Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(37)

“What a bad boy Oliver is,” Bob said.

“That’s what everybody thinks,” Lucas said. “That was twelve years ago. All the gang members got out of prison since then, although two are back in again. The others are still involved in various kinds of crime, according to the London cops. If Oliver were discovered by U.S. Immigration to have come here with an undisclosed criminal record, and to be involved in criminal activity here, he’d be deported. Back to England. Where he probably doesn’t want to go.”

Rae: “Oh-oh.”

“Yup.”

“That’s an excellent jack you got there,” Bob said.

“I thought so,” Lucas said.

A young couple walked past. The guy was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and the woman was wearing a brief strapless top, tiny shorts, and sandals. Rae said, after they passed, “Here we are, walking down the street wearing long pants and jackets. You think anybody in LA hasn’t made us as cops? We need to revise our dress code if we have to work here.”

“What are you thinking?” Bob asked.

“What that guy was wearing: shorts, T-shirts, but maybe running shoes. We carry some weight, so maybe cargo shorts. We need to go shopping.”

“Tomorrow,” Lucas said. “Though I’m feeling a little moist right now. And I can tell you up front, the Davenport doesn’t wear cargo shorts.”


FLOWER CHILD’S was nowhere near crowded. As Lucas remembered the waitress saying during their first visit, it was pretty much a middle-aged meat market, gold chains and all, though no leisure suits were in sight. Or any suits at all, for that matter—too hot.

Oliver Haar was standing at a podium-style reception desk, talking to a woman who looked like a customer, a friendly chat. Lucas recognized him from mug shots sent by the London cops. Haar was a decade older, but he’d aged well, with wavy blond hair over a high forehead, blue eyes, a long nose over perfect teeth, and a mild tan. He also looked like he’d been hit by a Tommy Bahama truck, wearing an open-necked Hawaiian shirt, pale cotton slacks, and canvas shoes without socks.

Even as he was talking to the customer, his eyes clicked to Lucas, Bob, and Rae, and Lucas picked up the crook’s involuntary flinch, the impulse to run, though it was quickly smothered.

Lucas stepped up to the desk and said, “Oliver. Would you have a minute to run upstairs to the office and chat?”

He nodded. “I suppose so.” To the woman he’d been talking to, he said, “Back in a minute, darling.”

As they followed him through the back, he turned to Lucas and asked, “Who are you?”

“U.S. Marshals,” Lucas said.

“I haven’t done anything at all, except work hard,” Haar said. “I do have a green card.”

“We’re not interested in your immigration status, though we could be,” Lucas said. “Why don’t we talk upstairs.”


THE OUTER OFFICE occupied by Heather, Tommy Saito’s assistant, was empty, and there were enough chairs to accommodate all four of them. Haar laid back in one of them and asked, “So . . . what’s going on?”

“We need your cooperation on something. And if we get it, we walk away. If we don’t get it, we talk to Immigration about some things you may have left off your green card application,” Lucas said. “I’m not trying to be unfriendly, I’m trying to outline the . . . realities.”

Haar nodded and asked, “What do you want? Specifically?”

“You use the pay phone downstairs as a kind of switchboard or answering service,” Lucas said. “No cops know that except the three of us, and nobody needs to know that we ever talked to you. We’re looking for a man named Marion Beauchamps, who you might know as Martin Keller or Martin Lawrence, if somebody called for him.”

Haar stared at Lucas for a moment, showing some teeth in what wasn’t a smile, then bobbed his head. “He’s a hard one. If he knew I’d talked to you, I could get hurt.”

“We will try to prevent that. If we can find them, they’ll be going to prison forever,” Rae said.

Haar thought about that for a second, looked carefully at Bob and Rae, and then back to Lucas. “It was Martin Keller and Martin Lawrence until a few months ago. Now it’s Raymond Sherman. I don’t know where he is, but if somebody calls for him I have a number to pass along.”

“A current one?” Bob asked.

“Like I said, everything changed a few months ago, including the number. If anyone calls for Keller or Lawrence, I don’t know who they’re talking about. If somebody calls for Sherman, I pass along the new number. I’ve only had one call for Sherman.”

“Have you called the number yourself?”

Haar shook his head. “No. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“How many clients do you have?” Bob asked. “For your forwarding services?”

“A few . . . twelve or fifteen. Most of them completely legitimate. I hook up people who need lawyers or real estate agents . . . I have a dog groomer, even.”

“Dope dealers?”

“I don’t do dope,” Haar said. “I’ve been asked, but dealers get caught. Always. Then they cough up everything they know. So I don’t do that.”

“How did you connect with Sherman? I mean, originally?” Lucas asked. “Whatever his real name is. Or was.”