Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(44)

Grant did not like to be called at home with anything less than end-of-the-world problems. She had a date that night with an Assistant Secretary of the Treasury (Legislative Affairs), who was on temporary career-building loan to the Treasury from JPMorgan Chase. She hoped to impress him with the plight of hapless billionaires facing unfair tax burdens.

He was a sleaze, she knew, the kind of government official who owned a specialized high-riding electric razor that kept him in permanent three-day-beard mode, and who wore custom silk dress shirts open at the throat to show off the mat of chest hair beneath, but . . .

He had his uses.

Grant definitely favored men who had uses.



* * *



—

WHEN HER PHONE RANG, she picked it up, saw “Tate” on the screen, and asked, “What?”

“Have you been watching the news?” Tate asked.

“Are we bombing somebody?”

“I wouldn’t call you for that,” Tate said. “This might be worse.”

Grant knew Tate wouldn’t call for anything trivial. She had a dressing stool in the bathroom, and she sat, and said, “Tell me.”

“There are reports on CNN that a U.S. Marshal is claiming that Porter Smalls’s accident last week wasn’t an accident—that it was an assassination attempt,” Tate said. “There’s no comment from the marshal, but there’s a comment from a West Virginia sheriff, who said the marshal and he and his deputies found some logs with silver automotive paint on them, which had been hung off the side of the truck that forced Smalls’s car off the road. They say the truck has been spotted on video, a black Ford F-250. The logs were apparently an attempt to make it look like Smalls’s truck hit nothing but trees. CNN says that Smalls is traveling to the CNN affiliate in Minneapolis to be interviewed later in the show, and that the truck is being sought.”

“Shit! I didn’t need to hear this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I mean I didn’t need to have this happen. But you did right to call,” Grant said. “The problem is, it could dredge up all that old crap around the election. The marshal is named Lucas Davenport. Was he mentioned? Was he on the show? He’s definitely out to get me.”

“No, they didn’t mention his name. They called somebody at the Marshals Service headquarters, who had no comment. A spokesman for the Justice Department said the matter is being reviewed at the highest levels, which means they don’t have a clue. Since it’s Smalls, and a woman is dead—and, even worse, she’s a rich woman who gave lots of money to Republicans—I imagine there’ll be a lot said tomorrow.”

“Goddamnit. Listen, monitor this for me, all the channels, and call me at eleven o’clock. I’ve got a date, but I should be home before then—and if it’s urgent, call me anytime,” Grant said. “If you have to bring a couple of people in, go ahead. I’d like to see some transcripts of the major shows.”

“We can do it. Because of the . . . controversy . . . what should I do if they start looking for a comment from you?”

“I’m not available. I have no knowledge of the incident. If you can, go deep off the record with reporters you can trust and suggest that Smalls has a history of alcoholism that he has successfully covered up. This might be part of another cover-up. If he was drunk when the woman was killed and he was driving, that would make him guilty of vehicular homicide.”

“Do you think he was?” Tate asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Grant said. “I know that he does drink a bit; I’ve seen him tipsy. The point is, to fuzz things up.”

“You got it,” Tate said.



* * *



—

WHEN TATE was off the phone, Grant went back to her mirror for a minute, working on her eyelashes, thinking about the news reports, and when she was done with the mascara, dabbed on a touches of Black Orchid perfume, and called Parrish.

He hadn’t seen the news, either. When she told him about it, he said, “Give me some time to check around. I’ll handle this personally. No blowbacks.”

“I said it before: it’s Davenport we have to worry about. If he goes away somehow, we’re in much better shape.”

“I’m handling Davenport. It’s already under way.”



* * *



—

IF THE TREASURY MAN thought he was going to get laid by a beautiful blond Minnesota senator, he was mistaken. He made some of the usual eye and touching moves that men thought were good ideas when dealing with desirable women, but Grant, as a long-legged blonde, and one of the heirs to a multibillion-dollar fortune, had been inoculated against that kind of bullshit from the time she was eight.

Still, the night developed profitably for the both of them. When the Treasury guy realized that Grant was looking for an insider, not a piece of his ass, he slid into negotiating mode, and they spent their time over cocktails, and cocktail napkins, where they outlined possible beneficial changes to the tax law.

Not really fun, but not uninteresting, either.

They’d finished dinner, and were drinking the last of a four-hundred-dollar bottle of white Bordeaux, when Grant’s cell phone buzzed: Tate.

“I’ve got to take this,” she said. She turned away from the Treasury guy, and said, “Yes?”