"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 fucking bad.

"I'm not supposed to give out tactical information to anyone, sir. I'm sorry."

"It's my city that's under attack and my citizens who're being slaughtered. I want answers."

More silence. Kennedy looked up at Wendell Jefferies, who shook his head.

Kennedy forced his anger down. He tried to sound reasonable as he said, "Let me tell you what I have in mind. The whole point of this scheme was for those men to make money. It's not to kill."

"I think that's true, sir."

"If I can just have a chance to talk to the killer-at this safe house or where he's going to hit at eight-I think I can convince him to give up. I'll negotiate with him. I can do that."

Kennedy did believe this. Because one of his talents (in this respect like his namesake from the sixties) was his ability to persuade. Hell, he'd sweet-talked two dozen of the toughest presidents and CEOs in the District into accepting the tax that would fund Project 2000. He'd talked poor Gary Moss into naming names in the Board of Education scandal.

Twenty minutes with this killer-even staring down the barrel of that machine gun of his-would be enough. He'd work out some kind of arrangement.

"The way they're describing him," Hardy said, "I don't think he's the sort you can negotiate with."

"You let me be the judge of that, Detective. Now, where's his safe house?"

"I…"

"Tell me."

The line hummed. Still, the detective said nothing.

Kennedys voice lowered. "You don't owe the feds a thing, son. You know how they feel about you being on the task force. You're a step away from fetching coffee."

"That's wrong, sir. Agent Lukas's made me part of the team."

"Has she?"

"Pretty much."

"You don't feel like a third wheel? I'm asking that 'cause I feel like one. If Lanier had his way-you know Congressman Lanier?"

"Yessir."

"If he had his way my only job tonight'd be sitting in the reviewing stand on the Mall watching fireworks… You and me-the District of Columbia's our city. So, come on, son, where's that goddamn safe house?"

Kennedy watched Jefferies cross his fingers. Please… It would be perfect. I show up there, I try to talk the man into coming out with his hands up. Either he surrenders or they kill him. And either way, my credibility survives. Either way, I'm no longer the mayor who watched the murder of his city on CNN while he kicked back with a beer.

Kennedy heard voices from the other end of the line. Then Hardy was back. "I'm sorry, Mayor, I have to go. There're people here. I'm sure Agent Lukas will be in touch."

"Detective…"

The line went blank.

Gravesend.

The car carrying Parker and Cage bounded over gaping potholes and eased to a stop at a curb where trash and rubble spilled into the street. The burnt-out torso of a Toyota rested, ironically, against a fire hydrant.

They climbed out. Lukas had driven in her own car, a red Ford Explorer, and was already at the vacant lot that was the rendezvous point. She was standing with her hands on her trim hips, looking around.

The smells of urine and shit and burning wood and trash were very strong.

Parker's parents, who became world travelers after his father had retired from teaching history, had once found themselves in a slum in Ankara, Turkey. Parker still could remember the letter he'd received from his mother, who was an ardent correspondent. It was the last letter he'd received from them before they'd died. It was framed and up on the wall of his study downstairs, next to the Whos' wall of fame.

They're impoverished, the people here, and that, more than racial differences, more than culture, more than politics, more than religion, turns their hearts to stone.

He thought of her words now, as he looked over the desolation of the area.

Two black teenagers, who'd been leaning against a wall graffiti'd with gang colors, looked at the men and women arriving-obviously law enforcers-and walked away slowly, uneasiness and defiance on their faces.

Parker was troubled-though not by the danger; by the hugeness of the place. It was three or four square miles of slums and row houses and small factories and vacant lots. How could they possibly find the unsub's safe house in this much urban sprawl?

There were some riddles that Parker had never been able to figure out.

Three hawks…

Smoke wafted past him. It was from fires in the oil drums where the homeless men and women and the gangstas burned wood and trash for warmth. He saw more hulks of stripped cars. Across the street was a building that seemed deserted; the only clue to habitation was a bulb burning behind a red towel covering a broken window.

Just past the Metro stop, over a tall, decaying brick wall, the chimney of the crematorium rose into the night sky. There was no smoke rising from it but the sky above the muzzle rippled in the heat. Perhaps its fires always burned. Parker shivered. The sight reminded him of old-time pictures of-

"Hell," Lukas muttered. "It looks like hell."

Parker glanced at her.

Cage shrugged in agreement.

A car arrived. It was Jerry Baker, wearing a bulky windbreaker and body armor. Parker saw that, as befit a tactical agent, he was also wearing cowboy boots. Cage handed him the stack of computerized pictures of the unsub-the death mask portrait from the morgue. "We'll use these for the canvas. At the bottom? That's the only description we have of the Digger."

"Not much."

Another shrug.

More unmarked cars and vans began to pull up, their dashboard flashers reflecting in the bands of storefront windows. FBI government issue wheels. White-and-teal District police cars too, their light bars revolving. There were about twenty-five men and women in total, half of them federal agents, half uniformed cops. Baker motioned to them and they congregated around Lukas's truck. He distributed the printouts.

Lukas said to Parker, "Want to brief them?"

"Sure."

She called, "If you could listen to Agent Jefferson here."

It took a second before Parker recognized the reference to his stage name. He decided he would've been a failure at undercover work. He said, "The man in the picture you've got there was the perp responsible for the Metro and Mason Theater shootings. We think he was working out of a safe house somewhere here in Gravesend. Now, he's dead but his accomplice-the shooter-is still at large. So we need to find the safe house and find it fast."

"You have a name?" one of the District cops called.

"The unsub-the dead one-is a John Doe," Parker said, holding up the picture. "The shooter's got a nickname. The Digger. That's all. His description's on the bottom of the handout."

Parker continued. "You can narrow down the canvassing area some. The safe house is probably near a demolition or construction site and won't be far from the cemetery. He also recently bought some paper like this-" Parker held up the clear sleeves holding the extortion note and the envelope. "Now, the paper was sun-bleached so it's possible that he bought it in a store that displays their office supplies in or near a south-facing window. So hit every convenience store, drugstore, grocery store and newsstand that sells paper. Oh, and look for the type of pen he used too. It was an AWI black ballpoint. Probably cost thirty-nine or forty-nine cents."