Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(90)

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CHASE CALLED AT FOUR O’CLOCK, excited and exasperated: “We’ve got big trouble.”

“Who was shot?”

“Nobody. But all the local TV stations, plus the Post, the Times, and the Wall Street Journal are calling, asking if it’s true that Audrey Coil set up 1919 as a gag.”

“Ah, shit.”

“It gets worse: they’ve got that other kid’s name, Blake Winston. I called the Winston house and talked to Mrs. Winston, and as I was talking, she said a TV truck was pulling into their driveway.”

“Ah, shit.”

“We’re not going to be able to contain it,” Chase said. “You might want to hide out, because I suspect Senator Smalls will be coming your way.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Stop saying that. Say something intelligent.”

“I’m going home,” Lucas said.

“You can’t!” Chase said. “We collected those letters, interviewed the recipients, and we might be starting to unravel things.”

“You got an original?”

“No, but we got enough copies now that we’ve started asking people to name possible sources. There can’t be too many of them for what we think is the second generation of copies. When we cross-index the names, there’s a good chance we’ll get to the first generation, and that guy—or guys—should give us a lead to the original writer.”

“Good luck with that,” Lucas said. “I’m going to get in bed and pull the covers over my head. Smalls is gonna pee on my shoes.”



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SMALLS DID THAT.

“One question,” he said when he called, two minutes after the beginning of The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer, “Did you know about Audrey Coil?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you tell Elmer?” Smalls asked.

“Maybe.”

“You motherfuckers, you covered this up to protect Roberta Coil.”

“Actually, I did it to protect Audrey Coil. She could be in serious legal trouble, if somebody wants to give it to her—and she’s a kid. She’s seventeen.”

“She oughta be in jail, along with her mother for the cover-up,” Smalls said.

“Jesus, Porter, this whole thing was about a cover-up. You were there at the creation.”

“Things could be interpreted differently,” Smalls said. “But there’s no point in getting into all of that. What’s happening with the shooter?”

Lucas told him about the FBI analysts and the letters.

Smalls said, “Listen, Lucas, I’m pissed about the Coil thing, but that’s politics. I’m pissed but not surprised. I’m still counting on you to close this thing out.”

“I’m working on it,” Lucas said. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“In fact, there is. Could you get me a reservation at Steaks and Spirits? Seven o’clock tonight?”

“I meant something easy,” Smalls grumbled. Then, “I’ll make a call.”



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LUCAS WENT TO DINNER with Bob and Rae, who marveled at the restaurant, at the lack of bad music that made it possible to actually talk, and further, that Lucas was paying for it out of his own pocket. Like Henderson and Smalls, they ordered a dozen oysters each, followed by steaks and spirits.

“Now that I’m sitting here in my shabby-chic dress because I can’t afford anything actually chic, tell me what the occasion is,” Rae said.

“Goodbye dinner, see you next time,” Lucas said. “The fact is, the FBI is taking over. There’s nothing more for us to do.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured that out,” Bob said, and Rae nodded.

Lucas said, “I called Russell, he’s fixed your travel back to New Orleans at nine o’clock tomorrow. Got to be out at National by seven, what with all the guns and stuff.”

“Probably won’t see you tomorrow, then,” Bob said.

“Probably not.”

Rae: “You got anything good coming up?”

“No, not really. I’d like something simple: a straight-up cannibal on the run, maybe a child rapist. Somebody we could corner and feel good about shooting,” Lucas said. “This political shit is giving me a rash.”

Rae ran a hand over her close-cropped hair, then said, “I have to tell you, I get all excited when you call. So does Bob. We know it’s going to be something good. Don’t hesitate to call us again.”

Bob said to Rae, “You know what? Let’s get back home and hit the computers. Dig around. Find something we can do, all three of us. Let’s not forget, there’s a whole world of scum out there. Wastes of good skin. Douchebags.”

“Asswipes,” Lucas added.

“Miscreants,” Rae said. The two men looked at each other, grinned and shook their heads. “What? So I got a vocabulary, unlike some people?”

“If you find somebody to chase, try to find him in an interesting place,” Lucas said. “New York, Miami, New Orleans. The scuzzier the better. I don’t want any Denvers or Seattles or Portlands. No place where you might wound a hipster by accident.”