Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(16)

SANTOS DROVE to Smith’s law offices, where he had a corner cubicle at the back, overlooking a neighbor’s garden. He liked to open the windows in the spring, when he could smell the lilacs and see the new flowers pushing up and opening. A neighbor two houses down the street had a chicken coop, and he could sometimes hear the chickens complaining to one another. He’d never heard a rooster crow, and one of the women in the office said that roosters were illegal in New Orleans, but not hens.

Way of the world.

Santos sat behind his desk, turned on his laptop computer, with software that would ricochet across a couple of different continents before opening targeted websites. The NSA might possibly be able to track him, he thought, but Smith was too small-time to draw that kind of attention.

When he put Davenport’s name into the machine, he got several hundred hits. He took notes on a legal pad because, unlike with a computer, the paper could be fed to a shredder.

There was always a lot of hustle around the office—people coming and going, office doors opening and closing, talk in the hallways, phones ringing. He ignored it all until Smith stuck his head in the doorway and asked, “Well?”

Santos leaned back.

“Davenport’s smart and violent. Years ago, when he was a Minneapolis cop, he made some money designing role-playing games. Like Dungeons and Dragons, that kind of thing. Not a lot of money, but some, and he became known for it. Later, he apparently got run out of the police department because of charges of brutality that were covered up. So he started a computer company that focused on software for cops and based on the kind of games he used to invent. He wrote out the concepts and hired some college kids to do the coding, and he made a fortune. He’s got more money than you do, Rog. We won’t get at him that way. Then he joined the state cops, quit there after a few years, and became a marshal. He’s politically connected all the way up to Washington, and with both parties.”

“All reasons not to mess with him, then,” Smith said.

“Here’s another reason. It’s hard to tell exactly what happened—gotta give me a little rope here—but he was apparently investigating freelance military guys in Washington who were hired to kill a U.S. senator. They tried to get Davenport off their backs by going after his wife. They faked an auto accident, almost killed her.”

“If it’d been us, we wouldn’t have missed . . .”

“But here’s the point,” Santos said. “The military guys? They’re dead. Well, one’s missing and one’s in prison, but the others are all dead.”

“Huh. All right. If we have to get any further involved in this, we stay away from him.”

“A good idea, I think,” Santos said. “I’m worried about him getting to Deese. Deese knows—”

“Way too much.”

Later that afternoon, Santos drove over to Slidell and called Deese to tell him about the marshal. Deese asked, “What’s it to you? Don’t tell me that Rog is worried about my personal safety.”

“No, he’s worried about hispersonal safety. If these marshals grab you, you’ll be looking at the death penalty and you might be tempted to make a deal. Rog wants you gone and he’s willing to pay. He thinks you probably need the money.”

“How much?”

“Quarter million.”

Deese laughed. “Man, I had a quarter million six months ago and I spent it. That ain’t gonna do it. Tell him to call me when he gets real.”





CHAPTER


FOUR


When Lucas got back to the Tahoe after talking with Smith and Santos, Bob asked, “Well?”

“We’re looking for a guy named Martin Keller, or Martin Lawrence, who may live in Marina del Rey, or maybe Los Angeles or Las Vegas, and who has done time.”

“Who’s he?” Rae asked.

Lucas replayed the conversation he’d had with Roger Smith, and Rae said, “If Keller or Lawrence has been in the system, Tremanty can find him for us. We’ve got to tell him about this.”

Lucas called Tremanty, put the phone on speaker so the others could hear, repeated the conversation with Smith a second time, with some editing, and included the phone number Smith had given him. Tremanty asked, “You’re going to Los Angeles?”

“Depending on what you find out,” Lucas said.

“I’ll put a priority on this and bounce everything we’ve got to your federal email. If either of those names are real or known aliases and he’s in the system, you’ll have it before you get back to your hotel.”

“All right. There was another guy there, with Smith. He said his name was Dick.”

“What’d he look like?”

Lucas described him, and Tremanty said, “His name is Richard, or Ricardo, Santos. He’s a second-generation Cuban American; his grandparents left the country when Castro came in. He seems to be Smith’s assistant, but there are rumors that he’s Smith’s connection to the other bad boys in New Orleans. He has a degree in chemistry from the University of Miami.”

“Chemistry? Really?”

“Apparently legit. Of course, a chemistry degree can be used for a lot of things that aren’t legit.”

“I can tell you he makes a nicely foamed cappuccino,” Lucas said.