Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(103)

Crying her bright blue eyes out, she asked for an attorney.


LUCAS, Bob, Rae, and Tremanty made recorded statements at the scene for an assistant U.S. attorney; the entire scene was comprehensively photographed. Just before dark, they rode the helicopter back to Las Vegas; Cox was transferred by ground to a federal holding facility.

The next day was spent with paperwork, and the Vegas AIC held a press conference with Tremanty and Lucas, in which they gave credit to the hard work of the Metro cops, the Ney County Sheriff’s Department, and, of course, without saying so—they had behind-the-scenes spokespeople to do that—themselves.

The cannibal was dead. Good riddance.

When it was all signed, sealed, and delivered, Lucas, Bob, Rae, and Tremanty agreed to rendezvous at the Cheesecake Factory at seven o’clock to eat and talk about the case, before flying out the next day. Bob and Lucas arrived right at seven, Rae and Tremanty were late.

“I think they’re, uh-mmm, you know . . .” Bob said.

“Good for them,” Lucas said. “Everybody oughta uh-mmm. Not enough of that going on, in my opinion.”

“Tremanty’s gonna wind up in Washington, sooner or later,” Bob said, over a cherry shake and cheeseburger. “I hope she doesn’t go with him. I mean, I wish them the best.”

“But you don’t want to break up the team.”

“She’s my best friend,” Bob said.

“Are you uh-mmming anybody at the moment?” Lucas asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am. There’s a high school gym coach . . . Anyway, she’s divorced, friendly, and likes to work out. Don’t know what will happen there . . . Maybe something.”


RAE WANDERED IN a few minutes later. Her hair was damp, but neither Lucas nor Bob mentioned it, until she said, “That’s right. Don’t say a fuckin’ thing.”

“We’re trying not to,” Lucas said.

Tremanty ambled up a moment later. His hair was damp as well, but they didn’t say a fuckin’ thing.

Cheeseburgers, fries, shakes.

“You got Santos anyway,” Lucas said. “That’s gotta be some kind of wedge you can use to get at Smith.”

Tremanty shrugged. “Don’t know. Cox is a witness to the Beauchamps shooting, but she somehow wound up with the most expensive defense attorney in Las Vegas, where defense attorneys don’t come cheap. She says he’s doing it pro bono for an indigent client, but that would be like the first time forever.”

Bob: “You think Smith . . . ?”

Tremanty nodded. “Of course. If she testifies that Beauchamps shot first—that Santos was acting in self-defense—we can still get Santos, maybe, on the attempted money transfer, aiding a federal fugitive. But you know, Deese was never convicted of anything. Now he can’t be because he’s dead.”

“Sorry,” Bob said.

“Not your fault,” Tremanty said. “You were trying notto kill him and he stepped right into the slug. So . . . it all gets complicated. Whatever happens, it’ll cost Smith a lot of money. A bundle.”

“And the cannibal is dead,” Rae said. They raised their milk shake glasses and clinked them together. “The cannibal is dead.”


THEY ALL FLEW the next day, Bob, Rae, and Tremanty to New Orleans, Bob and Rae in business class, Tremanty in the back. Rae suggested that Bob give up his seat so Tremanty could sit next to her.

Bob laughed. That wasn’t going to happen.

Then Rae suggested that she give up her seat so the two men could have the leg and hip room, but Tremanty said, “Rae, you’re taller than me.”

Bob and Rae flew business into New Orleans, as did Lucas into Minneapolis, on the Marshals Service tab.


HARRELSON didn’t flinch when told of his wife’s death. He nodded and walked away, turned at the door of the FBI office and said, “Thanks for tryin’.” When he got home, he sat on the bed and looked at his wife’s clothes in the closet and sat there and cried and couldn’t stop. That went on for a while.


COX’S excellent defense attorney proved valuable: in the end, she wasn’t charged with anything because all the government could prove was that she’d stayed with the gang. In her favor, there were those chain bruises, carefully photographed by the defense attorney’s excellent photographer, and the fact that she’d called Lucas to tip him off about the meeting between Deese and Santos.

She was required to testify against Santos as part of her no-prosecution deal.

Santos was in the hospital for three weeks, then transferred to the federal holding facility in Las Vegas. He’d lost a kidney and suffered nerve damage near his spine that affected control of his left foot. He could walk with the help a small brace that kept his foot pointed forward, but not run well.

He also had an excellent defense attorney. And when it was all over with—it took nearly a year—he pled guilty to handgun violations and attempting to aid a federal fugitive. He told the court that the money he was delivering actually was Deese’s own money, not Roger Smith’s. “A hidden stash,” he said.

He was unaware of any illegal activity by Smith; he worked in Smith’s law office as a consultant on drug violations by Smith clients, of which there were many. With no prior convictions, he was given three years in prison.