The Devil's Teardrop by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

Lukas’s eyes follow Robby as he climbed to the second floor.
    “What’s his name?” Lukas asked.
    “Robby.”
    “But what did you call him?”
    “Oh. ‘Who.’ It’s my nickname for the kids.”
    “After Wahoo?” she asked. “Your alma mater’s team?”
    “No. It’s from a Dr. Seuss book.” Parker wondered how she knew he’d gone to the University of Virginia. “Look, Cage, I’m sorry. But I really can’t help you.”
    “You understand the problem here, boy?” Cage continued. “The only link we’ve got—the only clue at all—is the extortion note.”
    “Run it by PERT.”
    The Bureau’s Physical Evidence Response Team.
    Lukas’s thin lips grew slightly thinner. “If we have to we will. And we’ll get a psycholinguistic from Quantico. And I’ll have agents check out every goddamn paper and pen company in the country. But—”
    “—that’s what we’re hopin’ you’d take over on,” Cage filled in. “You can look at it, you can tell us what’s what. Stuff nobody else can. Maybe where he lived. Maybe where the shooter’s going to hit next.”
    Parker asked, “What about Stan?”
    Stanley Lewis was the current head of the Bureau’s Document Division. Parker knew the man was good; he’d hired Lewis years ago as an examiner. He recalled that they’d spent an evening drinking beer and trying to outdo each other forging John Hancock’s signature. Lewis had won.
    “He’s in Hawaii for the Sanchez trial. Even in a Tomcat we can’t get him back here before the next deadline.”
    “It’s at four,” Lukas repeated.
    “It won’t be like last time, Parker,” Cage said softly. “That’ll never happen again.”
    Lukas’s head swiveled between the two men once again. But Parker didn’t explain what Cage had meant. He wasn’t talking about the past; he’d had enough past for one day.
    “I’m sorry. Any other time, maybe. But I can’t now.” He was imagining what would happen if Joan found out he was working on an active investigation.
    “Shit, Parker, what do I have to do?”
    “We have nothing,” Lukas said angrily. “No leads. We have a few hours until this crazy shoots up another crowd of people. There were children shot down—”
    Parker waved his hand abruptly to silence her. “I’ll have to ask you to leave now. Good luck.”
    Cage shrugged, looked at Lukas. She handed Parker her card, with the gold-embossed seal of the Justice Department on it. Parker had once had cards just like these. The typeface was Cheltenham condensed. Nine-point.
    “Cell phone’s on the bottom. . . . Look, at least if we have any questions, you mind if we call?”
    Parker hesitated. “No, I don’t.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Goodbye,” Parker said, stepping back into the house.
    The door closed. Robby stood on the stairs.
    “Who were they, Daddy?”
    He said, “That was a man I used to work with.”
    “Did she have a gun?” Robby asked. “That lady?”
    “Did you see a gun?” Parker asked him.
    “Yeah.”
    “Then I guess she had one.”
    “Did you work with her too?” the boy asked.
    “No, just the man.”
    “Oh. She was pretty.”
    Parker started to say, For a lady cop. But he didn’t.
    Back here in Washington I live under a sorrowful pall, haunted as I am by visions of Polly on horseback . . .
    Parker, back in his basement study, alone now, found himself thinking of the letter in front of him as Q1. FBI document lab procedures dictated that questioned documents were called Q’s. Authentic documents and handwriting samples—also called “knowns”—were referred to as K’s. It had been years since he’d thought of the suspect wills and contracts he analyzed as Q’s. This intrusion of police mindset into his personal life was unsettling. Nearly as troubling as Joan’s appearance.
    Forget about Cage, forget about Lukas.
    Concentrate . . .
    Back to the letter, hand glass in front of his face.
    He now noted that the author—whether it had been Jefferson or