Lock In (Lock In, #1)(37)

“Crazy idea,” Vann said. “Get to it. Good night, Shane.”

“Wait,” I said.

“Talking to you is cramping my evening’s planned festivities,” Vann said.

“Johnny Sani,” I said.

“What about him?”

“The family wants the body back.”

“When we’re done with him they’re welcome to him. The FBI will work with them so they can have someone pick up the body.”

“I don’t think his grandmother and sister have that sort of money,” I said.

“I don’t know what to tell you about that, Shane,” Vann said.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll let them know.” I hung up and switched back over to my outside voice. “I’m about done here,” I said, to Redhouse.

“No one’s using that desk,” he said, pointing to where I was sitting. “If you want to just plug in there, there’s a socket on the floor. Captain told me to ask you to let us know before you’re going to drop by, but otherwise you’re fine for a few days.”

“I appreciate it,” I said.

“Did you talk to them about Sani’s body?” Redhouse asked.

“I did,” I said. “When we’re done with it I’ll give you a contact in D.C. to have the body shipped.”

“That’s not going to be cheap.”

“When they find out how much it is, let me know,” I said. “I’ll have it dealt with.”

“Who do I tell them is dealing with it?” Redhouse asked.

“Tell them it’s an anonymous friend,” I said.





Chapter Eleven

I WAS ON THE corner of Pennsylvania and Sixth Avenue, walking away from the Eastern Market Metro, when I heard them in Seward Square: a bunch of young, probably drunk, and almost certainly stupid dudes braying at each other about something.

That in itself didn’t interest me. Stupid, drunk young men are a fixture of any urban setting, especially in the evening hours. What got my attention was the next voice I heard, which was a woman’s, and which didn’t sound particularly happy. The calculus for that many drunk young men and a single woman didn’t strike me as especially good. So I continued on Pennsylvania into Seward Square.

I caught up with the group where the little walkway cut across the grass from Pennsylvania and Fifth. There were four dudes who had taken it on themselves to surround someone, who I assumed was the woman in question. As I got closer, I saw that the woman was also a Haden.

That changed the dynamic of what was going on a bit. It also meant these guys were drunker or more stupid than I had previously guessed. Or some combination of the two.

The woman in the center of the dude pocket was trying to shoulder her way through the group. When she did, the four would move and re-form their pocket around her. It wasn’t entirely clear what they were planning to do but it was also clear that they weren’t interested in letting her get away.

The woman moved again and the four men moved again, and that was the first time I saw the aluminum bat one of them was carrying.

Well, that was no good.

So I walked up, making as much noise as threepily possible as I did so.

One of the men caught the movement and got the attention of the others. In a minute, all four of them were looking at me, the woman still in the center of their pocket. The one with the bat was bobbing it lightly in his hand.

“Hi there,” I said. “Softball practice get out late?”

“What you want to do is just keep walking,” one of them said to me. It was clear to me that this was meant to be threatening, but he was pretty drunk, so it just came out as the drunk version of threatening, which isn’t very threatening at all.

“What I want to do is check on your friend here,” I said, and pointed to the Haden in the middle of the group. “Are you okay?” I asked her.

“Not really,” she said.

“All right,” I said, and then looked at each of the men in turn, using the second I held each one’s gaze to scan their faces and send the scans to the FBI database for identification. “Here’s my idea, then. Why don’t you let her walk away, and then you all and I can talk about whatever it is you wanted to have a conversation with her about. It’ll be fun. I’ll even buy a round for you all.” Because what you need is another drink, I thought, but did not say. I was trying to make this all nice and pretend friendly. I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to work, but it was worth it to make the attempt.

It didn’t work. “How about you f*ck off, you f*cking clank,” said another one of them. He was just as drunk as the first, so this was as ineffectively blustery as the first threat.

So I decided on a course of lateral motivation. “Terry Olson,” I said.

“What?” said the dude.

“Your name is Terry Olson,” I said, and then pointed to the next one. “Bernie Clay. Wayne Glover. And Daniel Lynch.” I pointed to the one holding the bat. “Although I’d bet twenty bucks that you go by Danny. And your last name is full of irony at the moment.”

“How do you know who we—” Olson began.

“Shut the f*ck up, Terry,” said Lynch, thereby inadvertently confirming the identity of at least one of the four. These guys were geniuses, all right.