Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30) - John Sandford Page 0,105
stuff—word choice, vocab, spellings, and so on. With three exceptions, none of the people we’ve looked at could have written the letter, because they’re all nearly functionally illiterate. The person who wrote the letter is literate, trained in writing to some degree, probably a college graduate. The exceptions are Stephen Gibson, Charlie Lang, and John Oxford from ANM.”
“I don’t think ANM,” Lucas said. “Could be, but my gut says they’re not involved. They’re very different, but they’re not psychotic.”
“Stephen Gibson has a color laser printer. I would expect Charlie Lang does, too. If we could find an original printed copy of the letter, we could either pin it to one of those machines, or clear them,” Chase said.
“The copies aren’t clear enough to see the dot-codes?”
“No. These codes are tiny. You literally can’t see them with the naked eye, and neither can copiers.”
“So I’m looking for letters.”
“You’re looking for specific letters—printed letters, not copied letters.”
“Even then,” Lucas said. “It might not be the shooter. It could be somebody who stumbled over the 1919 site and decided to send out some letters, to get somebody else to shoot.”
“Could be,” Chase said. “But it’s what we got right now.”
They both stopped talking for a moment, as the waitress delivered Chase’s coffee and two slices of dry toast, sliced diagonally and carefully arranged on the plate.
When she was gone, Lucas took his cell phone out of his pocket and said, “Let me make a call.”
“You mean . . . right now?”
“When better?”
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED RICHARD GREENE, of the Greene Mountain Boys, who picked up on the third ring. “Marshal Davenport—we had nothing to do with that shooting, believe me.”
“I hope not. I’m calling about something different. I’ve been told you know everything on the alt-right. A number of people in these alt-right groups have gotten letters suggesting that the meaning of the 1919 group was to encourage somebody to shoot a kid, so that could be used as a leverage to change votes in Congress. We need letters. We need you to ask about them. Carefully. With people you trust.”
“Yeah, I heard about Stephen Gibson. He must’ve touched a hot wire.”
“We’re all over that. If you could reach out . . . you don’t have to tell anyone why you want to know, just provide us the names. You were talking about getting brownie points with the feds, should you need them. This would get you some. Or many.”
“I understand. Listen, let me think about it for a while. I’ll call you if I get something.”
* * *
—
CHASE SAID, when Lucas was off the phone and had explained about Greene, “He seemed eager to get those brownie points. I wonder what he did, or he’s planning, that he needs them?”
“Not my problem,” Lucas said. “It’s yours. Say, you gonna eat all that toast?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Saturday morning.
Lucas caught Bob and Rae coming back from their morning workout, told them to go look at the Washington Monument. “I already saw it. It’s that big white pointy thing, like a monument to a famous Anglo’s sexual fantasies,” Rae said. “If you don’t need us, I’m going to the National Gallery. Call when you need me.”
Bob had an old friend with the Marshals Service, stationed in Arlington. He said he’d call the guy, set up a lunch. “You won’t need us before lunch?”
“I don’t see anything coming,” Lucas said. “I think you’re safe for now. Take the Caddy if you want.”
“Nah, I’m gonna try to figure out the Metro . . .”
* * *
—
LUCAS WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM, called Weather, talked for half an hour, then watched a couple of TV broadcasts, went online and tried to figure out the relative importance of the various DC news outlets, and finally sat and thought though a variety of possible moves.
At eleven, he left the hotel and walked north on a narrow leafy residential street to Pennsylvania Avenue, then left until Pennsylvania intersected with M Street, and west on M to a nearly unmarked red-brick building with a brass plate next to the door. The plate read, “Steaks and Spirits, LLC,” as though it might be a law firm.
Lucas looked at his watch: 11:35, five minutes late. He’d be amazed if he wasn’t the first to arrive.
Inside the door, a tall man in a nubby sport coat, worn with a black T-shirt and jeans, asked, “Do we have a reservation?”