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work for you. It also gets you noticed by your bosses.
    Her eyes flickered as a voice crackled in her earphone, speaking her name.
    “Go ahead,” she said into the stalk mike, recognizing the voice of the deputy director of the Bureau.
    “We’ve got a problem,” he said.
    She hated dramatics. “What?” she asked, not caring a bit about the abrasion in her voice.
    The dep director said, “There was a hit-and-run near City Hall a little while ago. White male. He was killed. No ID on him. Nothing at all, just an apartment key—no address—and some money. The cop who responded’d heard about the extortion thing and, since it was near City Hall, thought there might be a connection.”
    She understood immediately. “They compared prints?” she asked. “His and the ones on the extortion note?”
    “That’s right. The dead guy’s the one who wrote the note, the shooter’s partner.”
    Lukas remembered part of the note. It went something like:
    If you kill me, he will keep killing.
    Nothing can stop the Digger . . .
    “You’ve got to find the shooter, Margaret,” the deputy director said. There was a pause as, apparently, he looked at his watch. “You’ve got to find him in three hours.”
    * * *
    Is it real? Parker Kincaid wondered.
    Bending over the rectangle of paper, peering through his heavy, ten-power hand glass. Joan had been gone forseveral hours but the effect of her visit—the dismay—still lingered, trying though he was to lose himself in his work.
    The letter he examined—on yellowing paper—was encased in a thin, strong poly sleeve but when he eased it closer to him he did so very carefully. The way you’d touch a baby’s red, fat face. He adjusted the light and swooped in on the loop of the lowercase letter y .
    Is it real?
    It appeared to be real. But in his profession Parker Kincaid never put great stock in appearances.
    He wanted badly to touch the document, to feel the rag paper, made with so little acid that it could last as long as steel. He wanted to feel the faint ridge of the iron-gallide ink, which, to his sensitive fingers, would seem as raised as braille. But he didn’t dare take the paper from the sleeve; even the slightest oil from his hands would start to erode the thin letter. Which would be a disaster since it was worth perhaps $50,000.
    If it was real.
    Upstairs, Stephie was navigating Mario through his surreal universe. Robby was at Parker’s feet, accompanied by Han Solo and Chewbacca. The basement study was a cozy place, paneled in teak, carpeted in forest-green pile. On the walls were framed documents—the less valuable items in Parker’s collection. Letters from Woodrow Wilson, FDR, Bobby Kennedy, the Old West artist Charles Russell. Many others. On one wall was a rogues’ gallery—forgeries Parker had come across in his work.
    Parker’s favorite wall, though, was the one opposite the stool he sat on. This wall contained his children’s drawings and poems, going back over the past eightyears. From scrawls and illegible block letters to samples of their cursive writing. He often paused in his work and looked at them. Doing so had given him the idea about writing a book on how handwriting mirrors children’s development.
    He now sat on the comfortable stool at an immaculate white examination table. The room was silent. Normally he’d have the radio on, listening to jazz or classical music. But there’d been a terrible shooting in the District and all the stations were having special reports on the slaughter. Parker didn’t want Robby to hear the stories, especially after the boy’s flashback to the Boatman.
    He hunched over the letter, eagerly, the way a jeweler appraises a beautiful yellow stone, ready to declare it false if that’s how he saw it but secretly hoping that it will turn out to be rare topaz.
    “What’s that?” Robby asked, standing and looking at the letter.
    “It’s what came in the truck yesterday,” Parker said, squinting as he