The Devils Teardrop

dozen people die? Two dozen?”
    “If it meant stopping the shooter then, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m willing to do.”
    “Kennedy said he could talk to him. Talk him into taking the money. He—”
    “You know he showed up with a goddamn TV crew?”
    Hardy’s voice was no longer so certain. “He . . . what?”
    “A TV crew. He was playing it for media. If the Digger’d seen the lights, the police bodyguard . . . he’d just leave and find another target.”
    “He said he wanted to talk to him,” Hardy said. “I didn’t think he was going to use it for PR.”
    “Well, he did.”
    “Did the Digger—?”
    “I don’t think he could’ve seen anything.”
    Silence for a moment. “I’m sorry, Margaret.” He sighed. “I just wanted to do something. I didn’t want any more people to die. I’m sorry.”
    Lukas gripped her phone. She knew she should fire him, kick him off the team. Probably file a report with the District police commission too. And yet she had an image of the young man returning to his house, a house as silent as the one she returned to every night after Tom and Joey had died—a silence that hurts like a slap from a lover. He’d spend the holiday alone, forced to suffer a false mourning for Emma—a wife not alive and not dead.
    He seemed to sense her weakening and said, “It won’t happen again. Give me another chance.”
    Yes? No?
    “Okay, Len. We’ll talk about it later.”
    “Thanks, Margaret.”
    “We’ve got to get back on stakeout.”
    She clicked off the phone abruptly and if Hardy said anything else she never heard it. She returned to the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.
    Lukas slipped her weapon off her hip once more, held it at her side and began to circulate through the crowd. Cage tapped his watch. It was a few minutes to eight.
    * * *
    They looked over the railing at the dark water and joked about the Titanic, they ate the shrimp and left the chicken livers, they talked about wine and about interest rates and about upcoming elections and about congressional scandals and about sitcoms.
    Most of the men were in tuxedos or dinner jackets, most of the women in dark dresses whose hems hovered an inch above the lacquered deck.
    “Isn’t this something? Look at the view.”
    “Will we be able to see the fireworks?”
    “Where’d Hank get to? He’s got my beer.”
    The hundreds of partyers had stationed themselves all over the lengthy yacht. There were three decks and four bars and everyone at the New Year’s Eve bash was feeling great.
    Lawyers and doctors, finding a few hours of peace from their clients’ and patients’ woes. Parents, enjoying a respite from their children. Lovers, thinking about finding an empty stateroom.
    “So what’s he going to do I heard he was going to run but the polls suck why should he oh what about SallyClaire Tom did they really get that place in Warrenton well I don’t know how he can afford it . . . ”
    Minutes clicked past and the time grew closer to eight o’clock.
    Everyone was happy.
    Pleasant people enjoying a party, enjoying the company of friends.
    Thankful for the view they’d have of the fireworks at midnight, thankful for the chance to celebrate and be away from the pressures of the nation’s capital for the evening.
    Thankful for the creature comforts conferred upon them by the crew and caterers on board the luxury yacht the Ritzy Lady, which floated regally in her dock on the Potomac, exactly two miles south of the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

23
    Robby had moved from J. R. R. Tolkien to Nintendo.
    He didn’t seem upset anymore and Parker could stand it no longer; he had to find out about the Digger, about the most recent attack. Had Lukas and Cage succeeded? Had they found him?
    Had they killed him?
    He maneuvered through the toys on the floor and walked downstairs, where Stephie was in the kitchen with Mrs. Cavanaugh. The girl was squinting in concentration as she scrubbed one of Parker’s stainless-steel pots. She’d made a caramel corn Christmas tree, sprinkled with green sugar. It sat, charmingly lopsided, on a plate on the counter.
    “Beautiful, Who,” he told her.
    “I tried to put silver balls on it but they fell off.”
    “Robby’ll love it.”
    He started for the den but saw a hollowness in her face.
    He put his arm around the girl. “Your brother’s okay, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “I’m sorry tonight’s gone all ka-flooey.”
    “That’s okay.”
    Which meant of course that it