FORTE HAD LEFTwith the computer specialist a half hour after they started the search. The locks-and-safes guy was helping go through the apartment inch by inch when he took a call from one of the two marshals who were at the truck.
He listened for a moment, then said, “Hey, Lucas, Ritter’s down at the truck. He just showed up.”
Lucas took the phone, and asked, “He’s driving the Miata?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let him leave,” Lucas said. “We’ll be right down.”
“He’s already parked,” the marshal said. “He’s coming up, and he’s pissed.”
“Walk with him,” Lucas said.
—
RITTER WASat the door five minutes later. He was a bit shorter than average, but muscular, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-complected, with three parallel white scars on one side of his face that might have been inflicted by a woman’s fingernails or, in Ritter’s case, shrapnel. He was wearing a black T-shirt, tan cotton/nylon cargo pants, light hiking boots, and a black ball cap.
He picked out Lucas as the main fed, demanded, “What the hell is going on?”
Lucas said, “We believe you may be involved in the attempted assassination of Senator Porter Smalls that resulted in the murder of Mrs. Cecily Whitehead. We’re looking for evidence in that case.”
Ritter nearly did a movie double take. “What the fuck you been smoking, man?”
“Don’t smoke,” Lucas said. “We have a lot of questions for you.”
Ritter reached down to one of his cargo pockets, and it was Lucas who reacted, moving a hand toward his side. Ritter froze, then said, “Wallet.”
Lucas nodded, and Ritter extracted a trifold wallet from his pocket, took a card out, and handed it to Lucas. “I might ask a question or two myself, but I’m not going to answer any, not without an okay from my lawyer. That’s my lawyer’s name, address, and direct phone number. I’m going to call him now, unless I’m under arrest.”
“Not yet,” Lucas said, “but you will be. Go make your call.”
“Can I leave the apartment to make the call?”
“Yes. You’re free to go, but our search warrant covers your vehicles, so you can’t take those until we’re done with them. If we find any evidence pertinent to the case, the cars will be impounded.”
“Goddamnit, that’s not right,” Ritter said. “Do I get reimbursed for the cost of a rental car?”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Lucas said.
Ritter said, “There are two pistols in the safe with suppressors. Both are registered with the ATF.”
“We know,” Lucas said. “That was a disappointment.”
Ritter held Lucas’s eye momentarily, and said, “I’ll remember you.”
“I think you already met my wife,” Lucas said. And Ritter blinked.
—
RITTER TURNED AND LEFT.
Ritter had committed at least one murder, and probably two, but he wasn’t a professional or career criminal—he was essentially a soldier, a guy who killed people under orders, or even of his own volition, but who didn’t have to worry about prosecution.
Stupid crooks would have reacted to Lucas’s comment about Weather, but a professional would have allowed a puzzled wrinkle to appear on his forehead. Ritter had blinked; it was called a tell by poker players, and, as far as Lucas was concerned, it was as good as an admission of guilt.
Couldn’t take it to a jury, but it was there.
Rae eased up, and said, “Decided to go with Mr. Subtle, huh?”
