Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(48)

“We need to look professional,” Bob objected. “If we walk, we’ll be all sweaty when we get there.”

Rae shrugged. “But it’ll sort of let them know we’re not too worried about things. They get all the media, but we’re just as big a deal as they are. Sort of.”

“So you’re saying we should push them back with offensive body odor?” Bob asked.

“Walk?” Rae asked Lucas. “Or drive, and spend an hour trying to find a parking place?”

“Walk,” Lucas said.



* * *



—

THEY STARTED WALKING by three o’clock, stopped on the way to get Cokes, paused at an Au Bon Pain across the street from the FBI to cool off, and arrived at the building, looking crisp and non-sweaty, although they might not have passed a sniff test.

“Goddamn building looks like it was built by fuckin’ Joseph Stalin,” Bob grumbled, looking up at the Hoover Building, as they crossed the street.

“Art history–wise, I would say you are correct,” Rae said.



* * *



—

INSIDE, they found Forte and O’Conner waiting in the lobby with an FBI gofer, who escorted them to an elevator, up a few floors, and fifty yards down a hallway to a conference room. Other than the five of them, and the usual table and chairs, the room was empty.

“Everybody likes to be last because, that way, we know who’s most important,” O’Conner said. He was a beefy man, in a pale blue suit and white shirt, carrying an old-style leather briefcase. He took a sheaf of papers from the case, and said, “I understand you guys may be asking for a search warrant.”

“Depending on how this comes out,” Lucas said.

“I can tell you that in advance. You’re to be cautiously aggressive. Or aggressively cautious. I’ve been told that the FBI is not anxious to get involved until they figure out who’s the fall guy. There are several possibilities, including you three.”

“Great,” Rae said.

“The thing is, if you pull this off and prove there was an assassination attempt, it’ll be a big feather in our cap. If you screw it up, then . . .” O’Conner was about to go on, but the door popped open, and a half dozen suits walked in—three men, three women—and everybody shook hands with everybody else.



* * *



—

THE MEETING took an hour. Lucas outlined the investigation, starting with the request from Smalls to finding the suspect truck to discovering the logs. He concluded by saying that the West Virginia accident investigators were looking at the paint sample with several different machines that he didn’t understand and would provide solid evidence that the paint came from Smalls’s Cadillac.

One of the feds said to Lucas, “We understand that you have a close relationship with the senator.”

“We’re not exactly friends, but I worked on an investigation that involved the Smalls–Grant Minnesota election two years ago, when Grant won Smalls’s Senate seat,” Lucas said. “He remembered me from then, asked me to work on this problem. I consulted with my superiors at the Marshals Service, and they concluded that the request was legitimate and that I could go forward with it.”

Forte added, with a smile, “Seeing that it was Senator Smalls, and that the Republican caucus voted to restore the seniority he held before his defeat by Senator Grant.”

“We’re not, uh, affected by the influence of a single senator,” one of the FBI suits said.

O’Conner said, “Really?”

The suit nodded, and said, “Yes, really,” but nobody really believed him. He didn’t even believe himself.

“Not even a senator who was the victim of an apparent assassination attempt . . . ?”

Another suit, this one a woman named Jane Chase, jumped in. “This isn’t the time or place to debate questions of influence.” She turned to Lucas. “You have a good deal of experience as a homicide investigator for the Minneapolis Police Department and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

“Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Lucas corrected. “Yeah. Overall, I was the lead on about ninety murder cases, give or take, over twenty-five years or so. Most of them were straightforward enough, but some were . . . intricate. I’ve worked closely with a couple of your agents.”

She nodded. “We know. Deputy Director Mallard vouches for you and recommends that we step back and allow the Marshals Service to lead on this investigation.”

“Nice of him,” Lucas said. And, “He’s a smart guy.”

“Yes, he is,” Chase said. She looked around the table at the rest of the suits. “Does anyone have a problem with allowing Marshal Davenport and his colleagues to lead this investigation, at least for now?”

One of the men said, to Lucas, “You’ll need to be cautiously aggressive. But aggressive.”

All the feds nodded, and O’Conner said, “Listen, guys, thanks for the support. We think we’ve got an edge on this thing . . .”

Lucas held up a finger. “I have a couple more things. I was hoping I could get some FBI help. It wouldn’t be anything you’d have to go public with at all . . . unless you wanted to.”

They all knew what that meant: if credit and congratulations were being handed out, the FBI could get in the front of the line. If it were hellfire and damnation instead, they could pass and pretend they were in the cafeteria, buying Ding Dongs, when the trouble started.