The Devil's Teardrop
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
After an early morning machinegun attack by a madman called the Digger leaves dozens dead in the Washington, D.C., subway, the mayor’s office receives a message demanding twenty million dollars by midnight or more innocents will die. It is New Year’s Eve, and with the ransom note as the only evidence, Special Agent Margaret Lukas calls upon retired FBI agent and the nation’s premier document examiner Parker Kincaid to join the manhunt for the Digger—or for hundreds, the first moments of the new year will be their last on earth.
note in the envelope, closed but didn’t seal it and continued along the street. Havel walked in a stooped lope, eyes down, a pose meant to diminish his six-two height. It was hard for him, though; he preferred to walk tall and stare people down. The security at City Hall, One Judiciary Square, was ridiculous. No one noticed as he walked past the entrance to the nondescript stone building and paused at a newspaper vending machine. He slipped the envelope under the stand and turned slowly, walking
“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
a young woman in a white blouse walking toward him. She holds a flashlight. “Hello,” she says. “Lost?” She looks at his face. The Digger nuzzles the side of the puppy bag against her breast. “What—?” she starts to ask. Phut, phut . . . He shoots her twice and when she drops to the carpet he grabs her hair and drags her inside the empty box. He stops just on the other side of the curtain. My, this is . . . click . . . this is nice. Hmmm. He looks out over the theater. The Digger doesn’t
Best-sellers. Ann Rule. That Ted Bundy book . . . You ever read it?” “Might have,” Cage said. “People just eat up real-life crime. Says something about society, doesn’t it? Maybe somebody ought to do a book about that. Why people like it so much.” Lukas prompted, “This Butcher you were mentioning . . .” Czisman continued. “That was his nickname in Boston. Earlier in the year. Well, I think one paper called him the Devil.” The Devil’s teardrop, Parker thought. Lukas was glancing at him and he
bat. And we saw The Nutcracker.” “Did you get my package?” Joan asked. “Uh-huh,” Stephie said. “Thank you.” The girl was impeccably polite but a Barbie doll in a pageant dress no longer held any interest for her. Eight-year-olds now were not the eight-year-olds of Joan’s childhood. “Daddy took back my shirt,” Robby said, “and got one the right size.” “I told him to do that if it didn’t fit,” Joan said quickly. “I just wanted you to have something.” “We didn’t get to talk to you on