Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(81)

Then came the preliminary paperwork: statements about the discovery and the processing of the scene, that sucked up the rest of the morning and early afternoon, and done in the back of one of the SWAT trucks.

“What’s happening with this Linc guy, the guy that Cop mentioned on Gibson’s tape?” Lucas asked Chase. “We know he was lining up to shoot someone.”

She was shaking her head.

“I checked while I was waiting in your truck,” she said. “We’ve been working it hard, but so far, we’ve come up empty. I mean, there are several dozen possibilities nationwide, six in Maryland and Virginia. We’ve checked all of the local people out, but didn’t get much. Like, two of them are dead—these were old guys, going way back. Two guys are still around, but one of them is black, so he’s not a good possibility, even if we could find him, which we haven’t. The other one was convicted of embezzlement and did fifteen months in a state prison, but, you know, a white-collar crime, no violence involved. Now he works for a private custodial service in Petersburg, Virginia. He works nights, nine at night to six in the morning, and his work crew agrees that he was there all night when the kid was shot. People who know him say he’s got no politics at all. His probation officer agrees with that. Given where he lives, it seems unlikely that he’d be hanging around White Fist. We’re still looking at him, but . . .”

“He’s not the right Linc.”

“We’re pretty sure he’s not,” she said. “We’re starting to throw a wider net, but so far . . . nothing.”

“What about these Stokeses? We need to interview everyone who knew these two, see if Linc turns up.”

“Already underway,” she said. She had a smear of grease under her nose, Vicks, because the odor in the house made her gag. “We’re not seeing anything yet.”

“Okay. Look, we’re gonna take off.” Lucas nodded at the army of cops surrounding and infiltrating the house. “You’ve got more than enough people here. Goddamnit, I thought we had something solid.”

“We do—this will lead to something,” Chase said. “Where are you going?”

“Out to look around,” Lucas said.

“Looking for Linc?”

“Or whatever we can find.”

“Lucas . . . the kid who was killed . . . I didn’t like your face back there, at the cemetery. If you find Linc, we need to put him on trial and make an example of him.”

“Sure.”

“We don’t need him pushed into a confrontation and shot,” she said.

“Sure.”

“We don’t need him executed.”

“You got it, boss lady,” Lucas said. He tried a smile.

“You’ve got a mean smile sometimes,” Jane Chase said.





CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN



Bob drove while Lucas worked his phone, heading north to Maryland and Charles Lang, who might or might not be a Nazi, but did know names. He was home, he said, mourning for Gibson. They arrived at three o’clock, after a quick stop at a Burger King for fat and carbohydrates.

“If I was the king of Burger King, I’d make the French fries taste like McDonald’s French fries,” Rae said, as they left the Burger King parking lot. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

“Harder than you’d think,” Bob said. “I read someplace, probably not the New York Times, that McDonald’s fries used to be cooked in beef fat, but they can’t do that anymore, so what they came up with was a bunch of chemicals that they put in regular cooking oil so it smells like beef fat. Burger King would have to figure out what the chemicals are.”

“Your mind is a fucking garbage dump,” Rae said.

Lucas just ate. Truth be told, the repartee was annoying him, but he didn’t want to pull rank to shut them up. They were Bob and Rae, his friends. Rae picked up on his attitude.

“What are you thinking about, big guy?”

“Linc.”

“That gonna do any good? Thinking about it?”

“What else we got? You oughta try it,” Lucas snapped. Then, “Sorry.”

The repartee stopped and they drove mostly without talking to Lang’s house.



* * *



—

WHEN THEY PULLED into Lang’s driveway, the man himself walked out on the front porch to meet them. “I can’t talk about Stephen without weeping and it’s embarrassing,” he said. He actually had a black mourning armband pinned to his jacket sleeve, and Lucas wondered if it might not have once had a swastika on it. “His family is asking about when they can get the body . . .”

“That’ll be up to the medical examiner and the FBI,” Lucas told him. “I suspect it’ll be a few more days. They gotta do chemistry.”

“I’m trying to stay in touch, but there are so many bureaucrats, and nobody wants to tell you anything.” Lang ushered them through the house to his office, slumped behind his desk, and asked, “How can I help?”

“We’re looking for a man named Linc, who Stephen saw at White Fist,” Lucas said. “I don’t know if it’s L-i-n-c or L-i-n-k, but I’ve been assuming it’s short for ‘Lincoln.’ He may be a shooter for one of your alt-right groups, and he’s probably way out there. Have you seen the name?”