Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(25)

BOB WAS BACK, and at the window, when another car pulled into the target house’s garage, this one a red Jaguar convertible. The top was down, and the driver was a white man, neither Deese nor Beauchamps.

“Rocha told us there were four of them and that guy makes four,” Lucas said.

“They areliving in a dormitory,” Rae said. “I wonder why? That seems wrong to me.”

“Gift horse?” Bob said.

“I worry about shit I don’t understand,” Rae, kneeling at the window with the binoculars, watching, said.


LUCAS CALLED ROCHA. “We’d like to get together to strategize,” Lucas said. “We’re up in Altadena.”

“Why are you in Altadena? You got something?”

“We found Nast, Beauchamps, and at least two other guys we haven’t yet identified,” Lucas said.

“What! You’ve been here two days?”

“We got lucky,” Lucas said. “And we arethe Marshals Service.”

“Bullshit. You don’t get lucky in a city this size. And the Marshals Service can kiss my ass,” Rocha said. “You didn’t tell me something.”

“Maybe. Anyway, you want to hook up?”

She suggested they meet at the Pasadena Police Department, but Lucas wanted both Bob and Rae to be at the meeting and didn’t want to leave the target house unwatched, so Rocha agreed to come to the house.

“Don’t come in one of those goddamn beaters you guys use. Come in a personal car, or something, pull right into the garage. We’ll have the door open. We’re right across the street from Nast and Beauchamps,” Lucas said, as he gave her the address.

“I’ll be in my own vehicle. I’m bringing a couple of guys,” Rocha said.


NAST LEFT shortly after Lucas made the call to Rocha, driving the Lincoln. The Jaguar and its driver were still at the target house. When Nast was out of sight, Bob backed one of their Malibus into the driveway to make room in the garage for Rocha.

LuAnne Rocha and two male detectives, Lewis Lake and Darrell MacIntosh, arrived an hour later in Rocha’s Dodge minivan, the most un-cop-like of vehicles. Rocha called when they were two blocks away and Lucas went out to the garage and pushed the button that lifted the door and dropped it when they were inside.

They trooped into the kitchen, made introductions and shook hands, and Rocha said, “Tell me how you did this.”

“We had a phone number for a bar,” Lucas began. He told them the story, didn’t mention Oliver Haar but did tell them about Suzie-Q and pointed out the house across the street.

“You’re sure it’s Nast and Beauchamps?” Rocha asked. “That seems almost too good to be true.” She was an athletic-looking woman, with short brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a dark green cotton jacket over a light green blouse, black slacks, and low heels. The jacket proved not very subtle camouflage for her handgun.

“I brushed past Nast, a foot away, in a nightclub last night. Looked him right in the face,” Rae said. “Bob sat a couple of tables away from Beauchamps and his friend while they were eating breakfast this morning.”

MacIntosh asked, “You guys basically are a tracking and SWAT squad, right?” MacIntosh looked like an LA weatherman, too-white teeth, a touch of coloring in his hair, the Beverly Hills sport coat. Lake tried to dress sort of like Steve Jobs—black pants, black T-shirt, black cotton jacket.

Lucas said, “I’m not so much SWAT. I was homicide back in Minneapolis and with the Minnesota state cops. Bob and Rae are more tactical. If there are four guys over there and they’re hardcore fighters like LuAnne says, then we’re probably going to need one of your SWAT teams to back up Bob and Rae.”

“For sure,” Rocha said. “I’ll get that organized, but it’ll take a while. I’m thinking we’ll do it tomorrow at dawn. That gives us plenty of time to pull things together. And if they stay out late, like you say, they ought to be pretty out of it if we hit the door at six o’clock.”

“The option would be to watch them come and go, track them individually, and take them when they get out of their cars,” Lucas said.

“Could do that,” Rocha said. “But that’d be asking for a shootout in a parking lot with people around. I think I’d be happier with a SWAT team doing their thing at dawn.”

They talked about that for a bit, but it was LA territory. Rocha said, “For now, we basically want to sit here with you, do some watching of our own.”

Bob had noted the license plate on the BMW and Rocha ran it. “Goes to a Douglas Moyers, at that address,” she said, nodding at the house across the street. “We have nothing on him at all. Not so much as a traffic ticket.”

“Fake name,” Rae said.

Rocha nodded. “Yup.”

They were watching for half an hour when the garage door went up at the target house and the Jaguar backed into the street. MacIntosh got the tag number, Rocha ran it. “Goes out to a Jacob Barber, again at that address, again not a single violation of any kind.”

MacIntosh: “Fake. That pretty much clinches it.”

Rocha looked up from her tablet screen and said to Lake and MacIntosh, “Let’s get it going. We need to talk to the sheriff’s office. If they’re still at home, we’ll hit them tomorrow at first light.”