“So I got to wondering, how many F-250s are there in that zip code? The Virginia DMV can sort vehicles by zip code—I checked,” Armstrong said. “If you could get a list and compare that list with driver’s license photos and then run those guys through the Internet, you might come up with something. Not that I’m saying there’s anything to come up with...”
“Carl... you’re a smart guy.”
—
LUCAS HAD SEVERAL THINGS WORKING:somebody may have tried to break into his hotel suite and may actually have succeeded; he had a name, Heracles Personnel; and now he had an idea of how to find the F-250.
His nominal boss worked out of the Marshals Serviceheadquarters no more than a few miles from where he was, but telephones were faster. As he drove back toward Washington, against rush hour traffic, he got hold of Russell Forte, who was about to leave for home.
Lucas asked him to get whatever information he could on Heracles Personnel and to see if the Virginia DMV could produce a list of black F-250s around the area where the plates had been stolen and driver’s license photos of the registered owners.
“Well, hell, I didn’t want to go home and talk to my wife and kids and go to all the trouble of cranking up the barbecue and cooking up those ribs my wife bought this afternoon...”
“Go home, Russell,” Lucas said. “Tomorrow’s fine. I’ve got a couple of places I want to visit in Washington anyway. I’ll check with you in the morning. Not too early.”
“Thank you,” Forte said.
—
WHEN LUCAS GOT BACKto the hotel, he ate dinner, went to his room, took a quick shower, then dressed carefully in a medium blue summer-weight suit, with a checked dress shirt, a slender Hermès necktie, and black John Lobb shoes.
He thought about taking the Walther, but the gun messed with the drape of his jacket. He finally locked it in the room’s safe, although he happened to know how to open any hotel room safe in approximately eight seconds. When he was ready, he called down to the front desk to get a cab, and ten minutes later was on his way up New Hampshire Avenue to Figueroa & Prince, a men’s tailor shop that he’d read about, done research on, and finally called before he left St. Paul.
The shop was on N Street, on the bottom floor of what looked like a New York brownstone even though it was constructed of red brick, a three-story building with only a small silver sign next to the door designating it as a commercial establishment. When Lucas tried the door, it was locked, although he’d been told they were open until nine o’clock.
He took a step back, spotted another small sign, this one saying “Please Ring for Entry.” He pushed the doorbell button, an apple-cheeked young man looked out the window at him, and a buzzer sounded to let Lucas in.
The young man did a quick eye check on Lucas’s suit, smiled, and asked, “Can we help you?”
“I’m looking for autumn and winter suits... I was told to ask for Ted.”
—
TED WAS A THIN MAN,older and balding, with a shy smile and a soft voice. Lucas introduced himself, and Ted said, “Oh, yes, the gentleman from Minnesota.”
After that, it was forty-five minutes of looking at fabrics and talking about colors, not only of the materials but of Lucas’s eyes, hair, and complexion. There was also a subtle interview about where Lucas had bought other suits, accessories, and shoes. Next came forty minutes of measurements, after which Ted said, “This should be good enough for the preliminary work; you will have to come in again for the next fitting... probably in two or three weeks?”
“That’ll be fine,” Lucas said. “I’d like to get them before it gets cold back home.”
“We should have them finished by mid-September.”
Lucas spent an absurd sum on the suits, put it all on his American Express card. When it had cleared, Ted called a taxi, and Lucas shook his hand and said, “This was a nice experience.”
“Happy to be of help,” Ted said, as he walked Lucas to the door. “There aren’t that many men who take your interest. Mostly, they want something dark that won’t wrinkle too badly and they want it quick.”
Lucas smiled, went out the door, heard the lock click behind him, and walked down the stoop to the street, where the pleasant evening came to an end.
—
THREE MEN.At a casual glance, they might have been street people—funky dress, too heavy for the heat, with weird headgear. But the funky dress was too clean and too uniformly funky, as though it had been manufactured that way. None of them had beards. And they didn’t move with the halting gait of longtime street people, they moved like well-fed athletes. They were coming in hard. And they weren’t carrying anything in their hands.
In addition, there were a few more salient aspects to the approach: (1) The jackets looked heavy, as though they might be covering armored vests, which would be good protection in a fistfight. (2) They were all wearing hats pulled low on their heads—one wore a ball cap, and the other two wore tennis hats. Tennis hats on bums? Don’t think so. (3) Lucas could feel them focus on him. One was hurrying in from his left, one was crossing the street straight toward him, one was coming in from his right.
No gun. Couldn’t get back inside, the door had locked behind him. In the two seconds that it took him to scan the three of them and discern their intention, he made a snap decision.
Run.
The guy on the right was the bulkiest, and maybe the slowest, and Lucas ran right for him, then swerved to the right, and when the guy moved to block him, Lucas cut left, the guy swung at him, Lucas blocked his fist and with the heel of the same hand hit the man in the face, under the nose, jamming it up into the ridge of his brow, sending him staggering and down on his back.
