Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30) - John Sandford Page 0,106

a few minutes ago. This way.”

So Lucas was amazed: he wasn’t the first to arrive, but the last. He followed the maître d’ through a maze of high-backed leather booths filled with serious-looking men and women in expensive clothes, speaking in hushed voices, and finally through a polished mahogany door into a tiny private room just large enough to seat six people.

Senators Henderson and Smalls were looking over menu folders when he came in, and Smalls said, “Ah, the late Lucas Davenport.”

“Sorry. It’s an interesting walk. I stopped to look into a bookstore window.”

“Got to have your priorities,” Henderson said. “My priority is not to walk in Washington, DC.”

“That’s why you’re such a weak sister,” Smalls said. “I run three miles every morning after my yoga.”

“While you’re out running, I’m working for the American people,” Henderson said, as he reached for the bread basket. “I’m thinking the oysters.”

“Oysters respect no political party,” Smalls agreed. “I’m thinking a dozen, or maybe a dozen and a half. The caloric content is negligible.”

“The mignonette is terrific here, though it has a tendency to make me fart,” Henderson said. “Fortunately, I’m only dealing with underlings this afternoon.”

“Then fart away,” Smalls said. “Lucas?”

“I’m going for the buffalo burger with red onions and deli mustard,” Lucas said.

Smalls: “Prole.”

* * *

—

THE WAITER CAME AND WENT, wine for the senators, a Diet Coke for Lucas, though the Coke raised an eyebrow. “They have any wine you want, but he’ll probably have to send out for the Diet Coke,” Henderson said. “Now. Where are we? Are we done with the shooting?”

“Maybe,” Lucas said. “Not only will I not promise that we are, I’m thinking it’s about fifty-fifty.”

Smalls: “Shit. That’s not acceptable. What are we supposed to do, sit on our thumbs until some other kid gets shot?”

Lucas told them about the letter and how it had turned into a chain letter. “It’s all over the place, the FBI is doing some kind of analysis thing.”

“The FBI is always analyzing their asses off. In the meantime, these NRA lunatics . . .”

“Hey. Lay off the NRA bullshit,” Smalls said.

“Yeah, I know, I looked at your donations,” Henderson said.

Smalls waved him off and said, “My sources at the FBI are a little confused by all the action. Lucas: start at the beginning and tell us everything that happened, in detail.”

Lucas did that, stopping for chit-chat when the food arrived, then resuming and leaving out only the identification of Audrey Coil as the creator of the 1919 website. Smalls didn’t know about that and Henderson wanted it held privately for as long as possible—forever, if possible.

When Lucas finished, the two senators, both lawyers, cross-examined him as they pushed oysters into their faces, and then Henderson said, “I think you’re wrong about the fifty-fifty. I think it’s more like seventy-thirty in favor of another shooting. It seems like every time you turned over a rock, you found another nutcase with a copy of that letter.”

Lucas had told them about Richard Greene and the Greene Mountain Boys, and said, “If Greene comes through with a batch of letters, it’s possible that we’ll be able to trace them back to the original sender. Or the FBI will.”

“And if my cocker spaniel went puck-puck-puck, he’d be a fuckin’ chicken,” Smalls said.

“I’ll keep pushing,” Lucas said.

“Do more than push,” Smalls said, rapping his knuckles on the tabletop. “Do whatever you need to. Anything you need to. Anything. Stop this shit.”

Lucas glanced at Henderson, who seemed to hesitate for a moment, then gave a quick nod.

* * *

—

LUCAS LEFT STEAKS AND SPIRITS and took his time walking back to the Watergate. Across the street from the hotel, he thought, “They said anything.”

He’d thought of something, that morning, and inside, he told the concierge, “I need an electronics store. The cheaper, the better.”

There was nothing close by, and he wound up taking a cab to the store, which turned out to be little more than a hallway with a rack of crappy cell phones on the wall. He bought one, and the Pakistani owner took five minutes to explain about the SIM card and the available minutes. He asked no questions and Lucas got out of the store without ever mentioning his name or anything else about why he wanted the phone. But then, he was in Washington. Halfway back to the hotel, Greene called: “I had to make up some crazy excuses, but I can tell you who has three of these letters and they’ve agreed to turn