Santos nodded. “What about Deese?”
“Call him. Carefully. One of two things has to happen: Deese has to have enough money and ID that he can get out of the country and stay there; or, he’s got to be killed. I’ll take either. Getting the marshals to kill him would be a huge bonus. But, just in case, call him and see how much cash he needs.”
“Remember how he said that if the cops caught up with him, he’d shoot his way out or die?”
“A lot of guys say that, but when it comes time to take a bullet they pussy out,” Smith said. “Make the call.”
“I can do that. I’ll go to the office first, then call from a pay phone over in Slidell later in the afternoon. Different area code. And I think the marshal’s name was Lucas, not Luke.”
“Whatever.”
—
SANTOS DROVEto Smith’s law offices, where he had a corner cubicle at the back, overlooking a neighbor’s garden. He liked to open the windows in the spring, when he could smell the lilacs and see the new flowers pushing up and opening. A neighbor two houses down the street had a chicken coop, and he could sometimes hear the chickens complaining to one another. He’d never heard a rooster crow, and one of the women in the office said that roosters were illegal in New Orleans, but not hens.
Way of the world.
Santos sat behind his desk, turned on his laptop computer, with software that would ricochet across a couple of different continents before opening targeted websites. The NSA might possibly be able to track him, he thought, but Smith was too small-time to draw that kind of attention.
When he put Davenport’s name into the machine, he got several hundred hits. He took notes on a legal pad because, unlike with a computer, the paper could be fed to a shredder.
There was always a lot of hustle around the office—people coming and going, office doors opening and closing, talk in the hallways, phones ringing. He ignored it all until Smith stuck his head in the doorway and asked, “Well?”
Santos leaned back.
“Davenport’s smart and violent. Years ago, when he was a Minneapolis cop, he made some money designing role-playing games. LikeDungeons and Dragons, that kind of thing. Not a lot of money, but some, and he became known for it. Later, he apparently got run out of the police department because of charges of brutality that were covered up. So he started a computer company that focused on software for cops and based on the kind of games he used to invent. He wrote out the concepts and hired some college kids to do the coding, and he made a fortune. He’s got more money than you do, Rog. We won’t get at him that way. Then he joined the state cops, quit there after a few years, and became a marshal. He’s politically connected all the way up to Washington, and with both parties.”
“All reasons not to mess with him, then,” Smith said.
“Here’s another reason. It’s hard to tell exactly what happened—gotta give me a little rope here—but he was apparently investigating freelance military guys in Washington who were hired to kill a U.S. senator. They tried to get Davenport off their backs by going after his wife. They faked an auto accident, almost killed her.”
“If it’d been us, we wouldn’t have missed...”
“But here’s the point,” Santos said. “The military guys? They’re dead. Well, one’s missing and one’s in prison, but the others are all dead.”
“Huh. All right. If we have to get any further involved in this, we stay away from him.”
“A good idea, I think,” Santos said. “I’m worried about him getting to Deese. Deese knows—”
“Way too much.”
Later that afternoon, Santos drove over to Slidell and called Deese to tell him about the marshal. Deese asked, “What’s it to you? Don’t tell me that Rog is worried about my personal safety.”
“No, he’s worried abouthispersonal safety. If these marshals grab you, you’ll be looking at the death penalty and you might be tempted to make a deal. Rog wants you gone and he’s willing to pay. He thinks you probably need the money.”
“How much?”
“Quarter million.”
Deese laughed. “Man, I had a quarter million six months ago and I spent it. That ain’t gonna do it. Tell him to call me when he gets real.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
When Lucas got back to the Tahoe after talking with Smith and Santos, Bob asked, “Well?”
“We’re looking for a guy named Martin Keller, or Martin Lawrence, who may live in Marina del Rey, or maybe Los Angeles or Las Vegas, and who has done time.”
