Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(85)

Lucas: “I like the way you did that.”

“It’s how you would have done it . . . Go change clothes.”

He did, and when he came back the AIC whistled and said, “You’re so pretty, I might date you myself if I didn’t already have a wife.”

“I understand the attraction, but I’d never date a feeb,” Lucas said.

“Hate that word ‘feeb,’” Tremanty said.

“That’s why real cops call you that,” Lucas said.


HARRELSON WAS outside the doors at five minutes to nine, carrying a cloth shoulder bag. They let him stand there in the sun until exactly nine o’clock, when a security guard opened the doors and Harrelson walked in.

Lucas didn’t think they much resembled each other, except in size and coloring; Harrelson also had a bit of a gut, but that wouldn’t be hard to fake. He also had white gauze bandages on his forehead and cheek, which the feebs hadn’t thought about, but they rounded up the bank’s first aid kit and stuck some gauze on Lucas.

Lucas doubted that the Deese or his crew would risk getting close enough to see the differences. Harrelson had parked in the bank’s parking lot in the Yellow Cab Porsche and asked Lucas if he’d ever driven one.

“I’ve had 911s for twenty years, but I’ve never driven a Cayenne.”

“I’ve had both, it’s the same thing, you’ll be fine,” Harrelson said, as he handed over the car’s keys. “You can fake using the fob to unlock it, but I left it unlocked.”

He gave Lucas the golf hat and his cell phone and took a pile of clothes out of the shoulder bag—Harrelson would change into black slacks and a black shirt, with a straw hat, when he eventually left the bank.

Tremanty came up with a box full of bricks of cash and a black box the size of a cell phone—the GPS tracker. He loaded them into the bag, with the tracker at the bottom. The money looked good at a glance, but if anyone riffled them they’d immediately see the one-dollar bills under the hundreds. “Forty grand,” he said. “From Mr. Harrelson.”

“Don’t worry about taking care of it,” Harrelson told Lucas. “I wouldn’t mind getting it back. But if it gets away, I got more. Do what you have to do.”

Lucas nodded. “I’ve met a couple of relatives of kidnap victims. I’ve never seen anyone as cool as you are.”

“I make a lot of money as a gambler,” Harrelson replied. “You make money that way by dealing with the reality you actually get, not what you wish you’d get. I’m freaking out, though, I’m just not showing it. I’m trying to deal with the reality.”

“We’ll get her back,” Tremanty offered.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harrelson said. His face revealed nothing.

Tremanty looked at his watch. “You’ve been in here for fifteen minutes.” To Lucas: “Time to go. Get lucky.”

“Take it from me: luck won’t have anything to do with this,” Harrelson said.

Lucas pulled down the golf hat low and headed for the door.





CHAPTER


TWENTY-TWO


The last two miles of the trip north had been over dirt roads, out into the desert, the Lexus occasionally dragging bottom. The last leg took them up a steep rocky track until the headlights caught a silvery reflection below a south-facing bluff.

Cox: “This is it?”

From the backseat, Deese said, “Yeah, this is it. You think anybody’s gonna find us out here?”

“I don’t even know where I am myself,” Cole said.

They were looking at an old Airstream trailer, sitting up on concrete blocks. It looked like it’d been rolled and somebody had tried to fix it with a bumping hammer. There were lights at both ends of the trailer, but nothing moved until they popped the doors on the Lexus, and a corroded man’s voice said, “Hold it right there, motherfuckers, or you gonna die.”

Deese yelled, “Ralph! It’s me! Clay! . . . Deese!”

A man wobbled around the end of the Airstream, carrying a pump shotgun. He might have been anything between forty and sixty, heavily bearded, and wore denim overalls over a T-shirt. A hole was ripped through one knee, like Cox had seen everywhere in West Hollywood, but this hole had nothing to do with fashion. “What do you want?”

“Place to bag out,” Deese said. “One night.” To the others he said, “Ralph’s a miner.”

“Whyn’t you go to a motel?” Ralph asked.

“Had trouble with the cops.”

“I hope to hell you didn’t go leadin’ ’em up here,” Ralph said.

“No, no, we’re clean,” Deese said.

“Well, shit. You might as well come in and tell me about it.”


DEESE HAD a heavy hold on one of Gloria Harrelson’s arms and he dragged her toward the Airstream and she started weeping again, and Ralph asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

“We had some trouble with a guy who owes us money. Lots of money. This is his wife. We took her as security.”

“How much money?”

“Two million,” Deese said.

“Holy shit,” Ralph said. “You’re gonna throw me a piece of that? Rent?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll take care of you,” Deese said.