Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(38)

Getting rid of Parrish, her connection with Claxson and Heracles, and announcing that she wouldn’t run for the presidency, removed all her motives for attacking Smalls, or anyone else.

She thought about that for a while.

Thought about how the newsies clamored after even the possibility of getting video of the President walking between the White House and his helicopter. About how they chased him around a golf course, about cameramen taking video of his friggin’ airplane taking off. Because, you know, the President is in there.

That was more than celebrity: they treated the President like Caesar. Like Stalin. Like God.

And that’s what she wanted. She could feel it, taste it.

To be the most important, looked-at person on the planet.

She was young enough, she could wait . . .

But she didn’t want to.





10


After finishing the report, Lucas watched television for a while. And a few minutes after nine o’clock, there was another knock at a door—and, this time, it was his door. He removed the spitball from the peephole, checked, and saw Rae peering in at him.

“Man . . .” Lucas was pleased to see her, and him: Rae Givens, the tall, thin black woman, a former basketball player at the University of Connecticut; and her partner, Bob Matees, the short, wide former wrestler.

Rae was wearing a red pants suit that was loose enough to hide the Glock bump at her hip. Bob was wearing a blue cotton jacket over a knit golf shirt, and similar hip bump, and khakis. They were apparently happy enough to see him as well, Rae giving him a hug, Bob slapping him on the back, and Lucas, once he got the door shut, began cross-examining Bob about his leg wounds.

“All healed up. Still get some pain now and then, and they tell me that’ll probably go on for a while, maybe forever,” Bob said. “But it doesn’t slow me down at all.” He did a couple of squats to prove it.

“Not that he was all that lightning fast to begin with,” Rae said.

“Our rooms are down the hall,” Bob said, marveling. “Boy oh boy, the Watergate. Do we get one of those minibars?”

“Possibly,” Lucas said, laughing.

In addition to personal duffel bags, they each were carrying a heavy tan canvas duffel stuffed with black rifles, ammo, armor, helmets, and everything else you needed to break down doors and bust gun-crazed fugitives.

“Tell us everything,” Rae said, dropping onto the bed.

Lucas told them about Parrish and Grant, about Heracles and Flamma, about finding the Ford F-250, about the street attack, about checking out Parrish’s and Grant’s houses. “Pulling full-time surveillance on them would be difficult. They’ve got these former military operators hanging around, and there’s no good place to set up.”

He pulled up the addresses on Google Earth so they could check out the streets. “It’s all choked up, there’s no place to watch from where you don’t stand out like a sore thumb.”

They talked about that for a while, and Bob said, “You know, I don’t think we’ll find out much by trailing them around, Grant and Parrish. We need people we can talk to, voluntarily or otherwise. Might be better to figure out who knows about the bad stuff, might be willing to deal, and pick them up and squeeze them.”

Lucas considered that, and nodded. “You’ve got a point. They already know I’m poking around, but they don’t know that I spotted the truck.”

“As far as we know,” Rae said.

“Yeah, as far as we know. They might have been in my room, they sure as hell know I was in that tailor shop, but I never felt them watching me.” Lucas walked around, scratched his head, and said, “Everything is up in the air. I’m almost certain that Parrish was involved in trying to kill Smalls, but that doesn’t mean that Grant was. Parrish might have wanted to kill Smalls for his own reasons. He wants to ride Grant’s coattails as a senator and maybe someday as president. Did she know what was going to happen? If she did, she’s guilty of murder—”

“You told us that she’s already guilty of murder. Back in Minneapolis.”

“She is, but I couldn’t prove it,” Lucas said. “I don’t want that to happen again. This time, if she’s got her hand in it, I want to nail her.”

Bob said, “Okay, then one of the first things we want to do is not talk like that. We’re doing an investigation, not carrying out a vendetta. You and Rae and me might know that we’re trying to nail her, but that can’t go on the record. We’re looking into what we think might be a crime, a murder, and guess what? Senator Grant pops up, much to our surprise. No way, no how, did we frame her. Never even thought about it.”

“Of course not,” Lucas said. To Rae: “You did say he was smarter than he looks.”

“I also said that wouldn’t be hard,” Rae said.



* * *



—

BOB AND RAE went to check out their rooms, down the hall from Lucas, to wash their faces and use the bathrooms. Fifteen minutes later they were back, talking about how to proceed.

They worried about the Ford truck: it was a key piece of evidence, but not yet a very good one. They had to combine the truck with other evidence if they wanted to get any of it in front of a jury, and they had to do it quickly.

Bob said, “The problem with letting it go is, if Ritter takes it out and deliberately smacks it into another car or scrapes a bridge abutment, there goes the evidence. If he managed to do it right, he wouldn’t even have to pay for it—his insurance would cover it.”