Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(25)

“I led it; for the state,” Lucas said.

“Now you’re a federal marshal. There wasn’t any political influence involved in that, was there?”

Lucas shook his head. “I didn’t know you were a trial attorney.”

“So, I’m starting to see it. U.S. senator gets jobbed by an opposition candidate, who takes his seat. He gets himself elected again and immediately begins peeing on his opponent’s shoes—or, in Grant’s case, her Christian Louboutin pumps. Grant is a murderous witch who lands on the Senate Intelligence Committee, where she connects with a hustler who has ties both to the military and the CIA and does her a favor by trying to kill the U.S. senator who’s peeing on her presidential chances. Smalls, who has used his influence to get the man who saved his bacon an appointment as a federal marshal, gets the marshal to investigate the witch,” Ingram said, finally taking a breath. “Man, is this a great country or what?”



* * *



—

LUCAS SAID he’d stay in touch, and Ingram said, “Oh, do. I’m fascinated.” Back in his car, he tried to call the other two people on the list and again got no answer, so he headed back to the hotel.

After leaving his car with the valet, he was walking through the lobby when the security chief, who he’d met when he was checking in, flagged him over. He’d learned the man’s name was Steve Schneider.

“Did you . . . have a friend in your room? A male friend, maybe another marshal?” Schneider asked.

“A friend? No . . . what happened?”

“One of my guys was doing routine floor checks and he heard a door close. A guy was coming down the hall, and my guy got the impression he’d come out of that stub hallway to your room. There was no reason to stop him, so he went on his way. There’s nobody in the other room on that hall. I thought I should mention it.”

“Thanks. Any sign he’d actually been inside my room?”

“No, no. We would have stopped him if we thought he had been,” Schneider said.

“Can I talk to your guy?”

“Sure. I think he’s down in the parking structure, if you want to wait in the bar . . .”



* * *



—

LUCAS GOT A DIET COKE, and Schneider and his guy showed up five minutes later. The second security man was named Jeff Toomes, white-haired with a ruddy face, in a gray suit—an ex-cop, Lucas thought.

“There wasn’t any reason to stop him, at first,” Toomes told Lucas. “What happened was, I was doing my checks, and I came out of the stairwell and started toward the hallway that goes to the rooms. I heard a door close as I turned the corner and there was a guy walking toward me. I’d say six feet, maybe a half inch either way, close-cut brown hair, brown eyes. Looked to be in very good shape. Clean-shaven, decent pale blue summer suit, polished lace-up shoes. If he was carrying a gun, it would have been in the small of his back—no gun sag on the sides, and the suit wasn’t cut for a shoulder rig. I suppose he could have had an ankle wrap, but who has those?”

“And he was by my room,” Lucas said.

“That’s what I realized as I was walking by. I think he had to come out of your hallway. There’s only two rooms down there, and when I checked later I found out there’s nobody checked into the other one.”

Lucas said, “You heard the door actually close.”

“Yes. Another thing . . . you’re on four, and I realized that I didn’t hear the elevator bell, the one that rings when the doors open. I went back: I was going to see what room he was in or who he was visiting, but he was gone. He had to have taken the stairs. That’d be unusual, unless you were in a hurry. I called Steve, but nobody saw him again. He would have gotten lost in the lobby.”

“He’d have been in a hurry because he’d been surprised by a guy he recognized as security.”

“The thought crossed our minds,” Schneider said.

Lucas said, “Well, hell.”



* * *



—

SCHNEIDER CAME UP to the room with him. Lucas popped the door, and they both eased inside. Lucas looked at his luggage and briefcase, but nothing seemed out of place, missing, or added. Schneider tipped his head toward the door, and Lucas followed him into the hall.

“I know a guy who could sweep it for you,” Schneider said. “Or, better, I could move you across the hall but leave you registered in this room.”

“Let’s do that,” Lucas said. “Then if somebody else shows up, I’ll actually be behind them. I might even hear them going in.”

“If you shoot somebody, try not to hit any guests,” Schneider said. “Unless it’s an old lady with a mink hat carrying a rat.”

“A rat?”

“Okay, a Chihuahua. That’d be Mrs. Julia Benson, grass widow. She lives here. Eighteen thousand a month, and she doesn’t care—she likes servants. I’m apparently one of them. Biggest pain in the ass in the building. I wouldn’t want you to kill her, but wounding her a little would get you some free drinks.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lucas said.





7


Lucas settled into his new room, across the hallway from his previous one and without the view of the Potomac. He struggled briefly with a spasm of paranoia: did guys in nice suits break into hotel rooms occupied by U.S. Marshals? In Washington, D.C., in a place called Watergate? Really?