The Devils Teardrop

security specialist.”
    Cage asked, “And who’s the client you’re working for tonight?”
    “Mrs. Joan Marel,” he said matter-of-factly.
    “What did she hire you for?” Cage asked like a cross-examining attorney.
    “To follow her husband. I mean, her ex-husband. And to get evidence against him for a child custody action.”
    “And have you seen anything that Mrs. Marel could use to her advantage in that action?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    This got Parker’s attention.
    The man continued, “In fact Mr. Kincaid seems to me to be a . . .” Sloan’s voice faltered.
    Cage prompted, “Flawless.”
    “Flawless father . . .” Sloan hesitated. He said, “You know, I’d probably say ‘perfect.’ I’d feel more comfortable saying that.”
    “All right,” Cage said. “You can say ‘perfect.’”
    “A perfect father. And I’ve never witnessed anything . . . uhm.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve never witnessed him do anything that would jeopardize his children or their happiness.”
    “And you didn’t get any videotape of him doing anything dangerous?”
    “Nosir. I didn’t take any tape at all. I didn’t see anything that might be helpful to my client by way of evidence.”
    “What are you going to go back and tell your client? About tonight, I mean?”
    Sloan said, “I’m going to tell her the truth.”
    “Which is?”
    “That Mr. Kincaid went to visit a friend in the hospital.”
    “What hospital?” Cage asked Sloan.
    “What hospital?” Sloan asked Parker.
    “Fair Oaks.”
    “Yeah,” Sloan said, “that’s where I went.”
    “You’ll work on that?” Cage asked. “Your delivery was a little rough.”
    “Yeah. I’ll work on it. I’ll get it down real good.”
    “Okay, now get the hell out of here.”
    Sloan ejected the tape from what was left of the video camera. He handed it to Cage, who tossed it into a burning oil drum.
    The private eye disappeared, looking back uneasily as if to see which of the agents was going to shoot him in the back.
    “How the hell’d you do that?” Parker muttered.
    Cage offered a shrug Parker didn’t recognize. He understood it to mean “Don’t ask.”
    Cage the miracle worker . . .
    “Thanks,” Parker said. “You don’t know what would’ve happened if—”
    “Kincaid, where the hell was your weapon?” Lukas’s abrupt voice interrupted him. He turned to her.
    “I thought I had it. It must be in the car.”
    “Don’t you remember procedure? Every time you deploy at a scene you check to make sure your weapon is with you and functioning. You learned that the first week in the Academy.”
    “I—”
    But Lukas’s face was again contracted with cold fury. In a gruff whisper: “What do you think we’re doing here?”
    Parker began, “I keep telling you I’m not tactical . . . I don’t think in terms of weapons.”
    “‘Think in terms’?” she spat out cynically. “Look, Kincaid, you’ve been living life on Sesame Street for the last few years. You can go back to that world right now and God bless and thanks for the help. But if you’re staying on board you’ll carry your weapon and you’ll pull your share of the load. You may be used to baby-sitting but we’re not. Now, you going or staying?”
    Cage was motionless. Not even the faintest shrug moved his shoulders.
    “I’m staying.”
    “Okay.”
    Lukas looked neither satisfied with his acquiescence nor apologetic for her outburst. She said, “Now get that weapon and let’s get back to work. We don’t have much time.”

17
    The large Winnebago camper rocked along the streets of Gravesend.
    It was the MCP. The mobile command post. And it was plastered with bumper stickers: NORTH CAROLINA AKC DOG SHOW. WARNING: I BRAKE FOR BLUE RIBBONS. BRIARDS ARE OUR BUSINESS.
    He wondered whether the stickers were intentional—to fool perps—or if the Bureau had bought the van secondhand from a real breeder.
    The camper eased up to the curb and Lukas motioned Cage and Parker inside. One whiff of the air told him that it had belonged to dog owners. Still, it was warm inside—with the cold and the scare from the private eye Parker was shivering hard and he was glad to be out of the chill.
    Sitting at a computer console was Tobe Geller. He was staring at a video monitor. The image on the screen was broken into a thousand square pixels, an abstract mosaic. He tapped buttons, spun the trackball on his computer, typed in commands.
    Detective Len Hardy sat