Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(62)

Bob stepped out of the elevator, and the woman unlocked the door for him. Bob said, “You guys got a lot of security.”

The receptionist said, a nervous shimmer in her voice, “We have a lot of defense contracts.”



* * *



—

THE RECEPTION LOBBY had two doors into the back, one on each side of the receptionist’s desk. The one on the left popped open, and a middle-aged woman in a gray dress said, “Marshals . . . you wanted to see Mr. Claxson? Follow me, please.”

They followed her through what might have been an insurance office, but not a heavily staffed one: a warren of perhaps fifty waist-and shoulder-high cubicles in a room the size of a basketball court. Each cubicle housed a computer, with perhaps a third of them occupied by either a man or a woman looking at the screen. A couple of the occupants looked up as the woman led Lucas, Bob, and Rae through the cubicle farm, but most paid no attention.

The woman half turned, as they were walking, and said, “I’m Mr. Claxson’s personal assistant. Mr. McCoy isn’t here today; he’s at Camp Peary. Mr. Moore is here somewhere, maybe in Planning—I’ll go find him. Mr. Claxson is waiting in his office.”

The receptionist might have been surprised to see them, but this woman wasn’t, Lucas thought. Their visit wasn’t unexpected.



* * *



—

CLAXSON’S OFFICE was a two-room corner suite with views of the airport. The outer room had three secretarial-style desks with computers, two of them occupied by older women who watched the marshals with curiosity but said nothing. The third desk, a large one, probably belonged to Claxson’s PA, who was escorting them.

In the inner office was a wide swath of thick blue carpet, the walls decorated with plaques, photographs, one wildlife painting on each wall, and two mounted deer heads. A wide walnut desk sat diagonally in the corner.

Claxson himself was seated at a computer that perched on its own stand to the side of his desk. He looked up as they entered, waved them toward a half circle of chairs facing the desk. There were two pistols lying on the desk, one a Model 1911 .45, the other a Browning Hi Power, with a foot-long Marine Ka-Bar fighting knife sitting between them. The knife had the initials “GC” stamped on its well-oiled leather sheath.

Claxson was a fast touch typist. He rattled through a paragraph of text while Lucas, Bob, and Rae were settling into their chairs. He checked the screen, touching it with the tip of an index finger, then hit two keys, and the text vanished. He turned, crossed his hands on his desk, and said, “Marshals, what can I do for you?”

Claxson resembled a character actor that Lucas had seen in any number of movies: thin, balding, with quarter-sized freckles spotting his shiny scalp, but with a soft face rather than one with athletic contours. He wore rimless glasses, a gray suit, white shirt, and a light blue tie with stars on it.

Lucas: “Did you fly your personal plane to Omaha two weeks ago, with James Ritter, John McCoy, and Kerry Moore on board?”

Claxson lifted his hands. “I might as well lay out the rules right now. I’m aware that you went after one of our employees, Jim Ritter, yesterday afternoon, some ridiculous accusation that he was involved in an attempted assassination of Senator Porter Smalls. I spoke to our company lawyer. We take care of our personnel, and he will be representing Jim if you have any more questions. Our attorney has also advised me simply not to answer any questions that might . . . feed your conspiracy theories. Yes, I flew to Omaha. I was there for a week of business, more or less. I fly my own plane, and there was nobody else on board. I won’t reveal the nature of the business because that’s a private matter that would possibly reveal classified military information. So, I don’t believe we have anything more to talk about.”

“We understand that John McCoy is not here in the building, but Kerry Moore may be. We need to talk to Mr. Moore,” Lucas said.

“He’s here, you can speak to him, but he’s taken advice from the same attorney that I have. He won’t have anything to say,” Claxson said. He looked out the door of his office, and said, “Here’s Kerry now.”

Kerry Moore, probably thirty-five years old, was a muscular man with short-cropped hair in what seemed to be a favored Washington paramilitary uniform: tan cargo pants, light-colored boots, and a light-colored long-sleeved pullover shirt. He nodded at Claxson, and said, “You rang?”

Claxson waved in the direction of the marshals. “These are the marshals Jim told us about.”

Moore nodded at them, and said, “Well, Rick Brown told me that talking about anything might bring trouble, so I guess I don’t want to talk with you. Unless there’s an attorney in the room.”

“Rick is our attorney,” Claxson said to Lucas.

Speaking to Moore, Rae began, “You don’t have anything to worry about—”

“Honey, you gotta know that’s bullshit,” Moore said. “You guys go on one of these snipe hunts and it winds up on CNN, where they’re pulling apart every word looking for every possible meaning. The next thing you know, you got a noose around your neck and cameras chasing you down the street. If you want me to talk, we’re gonna need a lawyer in the room.”

“So you’re not unwilling to talk,” Bob said.

Moore considered, and said, “Not entirely unwilling, but you gotta know Rick Brown. He’s going to say no as soon as you open your mouth.”