Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(65)

“He doesn’t load, he’s a driver,” Lucas said.

“This time of day, he’s out on delivery,” Bob said. He was messing with his phone and said, “Okay, I’ve got a location. English Muffin Way.”

“English what?”

“Hey, I didn’t name the place,” Bob said. “I’ve got it on my phone app. We go talk to his boss, figure out where Cop should be right now.”



* * *



—

THE UPS DISTRIBUTION CENTER was in a warehouse district south of town, a beige structure built with nothing in mind other than function: a box that a decent-looking building should have come in. The delivery supervisor, whose name was Rick, was unhappy to see them, and even more unhappy when Lucas wouldn’t tell them what Cop had done.

“We do need to see him right away,” Lucas told him.

“I could call him . . .”

“No, no. He’s not to know we’re coming,” Lucas said. “If word should get to him . . . and you’re the only person we’re talking to . . . then you could be looking at a very tough future. Very tough.”

“You know, like federal prison,” Rae said.

“Tell us about where he’s at, and we’ll find him,” Lucas added.

“Well . . .” Rick looked at them nervously. “I can tell you exactly where he’s at. Like, to the foot. All the trucks are monitored.”

“Then when we get up in the right area, we could call you and you could give us an exact location?”

“To the foot.”

Cop’s car, Rick said, was in the parking lot, an older, dark gray Mustang, and locked.



* * *



—

COP WAS DRIVING AROUND a suburban development on the north side of town called Clover Hill, twenty minutes from the distribution center. They drove over, and when they were in the neighborhood, checked back with Rick, gave him their location, and he directed them to Claiborne Drive, where they spotted the brown UPS truck parked in front of a house.

Cop was either in the truck or in the house, because he wasn’t outside, and then the truck pulled away, went around a corner. They hovered, watching, until he stopped again and then Lucas, who was driving, eased up behind the truck as Cop hopped out and started up the front walk to a house.

He was a tall, thin man, balding, appeared to be in shape. Bob and Rae hopped out of the Tahoe, ran around opposite ends of the UPS vehicle so they’d have Cop between them. Lucas ran around behind Bob and when Cop saw them coming, he simply stood and stared at the guns pointed at him.

“What?”

“You’re under arrest,” Rae said. “Get down on the ground, put your hands behind your back.”

Cop dumped the box he was holding—something broke inside with a china-like crack—and dropped into a crouch and then suddenly bolted. He got about eight feet before Bob, who, despite his size, was quick, got him by the collar, threw him on the ground, and knelt on his back.

“Don’t do that,” Bob said.

“Motherfucker.”

“Potty mouth.” Bob bent Cop’s arms behind his back, cuffed him, and then lifted him off the ground by his belt. Rae gave him the Miranda speech and they put him in the back of the Tahoe. Bob got Cop’s work keys and they locked the UPS truck and called Rick and told him that Cop would no longer be working that day, and that the truck was locked.



* * *



—

LUCAS GOT ON THE PHONE TO CHASE, who asked, “You get him?”

“Yeah, got him.”

“Bring him down, we’ll transfer him,” Chase said.

“What’s happening there?”

“The garage looks like a National Guard armory. Toby Boone had a pistol in his car, so we got him on that, regardless of whether or not we can make a murder charge stick. Ton of literature here. Crazy stuff, a mix of white supremacist and prison reform. Where are you? You should see this.”

“Be there in ten minutes,” Lucas said.

In the backseat, next to Bob, Cop said, “You didn’t tell me why I was arrested.”

“Murder,” Rae said. “You can get the details from the FBI supervisor.”

Cop looked away, his face turned to stone. He knew what they were talking about.



* * *



—

BACK AT THE TOBY BOONE PAWNSHOP, they turned Cop over to an FBI agent, who read him his rights again, and took him away.

Chase came over and said, “Good day, good day.”

The garage she’d called an armory wasn’t actually an armory, but to somebody unfamiliar with the gun world, as Chase admitted she was, it might have looked that way. More than two dozen long guns were locked against a wall with steel rods and heavy padlocks, some of everything: six AR-style black rifles were side-by-side with four AKs and scoped bolt-action rifles in a variety of calibers from .223 to .300 Winchester Magnum; four tactical shotguns and two high-end over-and-under shotguns were lined up next to the rifles, and no fewer than six Ruger 10/22 autoloading .22 caliber rifles.

Lucas had a 10/22 himself, at his cabin, for dispatching porcupines, because, as everybody knows, porcupines will eat the rubber on your boat’s gas lines and anything with sweat salt on it, like canoe paddles. And if a SWAT team ever raided his house and cabin, they’d come up with . . . Lucas had to think about it . . . maybe ten guns, including rifles, pistols, and shotguns. He also had a couple of street guns hidden away, with a few other items he preferred that no one see—an electronic lock rake—but a SWAT team wouldn’t find those.