Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30) - John Sandford Page 0,65
1919. We’ve talked to some strange people, but we haven’t come up with anything. One of those people said to me today, that the only person who seemed to be getting anything out of this is Audrey Coil. She has been booked into several different TV shows.”
“She’s booked on more of them tomorrow,” Blake Winston said. “This has gone total Hollywood.”
Mary Ellen Winston, no dummy, jumped out in front of Lucas. She asked her son, “Blake . . . is it possible that Audrey invented the 1919 site? That’s what Marshal Davenport is trying to lead up to, I expect.”
Lucas nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I can’t find anyone else who might profit from this website, who might have a reason to put it up. Audrey is smart, everyone agrees on that. She knows a lot about websites. Her photograph on the site is the only one that wasn’t taken specifically for the site—and if she took the other photographs, she obviously couldn’t take her own. So I’ve been thinking . . . Could she have anticipated this kind of public reaction? Could she have done this to drive attention to her website, to get herself on television?”
Blake Winston’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit.”
Mary Ellen: “Blake . . .”
Blake ignored his mother: “Holy shit, you think? I mean, she is way smart. I know a lot about cameras and all, but she knows everything about social media. Way more than I do.”
Lucas said, “If you’re still shooting videos for her . . .”
“I’m doing one Monday afternoon, after school. We’re shooting in the gym with some jock-o. I know for sure that Audrey’s going out of town for the weekend, so I can’t do it any sooner than that.”
“You’ll have access to her computer? You told me that she has a laptop that you use when you’re filming.”
“When we’re filming at her house. When we’re on a location, like Monday, I usually bring mine,” Blake Winston said. “I could ask her to bring hers, tell her that mine has a problem. They’re the same machine, MacBook Pros. You want me to search hers, see if something comes up?”
“That’s what I would ask,” Lucas said. “Figure out a bunch of search terms. I’m sure you’re better at that kind of thing than I am.”
“There’s something of a betrayal involved here,” Mary Ellen Winston said. “A betrayal of a friend.”
Lucas nodded and said to Blake, “Yes, there is. That’s why . . . mmm . . . I’d understand if you said no. I can’t go and get her computer—I have no grounds for a search warrant. You don’t need grounds, because you’re not a cop, and you’d be using her computer with her permission.”
Mary Ellen Winston said, “That still doesn’t address the ethical problem.”
“I think it does,” Lucas said, turning to her. “We have a lot of people struggling with what seems to be a terrible threat. Scared kids, Secret Service agents trying to protect them. If she created this problem, a fake problem, to sell lipstick, then . . . and frankly, if she actually inspired some crazy idiot to shoot a kid . . .”
Mary Ellen said to her son, “It’s your call, Blake.”
Blake grinned: “I got no problem with it. If there’s nothing there, we don’t tell her I looked, right?”
Lucas said, “Right. If you do find something, I’ll try to keep you out of it. Make up some excuse to confront Audrey. Maybe nothing would ever go public. We’d wrap it up and go home.”
“Audrey wouldn’t be punished?” Mary Ellen asked.
“She’s a juvenile . . . so it could all be handled quietly,” Lucas said. “Nobody would want to make a big deal out of it.”
Blake delivered another blindingly white grin: “I’ll call you. Hot damn, this is like spy stuff. Gives me a little woody.”
“Blake!”
* * *
—
LUCAS WENT BACK TO THE WATERGATE, annoyed that Blake Winston couldn’t get at Audrey Coil’s computer over the weekend—Coil was doing something with a group of teenagers who were all the sons and daughters of politicians, and it involved an overnight stay at Camp David.
So he had to wait. Over the next two days, Lucas, Bob, and Rae tracked down the leaders of Lethal Edge and Pillars of Liberty, and the editor of the White Gazette. None of the probes revealed anything relevant to the 1919 investigation. Each man seemed stranger than the next and the three marshals marveled at the number of guns that seemed to float by.