Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(88)
“The copies aren’t clear enough to see the dot-codes?”
“No. These codes are tiny. You literally can’t see them with the naked eye, and neither can copiers.”
“So I’m looking for letters.”
“You’re looking for specific letters—printed letters, not copied letters.”
“Even then,” Lucas said. “It might not be the shooter. It could be somebody who stumbled over the 1919 site and decided to send out some letters, to get somebody else to shoot.”
“Could be,” Chase said. “But it’s what we got right now.”
They both stopped talking for a moment, as the waitress delivered Chase’s coffee and two slices of dry toast, sliced diagonally and carefully arranged on the plate.
When she was gone, Lucas took his cell phone out of his pocket and said, “Let me make a call.”
“You mean . . . right now?”
“When better?”
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED RICHARD GREENE, of the Greene Mountain Boys, who picked up on the third ring. “Marshal Davenport—we had nothing to do with that shooting, believe me.”
“I hope not. I’m calling about something different. I’ve been told you know everything on the alt-right. A number of people in these alt-right groups have gotten letters suggesting that the meaning of the 1919 group was to encourage somebody to shoot a kid, so that could be used as a leverage to change votes in Congress. We need letters. We need you to ask about them. Carefully. With people you trust.”
“Yeah, I heard about Stephen Gibson. He must’ve touched a hot wire.”
“We’re all over that. If you could reach out . . . you don’t have to tell anyone why you want to know, just provide us the names. You were talking about getting brownie points with the feds, should you need them. This would get you some. Or many.”
“I understand. Listen, let me think about it for a while. I’ll call you if I get something.”
* * *
—
CHASE SAID, when Lucas was off the phone and had explained about Greene, “He seemed eager to get those brownie points. I wonder what he did, or he’s planning, that he needs them?”
“Not my problem,” Lucas said. “It’s yours. Say, you gonna eat all that toast?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Saturday morning.
Lucas caught Bob and Rae coming back from their morning workout, told them to go look at the Washington Monument. “I already saw it. It’s that big white pointy thing, like a monument to a famous Anglo’s sexual fantasies,” Rae said. “If you don’t need us, I’m going to the National Gallery. Call when you need me.”
Bob had an old friend with the Marshals Service, stationed in Arlington. He said he’d call the guy, set up a lunch. “You won’t need us before lunch?”
“I don’t see anything coming,” Lucas said. “I think you’re safe for now. Take the Caddy if you want.”
“Nah, I’m gonna try to figure out the Metro . . .”
* * *
—
LUCAS WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM, called Weather, talked for half an hour, then watched a couple of TV broadcasts, went online and tried to figure out the relative importance of the various DC news outlets, and finally sat and thought though a variety of possible moves.
At eleven, he left the hotel and walked north on a narrow leafy residential street to Pennsylvania Avenue, then left until Pennsylvania intersected with M Street, and west on M to a nearly unmarked red-brick building with a brass plate next to the door. The plate read, “Steaks and Spirits, LLC,” as though it might be a law firm.
Lucas looked at his watch: 11:35, five minutes late. He’d be amazed if he wasn’t the first to arrive.
Inside the door, a tall man in a nubby sport coat, worn with a black T-shirt and jeans, asked, “Do we have a reservation?”
“We do,” Lucas said. “Smith and Jones.”
“Um, which Smith and Jones?”
“Tall blond guy, short white-haired guy.”
“Of course. They arrived a few minutes ago. This way.”
So Lucas was amazed: he wasn’t the first to arrive, but the last. He followed the ma?tre d’ through a maze of high-backed leather booths filled with serious-looking men and women in expensive clothes, speaking in hushed voices, and finally through a polished mahogany door into a tiny private room just large enough to seat six people.
Senators Henderson and Smalls were looking over menu folders when he came in, and Smalls said, “Ah, the late Lucas Davenport.”
“Sorry. It’s an interesting walk. I stopped to look into a bookstore window.”
“Got to have your priorities,” Henderson said. “My priority is not to walk in Washington, DC.”
“That’s why you’re such a weak sister,” Smalls said. “I run three miles every morning after my yoga.”
“While you’re out running, I’m working for the American people,” Henderson said, as he reached for the bread basket. “I’m thinking the oysters.”
“Oysters respect no political party,” Smalls agreed. “I’m thinking a dozen, or maybe a dozen and a half. The caloric content is negligible.”