The Devils Teardrop

skeleton crew of journalists, surveying the damage and talking to police and rescue workers.
    He walked up to them.
    “Your honor,” Cage said.
    “I have you to thank for that little news story, Agent Cage? Implicating me in the screwup at the boat?”
    A shrug. “Investigation had priority, sir. Shouldn’t’ve showed up at the Ritz. Probably would’ve been better to keep politics out of it.”
    Kennedy shook his head. “So I understand you’ve caught the man behind this.”
    “We did, sir.”
    Kennedy turned his jowly face to Parker. “And you’re Agent—”
    “Jefferson, your honor. First name’s Tom.”
    “Oh, you’re the one I’ve been hearing about. The document examiner?”
    “That’s right,” Parker said. “I saw you do some pretty nifty shooting there.”
    “Not nifty enough.” The Mayor nodded ruefully toward the smoking bus. The mayor asked, “Say, you related to Thomas Jefferson?”
    “Me?” Parker laughed. “No, no. It’s a common name.”
    “My aide’s name is Jefferies,” he said as if making cocktail party conversation.
    Then Lukas arrived. She nodded to the mayor and Parker could see the tension in her face, as if she were expecting a confrontation.
    But all Kennedy said was, “I’m sorry about your friend, Agent Ardell.”
    Lukas said nothing. She stared at the scorched bus.
    A reporter called, “Mayor, there’s a rumor that you chose not to call out the National Guard tonight because you thought it would interfere with tourist traffic. Could you comment on that?”
    “No, I couldn’t.” He too gazed at the bus.
    Lukas said, “Tonight didn’t turn out very well for anybody, did it?”
    “No, Agent Lukas,” Kennedy said slowly. “I suspect things like this never do.”
    He took his wife’s hand and walked to their limousine.
    Margaret Lukas handed Cage some documents—maybe evidence reports or arrest records. Then, eyes still on the bus, she walked to her Explorer. Parkerwondered, Was she leaving without saying goodbye?
    She opened the door, started the engine and put the heater on—the temperature had dropped and the sky was overcast with thick clouds, which were still shedding fat grains of snow. She left the truck’s door open, leaned back into the seat.
    Cage shook Parker’s hand then muttered, “What can I say?” To Parker’s surprise the agent threw his arms around him, hugged him once hard, wincing at the pain, then started off down the street. “Night, Lukas,” Cage shouted. “Night, Parker. Man, my side hurts. Happy New Year, everybody. Happy goddamn New Year.”
    Parker zipped up his jacket and walked toward Lukas’s truck, noticing that she was looking at something in her hand. Parker wasn’t sure what it was. It seemed to be an old postcard that had been folded up. She stared at it. She glanced at Parker then seemed to hesitate. Just before he got to the truck she put the card away in her purse.
    She pulled a bottle of beer out of her pocket, a Sam Adams, cracked it open with a church key that rested on the dash.
    “They sell those in vending machines at headquarters now?”
    “Present from my witness, Gary Moss.” She offered it to him. He took a long sip, handed it back. Lukas remained in the Ford but turned sideways, facing Parker. “What a night, hm?”
    “What a night,” he repeated. He reached forward and offered his hand.
    She gripped his solidly. They’d both removed their gloves and though their hands were red from the cold, their flesh was the identical temperature; Parker felt no cold or heat coming from her skin.
    Neither of them let go. He enclosed her hand with his left.
    “How’re the kids?” she asked. “What do you call them again?”
    “The Whos.”
    “Whos. Right. Have you talked to them?”
    “They’re fine.” Reluctantly he released his grip. Was she reluctant too? He couldn’t tell. Then he asked, “You’ll need a report, I assume?” He remembered all the paperwork U.S. attorneys required to get ready for federal criminal trials. Mountains of it. But Parker didn’t mind; after all, documents were his business.
    “We will,” Lukas responded. “But there’s no hurry.”
    “I’ll do one on Monday. I’m finishing a project this weekend.”
    “Document? Or home improvement?”
    “You mean home improvement as in tools?” He laughed. “Oh, I don’t do that. Kitchens I know. Workbenches, uh-uh. No, it’s a possible forgery. A letter supposedly written by Thomas Jefferson. A dealer in