Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(93)

“Like Carol Ruiz?” Bob said.

“Well, Carol’s different. Carol’s crazy. George is only mean. You can deal with mean. You can’t deal with crazy.”



* * *



—

LUCAS STEPPED OUT of the parlor and into the hallway, and Chase, who was standing there, listening, out of sight, said, “Mr. Claxson isn’t the only one who can be mean.”

Lucas said, “There are three people dead that we know of, and maybe four if Moore was killed. We weren’t even mean enough to give her bad dreams. Let’s go try the phones.”

The FBI tech had bagged the iPhone in transparent plastic. He left it in the bag when he turned it on. Chase read the number from Lucas’s notebook, the tech punched it in, and the phone opened up.

“We need printouts of everything,” she said to the tech. “Like, now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What about the other phone?”

“Maybe he only has one code to remember,” Chase said.

The tech shrugged, got the bag with the second phone, and tried the code. The second phone opened up.

Chase said to Lucas, “It was still mean, but I forgive you.”



* * *



—

SHE WALKED AWAY to talk to somebody else, and Lucas said to Bob and Rae, “Carol Ruiz sounds a lot like Suzie, who shot up the hotel.”

“She does,” Bob said. “But is it Carol or Suzie?”





25


Grant was walking a California venture capitalist through the Senate Office Building when Parrish called her. The VC was wearing an antique Black Sabbath T-shirt, black jeans, and a black linen jacket, and, at the back of his scalp, a small but prescient pink spot; Grant expected that the next time she saw him, he’d have a shaved head. He had the rattlesnake charm of the typical VC, plus money and connections. The connections were the important thing—she was building her network, and if the presidential primaries came down to California, she needed them.

The call from Parrish was an irritant. She told the VC, “One second—I have to take this,” and stepped away from him. “What?” she snapped into the phone.

“We’ve got a problem with the subcommittee,” Parrish said. “We need to talk in a secure facility.”

Emergency code: the subcommittee was Heracles and Claxson and the operators.

“I can do it at noon,” she said. “Meet me at my hideaway.”

“Sooner would be better.”

“How long will the meeting be?” she asked.

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I can give you fifteen at ten-thirty,” she said. “I’m scheduled at eleven.”

“See you then,” Parrish said, and hung up.

Grant reached out and put her hand on the VC’s arm, turned him back toward her office, leaving her hand on his arm as they walked. She would fuck him, if necessary. “You know the problem with the Senate? It’s like being nibbled to death by ducks. There’s never a second during the whole darn day that somebody doesn’t want to talk to you—and, most of the time, doesn’t need to. People want to talk to you, so they can say, ‘I was talking to Senator Grant yesterday,’ and then they start lying.”

The VC nodded. “I get the same thing. Some guy running a two-bit start-up wants to say he talked to you so he can spread the word that there might be some interest in whatever he’s peddling. ‘Nibbled to death by ducks’—I’ll remember that.”



* * *



—

U.S. SENATORS are each assigned hideaways in the Capitol, unseen by the public or the press. Only the senator has a key to his or her retreat, which are routinely checked for electronic surveillance. Not as secure as Grant’s SCIF, but close.

Since Grant was a junior senator, her hideaway was in the Capitol basement, a windowless room barely large enough for a desk with a computer on it, an office chair, two wooden visitor’s chairs, a worktable, and a small office refrigerator. If she lasted for another term and got lucky with senatorial turnover, she might actually get a place with a window. Of course, if everything worked out right, she’d have a big oval-shaped office before that happened.



* * *



—

GRANT ASKED, “What happened?” as she dropped into her chair.

Parrish took one of the wooden chairs. “The FBI hit Heracles this morning.”

“Ah, shit.”

“They detained Claxson. Claxson didn’t say anything, asked to speak privately to his lawyer. They said he could, from his SCIF. He did that, and he called me, all of it on our burners, but we ran his burner through a shredder, so we should be clear there,” Parrish said. “He could talk only for a couple of minutes, but what I get is, the feds found Ritter’s safe-deposit box and took out a bunch of documents about some . . . irregular weapons deliveries. Nothing to do with us, not directly. Since it was Ritter, I expect your friend Davenport is out there stirring up trouble.”

Grant pointed a finger at Parrish. “But . . . But what if it’s Davenport trying to turn Claxson on the Smalls thing?”

“That was the second thing that occurred to me.”