Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(26)

“Huh. You get a tag number?”

“That’s the other thing. I didn’t, because there was something on his tag. Mud? Maybe mud, but I couldn’t read the number, which worried me a little. That bullshit mud-on-the-plates thing. Maryland plates, though.”

“Hey. If it turns out to be something, I’ll send you a dollar,” Lucas said.

Toomes laughed. “Four more and I can get a cup of coffee. You take care, man.”



* * *



—

LUCAS LOOKED IN HIS REARVIEW MIRROR, but didn’t immediately see anything that looked like a dark blue RAV4. He checked repeatedly on his way to the meeting, never saw a RAV4, as far as he knew. But who really saw any difference between a RAV4 and about a million other mid-size SUVs? Dark compact SUVs were like cockroaches scurrying along the highway.

Still, he called Jane Chase, told her what Toomes had said, and asked, “Could you check Lang and Gibson, see what vehicles they have registered to them? I don’t know who else could have picked me up.”

“With a hotel security guard, could be a figment of his imagination,” Chase said.

“The guy’s an ex-cop and not stupid.”

Chase said she’d check, and Lucas relaxed in his Cadillac and dialed up some tunes.



* * *



—

GREENE WAS WAITING IN A BACK booth at the Panera Bread finishing a grilled cheese sandwich when Lucas got there. Lucas got a lemonade and slid into the booth across from him. Greene was a heavyset man with skin-flaking sunburnt forearms and a fleshy nose set in a weathered face. He had white patches around his eyes, as if he wore dark glasses while recreating in the sun—fishing or golf, or something like that. Sailing, maybe, since he was ex-Navy. His face and forearms had an oily sheen, possibly sunscreen.

He was wearing a short-sleeved Ralph Lauren golf shirt, had a gold bracelet on one wrist, a gold Rolex on the other, what looked like a Navy ring on one ring finger, and a pinky ring on the other hand, with a cracked green stone that might or might not have been an emerald. He appeared to be in his forties.

He said, “Marshal. You’re not gonna eat?”

“Had a late breakfast,” Lucas said. “Thanks for meeting me. We have a situation . . .”

“Lang told me. 1919. I hadn’t heard of them until he mentioned the name and I called around—don’t bother looking, I used a burner. Anyway, a couple of guys had heard rumors about the site, but nobody had actually seen it. I don’t know how much credence you can put in a threat.”

“We’re uncertain about the reality of it, but we can’t take the chance,” Lucas said. “How about taking a guess for me? Who’d do this? What about this American National Militia?”

Greene gave a quick shake of the head. “I don’t think the ANM would be involved. They’re not like us anyway, though sometimes I feel a . . . temptation to move toward their position. You know, strip the country down, go back to basics.”

“Why don’t you think they’re involved?”

“Because . . . they’re so quiet. Very secretive. You know, we’re a little paranoid, over where I am, and we like to know about other political groups that might be out there and give us a hard time. Most of those black-flag dudes, they’re the guys who travel around the country, the Antifa and those people . . . they’re fools, but they can disrupt a peaceful demonstration. They’ll fight you. The ANM? You hear things. Like they might have snipers who actually snipe. Charlie said he mentioned the shootings in Pennsylvania and Michigan and so on. So . . . I don’t believe they’d be involved in a complicated conspiracy with websites and social media and all that. If they wanted to hit somebody, they’d just do it.”

“Charlie suggested that they could be behind the site, but intended to hang the blame on the alt-right . . .”

“That could be, I guess,” Greene said. “That would still leave them open to exposure, though, if you feds managed to trace the origins of the website. And it was sure to create a lot of investigative activity.” Greene shook his head. “There’s something off about the idea of that site. I can’t tell you exactly what’s wrong about it, but there’s something. It’s kind of . . . childish. Or, incredibly evil. One of the two. I think if the ANM was involved, there’d be no website. There’d be a dead kid and some secret phone calls.”

“I’ll think about that,” Lucas said. “In the meantime . . . who might do something like this website?”

“I was hoping to pick your brain about that,” Greene said. “I know you guys have files on everybody. Mine must be an inch thick.”

“I can’t talk about the investigation, but I’ll tell you, Richard: one of those bigwigs’ kids get killed and the feds will be all over you guys,” Lucas said. “All over you. You’re ex-Navy, so I suspect you know what could happen if the government really decides to kick some ass. If the hammer comes down.”

“Why do you think I’m talking to you?” Greene asked. “I need the brownie points. My people aren’t nuts—well, some of them might be, but it’s usually manageable. I don’t want anyone to know I was talking to a federal marshal, but if I find out anything, and I do have some lines out, I’ll call you.”