Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,56
to get away from this . . .
He got dressed, went downstairs to the lobby where the desk clerk was sitting with a state trooper. Lucas identified himself to the trooper and then asked the clerk, “The two men who were killed . . . how long were they in their rooms?”
“They checked in a little while after you did. They didn’t have reservations . . .”
“Did they have credit cards?”
“Oh, sure, we don’t allow people to check in without them. The FBI has the card numbers.”
Lucas nodded: “Thanks.”
* * *
He walked across the street to the Romano building, spotted one of the task force’s senior agents and asked about Weaver.
“He’s inside, talking to Don Romano.”
Lucas went into the building. A small lobby sat behind the front doors, and a waist-high counter was barely large enough to accommodate two customers at a time. There was no place to sit, and Lucas realized that while the building was a large one, most of the business must have been done in the back. A square-jawed, dark-haired FBI agent named Parker was standing watch behind the counter. He nodded at Lucas, tilted his head toward a door that led into the back. “Dale’s in back. We’re all screwed up about Bob and Harry.”
“How’s Harry?”
“Shot went right through his gut, side to side, clipped his pelvis, missed his spine,” Parker said. “We were all putting on our vests before we hit the door, but most of us didn’t have them on when the shooting started. Anyway, he’s a mess. They’re saying he’ll make it, but he’s hurt bad.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucas said, and he was. He was haunted by the idea that he’d somehow screwed up, though he wasn’t yet sure how he might have done that. He remembered Bob talking about how they were getting too much cooperation, it wasn’t quite right . . .
He walked around the counter and went through the door into the large back room. An eight-foot-long wooden dining table sat in the middle of a wide-open space, with a half dozen comfortable leather chairs around it. A pool-table light hung over it; farther back in the room was an actual pool table, with another pool table light. The concrete block walls were covered with metal racks, and the racks were heavily stocked with white boxes of light fixtures.
Weaver, three other FBI agents, and a Miami-Dade cop were sitting around the table, peering at an elderly man dressed in slacks and a purple velour sweatshirt. He was short, thin, balding, big-eared, big-nosed, and loose-lipped, with wild white eyebrows like old people get. He had deep frown gouges on either side of his mouth.
Romano saw Lucas and asked Weaver, “Who’s this guy?”
Weaver turned, stood, and walked over. “You’re moving.”
“Yeah.”
“A mess. We’re trying to figure it out,” Weaver said.
“Yeah. Hey: you saved my life, man,” Lucas said. He tapped Weaver on the back. “Thank you.”
“But I lost Bob. If I’d shot . . .”
“You did good. From where you were? You did amazing,” Lucas said. He looked over at the old man. “This is Romano?”
“Yeah, but . . . God help me, I’m thinking he wasn’t involved,” he said quietly, so Romano couldn’t hear him. “The guns were his . . .”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Sure . . .”
Lucas went over and got a chair and the old man peered at him for a moment, then said, “What?”
“Your shooters killed a good friend of mine,” Lucas said.
Romano blew through his loose lips, making a farting sound. “I keep telling everyone, I don’t know what the fuck happened out there. I’m in here going to work—”
Lucas: “At midnight?”
“We’re early risers,” Romano said. He was irritated by the comment. “Why would I have two guys hiding in a motel with guns? If I was worried about somebody kicking in the doors, they’d be in here. Bring in a couple of cots, they could sleep here, protect the place . . .”
Lucas watched his face. Romano took it, staring back, his eyes cold and black. Then Lucas asked Weaver, “Will everybody excuse me if I ask a non-fact-based question?”
“Go ahead,” Weaver said.
Lucas looked down at Romano and asked, “What do you think is going on?”
Romano weighed Lucas for another moment or two, then jabbed a hitchhiker’s thumb at Weaver and said, “This guy tells me the two assholes you guys killed are hired shooters. They’re known.”
“Known to you?”
“Fuck no. This guy told me,” Romano said, tipping his head toward Weaver. “Anyway, you and the