sarcastically. “I mean, shit,
that’s
original.”

Cage continued. “He paid cash. The pilot was supposed to pick up some cargo in Fairfax then there’d be another hour leg of the flight but Jones didn’t tell him where. Was supposed to call instructions in to the pilot at
ten-thirty this morning. But he never did. The pilot checks out okay.”

“Did Jones give him an address or phone number?”

Cage’s shrug said, He did but they were both fake.

The door opened and a man in an FBI windbreaker nodded to Lukas.

“Hi, Steve,” she said.

“Agent Lukas. I’ve got Dr. Evans here. From George-town.”

The psychologist.

The man stepped inside. “Evening,” he said. “I’m John Evans.” He was shorter than his calm, deep voice suggested. His dark hair was shot with gray and he had a trim beard. Parker liked him immediately. He wore a smile as easy as his old chinos and gray cardigan sweater and he carried a heavy, battered backpack instead of a briefcase. His eyes were very quick and he examined everyone in the camper carefully before he was halfway through the door.

“Appreciate your coming down,” Lukas said to him. “This is Agent Cage and Agent Geller. Agent Ardell’s over there. Detective Hardy. My name’s Lukas.” She glanced at Parker, who nodded his okay to mention his real name. “And this’s Parker Kincaid—he’s a document expert used to work for the Bureau.” She added, “He’s here confidentially and we’d appreciate your not mentioning his involvement.”

“I understand,” Evans said. “I do a lot of anonymous work too. I was going to put up a Web site but I figured I’d get too many cranks.” He sat down. “I heard about the incident at the Mason Theater. What exactly’s going on?”

Cage ran through a summary of the shootings, the death of the unsub, the extortion note and the killer.

Evans looked at the death mask picture of the unsub. “So you’re trying to figure out where his partner’s going to hit next.”

“Exactly,” Lukas said. “All we need is fifteen minutes and we can get a tactical team on the premises to take him out. But we
need
that fifteen minutes. We’ve got to get a leg up here.”

Parker asked, “You’ve heard the name before? ‘The Digger’?”

“I have a pretty big criminal data archive. When I heard about the case I did a search. There was a man in California in the fifties. Murdered four migrants. His nickname was the Gravedigger. He was killed in prison a few months after he went inside. Obispo Men’s Colony. Wasn’t part of a cult or anything like that. Now, some members of an acting troupe called the Diggers in San Francisco in the sixties were regularly arrested for petty larceny—basically just shoplifting. Nothing serious. Then there was a motorcycle gang in Scottsdale called the Gravediggers. They were involved in a number of felonious assaults. But they disbanded in the mid-seventies and I don’t have any record of any of the individual bikers.”

Lukas said to Geller, “Call Scottsdale P. D. and see if there’s anything on them.”

The agent made the call.

Evans’s eyes carefully studied the equipment in the van, pausing on the morgue photo of the unsub. He looked up. “Now, the only reference to the Digger, singular, is a man in England in the 1930s. John Barnstall. He was a nobleman—a viscount or something like that. Lived in Devon. He claimed he had a family but he seemed to live alone. Turned out Barnstall’d killed his wife and children and two or three local farmers. He’d
dug a series of tunnels under his mansion and kept the bodies down there. He embalmed them.”