The Devils Teardrop

is granite dust.”
    “Granite,” Cage echoed.
    “There’s evidence of shaving and chiseling on the stone. And some polishing too.”
    “What do you think it’s from?” Parker asked.
    “I don’t know. How would I know? I don’t know Washington. I know New York.”
    “And if it were in New York?” Lukas asked.
    Rhyme rattled off, “New building construction, old building renovation or demolition, bathroom, kitchen and threshold manufacturers, tombstone makers, sculptors’ studios, landscapers . . . The list’s endless. You need somebody who knows the lay of the land there. Understand? That’s not you, is it, Parker?”
    “Nope. I—”
    The criminalist interrupted him. “—know documents. You know unsubs too. But not geography.”
    “That’s true.”
    Parker glanced at Lukas. She was gazing at the clock.She looked back at him with a face devoid of emotion. Cage had mastered the shrug; Lukas’s waiting state was the stony mask.
    Rhyme continued. “There’re also traces of red clay and dust from old brick. Then there’s sulfur. And a lot of carbon—ash and soot, consistent with cooking meat or burning trash that has meat in it. Now—the data from the envelope showed a little of the same trace substances I found on the letter. But also something more—significant amounts of salt water, kerosine, refined oil, crude oil, butter—”
    “Butter?” Lukas asked.
    “That’s what I said,” Rhyme groused. He added sourly, “Don’t know the brand. And there’s some organic material not inconsistent with mollusks. So, all the evidence points to Baltimore.”
    “Baltimore?” Hardy asked.
    From Lukas: “How do you figure that?”
    “The seawater, kerosine, fuel oil and crude oil mean it’s a port. Right, right? What else could it be? Well, the port nearest to D.C. that does major crude oil transfer is Baltimore. And Thom tells me—my man knows food—that there are tons of seafood restaurants right on the harbor. Bertha’s. He keeps talking about Bertha’s Mussels.”
    “Baltimore,” Lukas muttered. “So he wrote the note at home, had dinner on the waterfront the night before. He came to D.C. to drop it off at City Hall. Then—”
    “No, no, no,” Rhyme said.
    “What?” Lukas asked.
    Parker, the puzzle master, said, “The evidence is fake. He staged it, didn’t he, Lincoln?”
    “Just like a Broadway play,” Rhyme said, sounding pleased Parker had caught on.
    “How do you figure?” Cage asked.
    “There’s a detective I’ve been working with—Roland Bell. N.Y.P.D. Good man. He’s from North Carolina. He’s got this expression. ‘Seems a little kind of too quick and too easy.’ Well, all that trace . . . There’s too much of those elements. Way too much. The unsub got his hands on some trace and impregnated the envelope. Just to send us off track.”
    “And the trace on the letter?” Hardy asked.
    “Oh, no, that’s legit. The amount of material in the fibers was consistent with ambient substances. No, no, the letter’ll tell us where he lived. But the envelope . . . ah, the envelope tells us something else.”
    Parker said, “That there was more to him than meets the eye.”
    “Exactly,” the criminalist confirmed.
    Parker summarized. “So, where he lived there’s the granite, clay dust, brick dust, sulfur, soot and ash from cooking or burning meat.”
    “All that dust—might be a demolition site,” Cage said.
    “That seems the most likely,” Hardy said.
    “Likely? How could it be likely?” Rhyme asked. “It’s a possibility. But then isn’t everything a possibility until one alternative’s proven true? Think about that  . . .” Rhyme’s voice faded slightly as he spoke to someone in the room with him, “No, Amelia, I’m not being pompous. I’m being accurate . . . Thom! Thom! Some more single-malt. Please.”
    “Mr. Rhyme,” Lukas said, “Lincoln . . . This is all good and we appreciate it. But we’ve got ten minutes until the shooter’s next attack. You have any thoughts about which hotel the unsub might’ve picked?”
    Rhyme answered with a gravity that chilled Parker. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “You’re on your own there.”
    “All right.”
    Parker said, “Thank you, Lincoln.”
    “Good luck to all of you. Good luck.” With a click the criminalist disconnected the phone.
    Parker looked over the notes. Granite dust . . . sulfur . . . Oh, they were wonderful clues, solid clues. But the team