Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(27)

“Do that,” Lucas said. “Anything that might possibly be relevant. Anything.”



* * *



—

LUCAS WAS IN HIS CAR again when Jane Chase came back and said that Charlie Lang had a BMW seven-series sedan and a BMW X5 SUV. Gibson had a BMW three-series sedan. “Good German cars, right outa Munich,” she said. “Not a Japanese car in the bunch.”

“Okay.”

“And I hate to say this, but we’ve got a problem.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yes. There’s been a leak. Fox is asking about 1919. They’ve apparently been on the website . . . hang on a minute . . .”

She went away from the phone for a few seconds and Lucas could hear somebody talking fast in the background. Chase came back and said, “Okay, CNN is calling. They’ve been on the website, too. They’ve all got it.”





CHAPTER

SIX



The traffic back into DC was brutal and Lucas didn’t get to the Watergate until almost six o’clock. When he got to his room, he turned on the television and switched back and forth between CNN and Fox; nobody was talking about 1919. Maybe, he thought, it was a false alarm, or maybe the FBI had made an appeal to the networks.

The day had been warm and he’d been running around since early morning. He decided to get dinner in the hotel restaurant and then sit with his notes and figure out what his next step might be.

Back in his room after a Santa Fe salad, he hit the shower, and when he got out, CNN’s talking head was shouting about breaking news, and sure enough:

“CNN has learned exclusively that an apparent alt-right website has been publishing photographs of the children of prominent national politicians in what seems to be an implicit threat. The FBI has asked that we not reveal the name of the website, but we have reviewed the site and find it rife with alt-right articles in addition to the photographs. We have asked Barney Grier, an expert on the alt-right, to tell us what he thinks this site may mean. Barney?”

Lucas: “Ah, shit.”

The camera switched to a man with an exceptionally bad black toupee to go with a ruggedly squared-off nose and chin and deep-set eyes. A caption identified him as a former Navy SEAL officer.

“This is a startling development, something we’ve not seen before—the children are those of Democrats, according to our source. Given the history of violence from the right-wing extremist groups, this threat has to be taken seriously . . .”

Lucas turned to Fox, where a nearly hairless, soft-faced man was saying, “. . . most likely a provocation from some group like the Antifa organization, which has shown its willingness to use internet tools to spread fear. When you actually examine the articles on the website, you find that they come from a wide range of right-wing organizations, some of whom greatly disagree with others. In other words, this is a pastiche, a fabrication . . .”

Blah blah blah . . .

But, Lucas thought, the story was out there, and that complicated everything.

He went back to CNN and watched for a few more minutes. Despite the tone of excitement, they were already repeating themselves. He turned the TV off, put on underpants and a T-shirt, and lay on the bed to read notes and files.

At 8:30, his cell phone rang; the caller was “Unknown.” He answered with “Yes,” and a woman asked, “Is this Marshal Davenport?”

“Yes, it is, who is this?”

“I’m Marcia Miller, the public representative for the American National Militia,” the woman said. “We understand you’ve been trying to get in touch.”

“Yes, I have. Where are you located?”

“Here in Washington—my office is actually across the river in Virginia, but the DC metro anyway.”

“Great. When could we meet?”

“Right now. I operate a small public relations firm and we normally keep regular nine-to-five business hours, but when I spoke with Charlie Lang, he suggested that your request might be somewhat urgent. I would be willing to meet with you tonight. I could come to your hotel.”

“I could come to your place . . .”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m only a short distance from the Watergate. I could be there in fifteen minutes.” Miller said. “We could talk in the restaurant.”

Lucas wanted to deal with her on her home ground, but couldn’t immediately think of a credible excuse to avoid a meeting right then, in a restaurant virtually on the other side of his hotel door. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, then. I’ll be wearing a dark blue jacket and a checked shirt,” Lucas said. As he got dressed, he tried to remember if he’d told Lang that he was staying at the Watergate. He wasn’t sure.

Downstairs, in the restaurant, he got a beer and was halfway through it when Miller arrived. She was wearing a subdued women’s business suit, gunmetal-gray jacket with matching pants, and an icy blue, high-collared blouse. She carried a black leather satchel that could accommodate a full-sized automatic, if she felt the need for one.

She spotted him, nodded as he raised his glass, and strode over. She was a middle-sized woman, auburn hair off her shoulders, a square nose and chin with blue eyes and freckles. She all but sweated competence and focus.

She slid into the booth across from Lucas and asked, “Do you have a badge?”