The Devils Teardrop

off.
    “Slade’s got a few ideas but nothing’s going to happen fast.”
    Kennedy gestured toward the radio. “Well, they were damn fast to report that I’ve been sitting on my butt while the city’s getting the hell shot out of it. They were fast to report that I didn’t lift the hiring freeze at the police department so we’d have more money for Project 2000.Jesus, the media’s making it sound like I’m an accomplice.”
    Kennedy had just been to three hospitals to see the people wounded in the Digger’s attacks and their families. But none of them seemed to care about his visit. All anyone asked was why wasn’t he doing more to catch the killer?
    “Why aren’t you at FBI headquarters?” one woman had demanded tearfully.
    Because they haven’t fucking invited me, Kennedy thought furiously. Though his answer was a gentle “I’m letting the experts do their job.”
    “But they’re not doing their job. And you’re not either.”
    When he left her bedside Kennedy didn’t offer to shake hands; her right arm had been so badly shot up it had been amputated.
    “Slade’ll come up with something,” Jefferies now said.
    “Too little, too late. Now, that man is too damn pretty,” Kennedy spat out. “Pretty people . . . I never trust them.” Then he heard the paranoid words and he laughed. Jefferies did too. The mayor asked, “Am I turning into a crank, Wendy?”
    “Yessir. It’s my duty to tell you your brains’ve gone to grits.”
    The mayor sat down in his chair. He looked at his desk calendar. If it weren’t for the Digger he would have been attending four parties tonight. One at the French embassy, one at his alma mater, Georgetown University, one at the city workers’ union hall, and—the most important, where he’d actually ring in the New Year—the African-American Teachers’ Association in the heart of Southeast. This was the group that was lobbying hard to get his Project 2000 accepted among rank-and-file teachers throughout the District. He and Claire needed to be there tonight, as a show of support. And yet it would be impossible for him toattend any parties, do any celebrating, with that madman stalking the citizens of his city.
    A wave of anger passed through him and he grabbed the phone.
    “What,” Jefferies asked cautiously, “are you going to do?”
    “Something,” he answered. “I’m going to goddamn do something.” He began dialing a number from a card on his Rolodex.
    “What?” asked Jefferies, now even more uneasy.
    But by then the call to FBI headquarters had been connected and Kennedy didn’t respond to his aide.
    He was patched through several locations. A man’s voice answered. “Yes.”
    “This’s Mayor Jerry Kennedy. Who’m I speaking to?”
    A pause. Kennedy, who often made his own phone calls, was used to the silence that greeted his salutation. “Special Agent C. P. Ardell. What can I do for you?”
    “That Agent Lukas, she’s still in charge of the METSHOOT operation?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Can I speak to her?”
    “She’s not here, sir, no. I can patch you through to her cell phone.”
    “That’s all right. I’m actually trying to reach the District liaison officer, Detective Hardy.”
    Agent Ardell said, “Hold on. He’s right here.”
    A moment later a voice said tentatively, “Hello?”
    “This Hardy?”
    “Len Hardy, that’s right.”
    “This’s your mayor again.”
    “Oh. Well. How are you, sir?” Caution now mixed with the youth in the man’s voice.
    “Can you update me on the case? I haven’t heard a word from Agents Lukas or Cage. You have any idea where the Digger’s going to hit next?”
    Another pause. “Nosir.”
    The pause was too long. Hardy was lying about something.
    “No idea at all?”
    “They aren’t exactly keeping me in the loop.”
    “Well, your job’s liaison, right?”
    “My orders are just to write a report on the operation. Agent Lukas said she’d contact Chief Williams directly.”
    “A report? That’s ass covering. Listen to me. I have a lot of confidence in the FBI. They do this shoot-’em-up stuff all the time. But how close are they to stopping this killer? Bottom line. No bullshit.”
    Hardy sounded uneasy. “They have a few leads. They think they know the neighborhood where the unsub’s safe house is—the guy who was killed by the truck.”
    “Where?”
    Another pause. He pictured poor Hardy twisting in the wind, feds on one side, his boss on the other. Well, too