Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(15)

He left the kitchen, and Lucas asked Dick, “Where’s he going?”

Dick shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t take his morning pee.”

Smith was back in two minutes, “I don’t know where Deese went. You think he worked for me, but that’s incorrect, in a sense. Deese was a freelancer and he worked for anyone who could pay him, as long as he didn’t cross . . . certain lines.”

“As long as he didn’t work for your rivals,” Lucas suggested.

“You said that, not I. As I said, I don’t know where he is, but I could speculate. He has a half brother out in Los Angeles. They are close. Very close. His brother is some kind of hard-core stickup man,” Smith said. “That’s what I’ve heard, but I’ve never met him or spoken to him. He would have some resources that Deese needs, if he’s running. I know that Deese would meet him in both in LA and in Vegas, when he went to visit. That would happen every few months. The brothers like to gamble, and I think they may have an uncle out there, too. Out in the desert, near Vegas. Deese was joking about him one time. Called him a desert rat, said he mined for turquoise.”

“His brother’s name is Deese? Deese what? What’s his first name?”

“No, it’s Martin Keller or Martin Lawrence. Those are the two names I’ve heard. If either of those are his real name, you should be able to find substantial files on him. I know he’s been in prison. A couple of years ago, Deese told me that if I ever had to get in touch with him in a hurry, in an emergency, when he was traveling, I could call a number. It’s a . . . switchboard, so to speak.”

He handed Lucas a piece of notepad paper with a phone number scrawled on it in blue ink.

“That’s an LA area code. I’ve never called it because I’ve never had to, and, to tell the truth, if I ever did call it I’d do it from a pay phone, or something. He said to call only after nine o’clock at night, LA time, and ask for Martin Lawrence. That’s all the help I can give you, because that’s all I know. From one dirtbag to another, I can tell you I’d like to find that sonofabitch Deese myself. I won’t explain that, other than to say, he never should have run.”

“Why didn’t he have a cell phone you could call him on?” Lucas asked.

“Think about that,” Smith said.

“Okay. The FBI is probably wired into your testicles. And if Deese hadn’t run, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“No comment, though I’d appreciate it if you’d kill him,” Smith said. And: “I’d offer you another cup of coffee, but I have a business meeting downtown in an hour and I need to get dressed.”

“One more question: do you think, or have any reason at all to believe, that Deese had a lot of money stashed?”

Smith said, “I don’t know. I’m sure he had some, but I don’t believe he had much. The guy put more cocaine up his nose than the average country singer. That kind of habit really eats up your cash.”

Lucas stood up, nodded, and said, “I hope I don’t have to talk to you again.”

“I share that hope,” Smith said. He turned to Dick and said, “Show the marshal the way to the door.”

On the way out, Dick said, “I believe Roger misspoke. Clayton once told me his brother hung out in Marina del Rey, not in the city of Los Angeles itself. Deese said the Marina is a pussy-rich environment, which is why he’d go out there, in addition to seeing his brother.”

Lucas said, “I’ll check that.”

Dick said, “Don’t fall down the steps,” which made Lucas smile again.

Dick was sort of a card.


WHEN DAVENPORT was gone, Santos made sure the door was shut, then watched him walk out to the street. A moment later, he was out of sight, and Santos climbed the stairs to Smith’s bedroom, where Smith was buckling up a pair of dress pants.

“He’s gone,” Santos said.

“Luke Davenport. Do some of your computer shit, look him up, see if we need to worry. I have a feeling that he’s not your average flatfoot. See if he might have money problems or any other levers we could use.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m talking to Dixon in”—Smith glanced at his Patek Philippe—“fifteen minutes. Larry’s coming with me; we’re meeting outside the bank. Dixon’s going to want to do something about Phil, and we might have to. Shouldn’t take long to figure it out. I’ll see you back at the office in an hour or so.”

Santos nodded. “What about Deese?”

“Call him. Carefully. One of two things has to happen: Deese has to have enough money and ID that he can get out of the country and stay there; or, he’s got to be killed. I’ll take either. Getting the marshals to kill him would be a huge bonus. But, just in case, call him and see how much cash he needs.”

“Remember how he said that if the cops caught up with him, he’d shoot his way out or die?”

“A lot of guys say that, but when it comes time to take a bullet they pussy out,” Smith said. “Make the call.”

“I can do that. I’ll go to the office first, then call from a pay phone over in Slidell later in the afternoon. Different area code. And I think the marshal’s name was Lucas, not Luke.”

“Whatever.”