Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(23)

“Huh.”

“Then there was a murder in Ohio,” Lang said. “A man was accused of rape, got three hung juries despite a lot of evidence—DNA evidence—because he’d been a local football star. Girl committed suicide after the last hung jury. A couple of days later, the alleged rapist was killed by a sniper. Once again, a heavy .30-caliber slug. There were more rumors.”

“But no substantial investigation?”

“The police didn’t have much to work with. And I don’t think anyone looked at it too closely, the rape thing. For several reasons, like, not many people really cared about the rapist, plus, there was no evidence about who did it and if you did find some evidence . . . the killer might come for you.”

“Can you put me in touch with the ANM contact man?”

“Actually, it’s a woman. She may or may not be willing to talk with you. Before I agree to reach out on your behalf, there’d be a condition,” Lang said.

“That would be?”

“If she reaches out to you, and you interview her, you consider sharing the substance of the interview with me,” Lang said. “You tell me what you find out about the group.”

“I’d consider it, but I might not be able to do that,” Lucas said. “This is a federal investigation, not scholarly research.”

“I’m not asking for a promise, only a consideration.” Lang’s tongue flicked out, wetting his lower lip. “I’ve been curious about the ANM for a while.”

“Is there any other group? Or contact?” Lucas asked.

“Actually, there is. I can give you that one right now, Richard Greene of the Greene Mountain Boys. Green with an ‘e’ at the end. There are only a few dozen members in the group, they’re alt-right, and I’ve sometimes thought that Richard is more interested in publicity than in actually doing anything. He’s . . . and I’ll apologize for the language, as you did earlier . . . a bullshitter. But. Because of the publicity, he knows a lot of people. Being media-aware, he collects rumors and tracks everything alt-right. He would be the most likely person to have heard something.”

“How would I reach him?” Lucas asked.

“He lives outside Annapolis . . . I have a phone number . . .” Lang reached for an old-style Rolodex.



* * *



—

LUCAS TOOK DOWN a phone number for Greene, but Lang wouldn’t tell him how he planned to reach the ANM contact, other than to say he’d call some people he knew and ask that somebody call him back. The word might or might not get to the right person. If it did, he’d pass along Lucas’s phone number.

“You can’t count on it, but it’s a possibility,” Lang said. “They have responded to occasional inquiries in the past. I’ve never met the woman myself. I would like to.”

Gibson returned with an iced lemonade for Lang, and then took a seat in a chair at the side of the room. Lucas sniffed; he didn’t normally have allergies, but the flowers were getting to him and when Lang went past with the lemonade, he thought he smelled alcohol. He asked about alt-right groups with a reputation for criminal activity, especially violence, but Lang shook his head.

“There’s always some of that. Most of these groups are populated by younger men who feel repressed, ignored, slighted, pushed aside for wealthy or politically connected groups. They’re a political version of a motorcycle gang. In fact, some of them are motorcycle gangs.”

“Politically connected? Do you mean, like, teachers’ unions? Or Jews?”

Lang’s smile lost some wattage, but then he blinked and brightened and said, “They would both be considered problems . . . by these people.”

“But not by you?”

“I’m not a racist, Marshal, but I am a realist. Jews control the banks and the media; that’s a fact. And how far do you have to look to see the damage being done to this country by the media and the banks?” Lang asked. “The teachers’ unions . . . well, teachers live their privileged socialist lives and they look around, and ask why shouldn’t everyone live their privileged socialist lives? Good salaries, excellent pensions, long vacations. The average workingman in this country works 260 days a year; the average teacher, 170 to 180. What’s not to like about that life? They don’t seem to understand that somebody actually has to provide the money for their lives, for the pensions that are absolutely ruining the states, and bought in return for funding left-wing politicians like Obama . . .”

Lang went on for a while, his face going bright pink, and in a shaft of sunlight coming through the slats of half-drawn wooden shades, Lucas could see small drops of spit flying across the desk toward his lap. He shifted away, as much as he could without getting up. He’d touched a button and Lang apparently was having trouble reining in the rant.

He eventually trailed off, having disposed of Jews, teachers, Hispanics, and Arabs—“Maybe nice people as individuals, but they don’t share our culture and they don’t want to have anything to do with it; they want our money and nothing else”—as well as mentally ill street people and “welfare queens,” a phrase Lucas hadn’t heard since the ’90s.

When he stopped to take a breath, Lucas broke in with, “I have to say I don’t totally agree with you on all of that, but I think I understand your point of view. I guess I’ve lived something of a socialist life myself—except for a couple of years with a software start-up, I’ve worked for governments most of my life.”