Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(4)

The investigator’s name was Carl Armstrong. When he’d finished with his questions, Smalls said, “Don’t bullshit me, Carl. Something’s not right. You think I’m lying about something. What is it?”

The investigator had been taking notes on a legal pad inside a leather portfolio. He sighed, closed the portfolio, and said, “Our lab has been over your vehicle inch by inch, sir. There’s no sign that it was ever hit by another truck.”

Carter was sitting in a wingback chair, illegally smoking a small brown cigarillo. She looked at Smalls, then frowned at Armstrong and said, “That’s wrong. The other guys took them right off the road—smashed them off. What do you mean, there’s no sign?”

Smalls jumped in. “That’s exactly right. The impact caved the door in . . . there’s gotta be some sign of that. I mean, I was in a fairly bad accident once, years ago, and both vehicles had extensive damage. This one was worse. The hit was worse. What do you mean, no sign?”

“No metal scrapes, no paint, no glancing blow. The only thing we’ve found are signs that you hit several trees on both sides of the truck and the front grille and hood,” Armstrong said.

“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” Smalls snapped. “That guy crashed right into us and killed CeeCee, and damn near killed me.”

Armstrong looked away and shrugged. “Uh, well, I wonder if he actually hit you or maybe just caused Miz Whitehead to lose control?”

“She hadn’t been drinking . . .”

Armstrong held up a hand. “We know that. She had zero alcohol in her blood, and we know she was driving because the blood on that side of the cab and on the air bag matches hers. We don’t doubt anything you’ve told us, except the impact itself.”

Carter: “Senator Smalls has provided a written statement in which he relates the force of the impact.”

“There’s a low gravel berm where they went over the side—we’re wondering if Miz Whitehead might have hit that hard, and the senator might be mistaking that for the impact of the truck.”

Smalls was already shaking his head. “No. I heard the truck hit. I saw it hit—I was looking out the driver’s-side window when it hit.”

“There’s no paint from another car, no metal, no glass on the road . . . no nothing,” Armstrong repeated.

Carter said to Smalls, “Senator, maybe we need to get some FBI crime scene people up there . . .”

Smalls put a finger on his lips, to shut her up. He stood, and said, “Carl, I’m going to ask another guy to talk to you about the evidence, if you don’t mind. Kitten and I don’t know about such things, but I think it’d be a good idea if we put a second pair of eyes on this whole deal.”

Armstrong had dealt with politicians a number of times, and Smalls seemed to him to be one of the more reasonable members of the species. No shouting, no accusations. He flushed with relief, and said, “Senator . . . anything we can do, we’ll be happy to do. We’d like to understand what happened here. Send your guy around anytime. We’ll probably give him more cooperation than he’ll even want.”

“That’s great,” Smalls said, extending a hand. “I’ll drop a note to your superintendent, thanking him for your work.”

“Appreciate that,” Armstrong said, as they shook. “I really do, sir.”



* * *



—

WHEN ARMSTRONG HAD GONE, Carter asked, “Why were you pouring butter on him? He didn’t believe you. I mean, Jesus, somebody killed CeeCee and almost killed you. If you let this stand, the whole thing is gonna get buried—”

“No, no, no . . .” Smalls was on his feet. He touched his nose, picked up the tube of pain pills, shook it like a maraca, put it back down; not many left, and he’d already taken one that morning. His nose was still burning like fire from the chemical cautery. The doc had been right about needing the pills, not for the mechanical damage but for the cauterized tissue. He wandered over to his trophy wall, filled with plaques and keys to Minnesota cities and photos of himself with presidents, governors, other senators, assorted rich people, including Whitehead, and politically conservative movie stars.

Thinking about it.

Carter kept her mouth shut, and after a while Smalls, playing with an earlobe and gazing at his pictures, said, “I’m surprised by . . . what Armstrong said. No evidence. But I’m not really astonished. Remember when I told you the first thing I did was get my gun because I thought the guys who hit us might be paid killers? Assassins? Professionals?”

“Yeah, but I don’t . . .”

“I was right. They were,” Smalls said. “I don’t know how they did this, but I’m sure that if the right investigator looked under the right rock, he could find someone who could explain it. We need to get that done, because . . .”

“They could be coming back for another shot at you,” Carter finished.

“Yeah. Probably not right away, but sooner or later.” Smalls left the trophy wall, walked to his oversized desk, pushed a button on an intercom. “Sally . . . get Lucas Davenport on the line. His number’s on your contact list.”

“That’s the guy . . .” Carter began.

“Yeah,” Smalls said. “That’s the guy.”