“Eliot’s poem is far better known,” Lucas said.
Bob said, “Shut the fuck up, both of you. We’re cops, not some literary, you know, fairies.”
“Well, I’m not anyway,” Rae said. “Lucas is the one who quoted the fruity poem.”
* * *
—
THE CIGARETTE SMOKER was fieldstripping his Marlboro, as they walked up the driveway, and he snapped the filter into a hydrangea bush. “This is an FBI undertaking,” he said, carefully checking them out. “I suspect you know that.”
“U.S. Marshals,” Lucas said. “Jane Chase should have cleared us through.”
“If you’re Davenport, Matees, and Givens, she did.” He looked at his watch. “She should be here in the next few minutes.”
* * *
—
THE IMPRESSION Lucas had of Claxson’s house was rugs and cigars. A thin odor of smoke hung in the entry hall like a signal of masculinity, a dozen oriental carpets in a variety of sizes spotted the russet-colored plank floors like high-dollar islands. The place had been done by a decorator apparently told to make it into a British men’s club, with everything but spittoons.
“Wooden boxes,” Bob said, and when Lucas looked around, he noticed lots of antique boxes.
“And mirrors,” Rae said.
There were a dozen FBI agents inside the house, slowly taking it apart. They were mostly looking for documents but hadn’t had much luck. A Bureau locksmith had failed to open a wall safe in the study—the house, naturally, had a study, two walls of bookcases, an oil portrait of a woman on a third wall, and the requisite cut-stone fireplace on the fourth. The safe was hidden in one side of the fireplace.
A tech bypassed the password on a Dell computer, but except for routine business docs—more bank statements—all documents were encrypted, everything else cleaned out by the same Win/DeXX program that they’d found on Ritter’s desktop.
They’d taken Claxson’s iPhone when they arrested him, and now they found a second phone in one of the many wooden boxes. The same tech said, “The phones are locked. No can go there. Six digits, four chances, a million possibilities.”
One of the agents told Lucas, “He’s like the Ritter guy—he’s got a safe-deposit box somewhere, under a false identity, with all the good stuff.”
Bob said, “We found Ritter’s safe-deposit keys in the sink trap in the bathroom.”
“Already looked there,” the agent said.
An agent clumped up the basement stairs, holding four black rifles by their slings. Rae asked, “Full-auto?”
“These are,” the agent said. “He’s got seven gun safes down there, thirty-five rifles of various kinds, twenty-two pistols.”
“He’s an arms dealer,” Lucas said. “He’ll have got permits for everything.”
* * *
—
CHASE SHOWED UP a few minutes later, got a quick briefing from the agent heading up the search. To Lucas, she said, “Not much at his business, either. They were careful about documents. I suspect that the stuff we got from Ritter was emailed to him as encrypted documents, but after decrypting, Ritter broke security and printed it, instead of wiping it clean, and hid it as insurance.”
Lucas said, “We talked to Claxson’s PA when we went to his office the first time . . . older woman, maybe ready to retire. Any chance of getting her here?”
“What for?”
“So Bob, Rae, and I can intimidate her. Bet she knows his phone code.”
Chase gazed at Lucas, said, “We have her. Haven’t arrested her, but we’ve detained her. I could bring her here . . . to answer questions about his lifestyle and so on. She’s already intimidated.”
“Park her in the parlor, let her sweat, and then we’ll drop in on her.”
“I’ll make the call,” Chase said.
* * *
—
THE PA’S NAME was Helen Oakes. Lucas, standing at a front window, watched her walking up the driveway two steps ahead of her FBI escort. She was wearing a conservative gray suit, and he remembered that she was wearing gray the first time they’d seen her: not a woman given to flamboyance.
Bob and Rae were watching an FBI search team guy rolling up rugs, and Lucas called to them: “She’s here. Let’s get out of sight.”
They hurried into the study, and Chase met Oakes at the front door and took her to the living room.
Rae told Lucas what she’d learned about Claxson’s rugs: “They’re okay, not great. Most of them made in India. The rug guy told me they look better than they actually are.”
They were still talking about the rugs, and the guns and the mirrors, and the antique boxes, and the two Japanese swords racked near the door, when, ten minutes later, Chase poked her head in the room, and said, “I worry about this, so . . . go easy as you can.”
Lucas nodded. “Sure.”
* * *
—
WHEN LUCAS, BOB, AND RAE walked into the parlor, Oakes was seated on a beige, Italian-looking couch, knees tight together, elbows tight to the ribs, purse in her lap, held with both hands. She was frightened.
Rae dropped on the couch beside her, a few inches too close. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, reaching under her jacket and pulling out her Glock. She leaned across Oakes and, with noisy clatter, dropped it on the end table, its muzzle pointing toward Oakes. To Oakes she said, “Shit gets up my back, know what I’m sayin’?”
It wasn’t a real question, and Oakes didn’t answer. Lucas took a chair facing her, and Bob dragged over another chair, its legs scraping across the plank floor with a tooth-rattling screech, until he was also too close to her.
Lucas said, “Miz Oakes . . .”
Bob: “Jesus, Lucas, call her Helen—we’re all friends here. That is your name, right? Helen?”
Oakes nodded, flinching away from Bob.
Lucas said, “Okay, Helen. Look, we don’t want to frighten you, and you’re not required to tell us anything. We won’t arrest you at this point, but you are in serious jeopardy.”
“That’s the fucking truth,” Rae said. “He ain’t bullshitting you, babe . . . Excuse the language.”
“Everybody, shut up,” Lucas said. “I’m talking.”
“Yez, boss. I always do what white people tell me,” Rae said.
“Shut the fuck up, both of you, and let Helen talk,” Bob said.
Lucas continued. “Helen, your boss is going to prison for a very long time. Probably for a couple of decades or more, if we get him for these murders. I’ll be honest and tell you we aren’t all that interested in you. You’re small fry. We’re interested in Claxson and some of his military operators. If you stonewall us and we give up on you . . . we could easily throw you in the same bag. We know you must have had intimate knowledge of what was going on in there, since you’re so close to Claxson—”
“I was his PA!” Oakes wailed, opening her mouth for the first time. “I handled his schedule and travel reservations, but I didn’t do any of the business stuff.”
“Oh, horseshit,” Rae said.
Lucas snapped: “Rae, I don’t want to have to warn you again.”
“You ain’t warned me the first time, cracker,” Rae said. To Oakes she said, “I can tell you from personal experience, honey, that you don’t want to fuck with the FBI. Those coldhearted motherfuckers drop you in a hole without thinking about it twice, and not even remember you’re there after they throw you in. Claxson’s going down for thirty. You don’t want to be in that bag.”
“C’mon, Rae,” Bob said, “don’t be trying to scare her.” To Oakes he said, “Even if they put you in prison, well, federal prison, especially for women, isn’t that bad. You get three hots and a cot and good medical attention.”
“Not the only kinda attention she’d get,” Rae said, lifting her eyebrows. “Some of them rug munchers can get right up in your lap.”
“C’mon, Rae, goddamnit,” Bob said.
Lucas raised his voice. “Again, everybody shut up.” To Oakes: “Claxson’s computers are all encrypted. Do you know his private key?”