The Devil's Teardrop

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 Bureaus 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."

"Fu

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 a

"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 ru

"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 is 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. Fu

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 ba

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.