Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(108)
“A good op is a good op,” Wendy agreed, her voice almost back to normal. “And you don’t think the cops are coming after me?”
“Nah. I told them you were accounted for last night, that I got that from a source I trusted but won’t disclose. And I won’t. They might figure out who you are and want to chat, but there won’t be much urgency to it,” Lucas said.
“I’ll think about that,” Wendy said. “Have a nice life, marshal.”
“Wait, wait. Tell me the truth, goddamnit. That was you at the hotel, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and hung up.
31
The night was hazy with heat and humidity, creating fuzzy balls of light around all the streetlamps visible above the garden wall. Taryn Grant was alone in her house, moving around in a silky black camisole and thong. The air-conditioning was pounding away—the place would be intolerable without it—but she didn’t like the dry cold and had opened two small side windows to let in some of the night air. A Backstreet Boys album, Never Gone, played from hidden speakers; the Boys had been her favorites since high school, and still were.
The Senate.
The Senate was a political circus, but that had been true for quite a while. She didn’t care, as long as she could continue to push her profile higher.
She had a champagne flute in her hand, holding a drink favored by her mother. It looked like champagne but was actually an inch and a half of Bollinger champagne with a double shot of Stolichnaya vodka, traditionally called a Stoli-Bolli. A delicate, feminine-looking drink that could kick like a mule.
After she’d drunk about half of it, she thought about the senator from Colorado. He was talking about running for the presidency. And there were some good reasons to think he was viable. Grant didn’t want to murder him; she would like to keep him intact long enough to run on the ticket with her as her vice presidential candidate.
Put a cowboy hat on him, peel off some of the redneck votes that the Republicans had been counting on.
As far as murder went, she didn’t think about that long rainy night in July anymore. She’d been frightened for a few days, but then not. No cops came calling, no FBI. None of those people—the dead people—amounted to much, scratching around for their petty little retirements, playing with their guns. And the woman she shot? Well, she was just plain old.
There was nothing left of that night: the weapons, the ammo, the clothing, the witnesses, the victims—all gone forever.
She drifted toward the bay window that looked out over the garden. She could smell herself, the delicate scent of sweat and a hint of that morning’s Black Orchid. At the window, she looked over at the neighbor’s house. Only the peak of a gable was visible, with its single window, always, before tonight, totally dark. An attic, she’d thought. Tonight, there was a very faint light glowing in the window.
She was wondering about that when the 300-grain .338 slug ripped through her heart.
Grant felt no impact, no pain. She did feel herself falling, wondering for the seconds of the life remaining to her why that was. Then she was on the floor, her shoulder and head landing on a very fine Iranian carpet. The champagne flute landed on the same fine carpet, bounced once.
The last thing Grant registered was the flute, sparkling in the overhead lights, unbroken, elegant . . . innocent.
And she was gone.
* * *
—
LUCAS WAS IN HIS GARAGE, working with Sam, his son. It was time, he’d told Weather, to start teaching his kid some shit. He had two immediate projects in mind. One was cleaning up the engine on an elderly twenty-five-horsepower outboard motor, including the installation of new spark plugs. The other was the construction of a simple wooden box, which involved the use of a tape measure, a compact table saw, an electric drill, screws, a sander, and varnish. They’d decided to start with the box and had gone to a specialty lumber store, where they picked out some nice one-inch walnut planks.
When finished, the box would be given to Weather as storage for her piano sheet music. They’d measured and cut the first planks when she came to the door, and said, “Porter Smalls is calling. He said it’s important.”
Lucas took Sam inside with him, didn’t want him out there alone, maybe thinking about using the table saw to cut the planks himself.
He’d left his cell phone inside specifically to avoid calls. Weather handed it to him, and when he said, “Hello?” Smalls asked, “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Somebody shot Taryn Grant last night. She’s dead as a doornail.”
“Hang on a second,” Lucas said. He turned to Weather, asked, “Could you get me a Diet Coke? This is gonna take a few minutes.”
“What happened?”
“Porter says somebody shot and killed Taryn Grant last night.”
“Oh my God,” she said, her voice hushed, and she went to get the Coke.
Lucas sat down, and said, “Tell me.”
* * *
—
SMALLS DIDN’T KNOW all the details, but he had friends in the Justice Department who’d leaked a few of them. At about eight-fifteen the night before, an elderly couple had been watching Anderson Cooper on CNN when a woman dressed all in black, wearing a black balaclava, sunglasses, and gloves, had appeared in their media room and pointed a gun at them. Because of the total body coverage, they couldn’t even tell the FBI what race she was. She’d told them that she didn’t want to rob them, or hurt them, but simply wanted to look out a window.