Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  Because too many people had access to FBI files. She had been burned before when confidential reports were acquired by unintended recipients who lived to tell about it. She never made the same mistake twice. In the field, she relied on memory alone. Her formal reports were carefully drafted and filed according to protocol, but her private records remained her own. It was impossible to be too careful.

  She copied the Roscoe and Finlay files, too. Straightforward information there, a bit unusual but nothing mysterious. None of it explained why Roscoe and Finlay had been selected as interview subjects, except one point of possible connection: Margrave, Georgia.

  Today’s destination.

  Fifteen years ago, Roscoe and Finlay had been present in Margrave. Reacher’s honorable discharge from the army was six months fresh back then. Whether Reacher had been in Margrave, and whether they’d all met there, and what had happened between them, were just three of the thousand questions Kim would need to answer. But something happened. The boss wouldn’t send her there otherwise.

  She glanced at her watch. There was still time before landing. She ran through the Reacher material one more time.

  Birth certificate (West Berlin 1960); education record showing attendance on military bases around the world, including one year in Saigon, Viet Nam. Kim read that fact for the tenth time before the taser charge she’d felt the first nine times lessened. Kim’s mother was Vietnamese; her father served in the U.S. Army in Viet Nam. No connection to Reacher back then, right?

  No. Reacher was a kid when Kim’s parents left the country; Reacher’s father was a Marine; Army and Marines hadn’t mixed much in Viet Nam. There couldn’t be any connection between them. But was Viet Nam the reason the boss had chosen her to lead this assignment?

  She pushed that new worry aside. No time to deal with it now and nothing she could do about it from 35,000 feet anyway.

  Reacher had graduated from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point (1984). Parents deceased (father 1988; mother 1990). One brother, also deceased (1997).

  At West Point and afterward, until he was honorably discharged, the file contained the usual batch of military forms crafted in army-speak. Uninitiated readers would need an interpreter to decipher the batch of acronyms. When Kim copied the contents of Reacher’s file into her own private documents, she included the full phrases and definitions, and studied them carefully, testing herself, building her knowledge. She’d labeled the section “Accomplishments,” but the title was far too benign when you knew what each entry meant. Reacher had investigated, arrested, subdued, and otherwise dealt with some of the most highly trained soldiers on earth, all of them capable of extreme violence.

  He had done it by matching their violence with his own.

  He was a killer.

  So what did the FBI want from him now?

  He’d been decorated several times, each for some form of extraordinary heroism or outstanding service or extreme military achievement. He had been wounded in combat and been given a Purple Heart. He’d been trained and won awards as a sniper. Summary: Reacher had handled whatever had come his way. He’d faced the enemy and come out alive. More than once. Kim imagined the type. He’d be confident, hard to persuade, manipulate or overpower. In no way like any other candidate she’d investigated before.

  No wonder the project was under the radar.

  And how the hell would she accomplish it?

  The pilot announced the initial descent into Atlanta. Not much time left for electronic devices. She kept on working. Reacher’s file contained no details on the situations he’d handled as a military cop. Those would have been filed separately at the time the investigations took place. Kim made a note to find them. The search wouldn’t be easy, but the years Reacher spent doing his job were the last that would have clear and complete records, and those records would be the only clues to his current activities or location. Understanding how he’d performed back then would teach her the man and his methods. And scare her out of her wits, probably, if she had any wits left by then.

  The file ended with Reacher’s army discharge papers, followed by a short memo stating that he’d been off the grid for more than fifteen years. No one knew where he was. FBI files, Homeland Security files, all were empty of references to Major Jack (none) Reacher, U.S. Army, Retired.

  No way, she’d typed into her notes. Can’t happen.

  Was he dead? In prison? Witness protection? Classified assignment? At a minimum, either Reacher himself or someone else didn’t want him found.

  Maybe he was unfindable.

  And maybe that was the good news.

  * * *

  TWENTY MINUTES FROM ATLANTA the plane started to bounce around like a steer on cocaine. Clear air turbulence, the pilot called it, but Kim didn’t believe him. More likely a fatal mechanical fault. She pulled her seatbelt as tight as possible. The belt failed to hold her securely in the wide seat. She would have some odd bruises tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow. Not that anyone would see her bruises. The Danish she’d eaten threatened to come back up. She wanted to grab the airsickness bag, but she’d have to crack her fingers away from the armrests to reach for it.

  Then the plane’s wheels bounced twice on the tarmac and skidded a long, loud, smoky distance before grabbing the runway hard enough to jerk her head off the seat and slam it back again. She breathed out and felt stupid, as always. Then her embarrassment doubled when she looked down at her lap and realized she’d never finished getting dressed.

  Kim waited curbside behind the wheel of a rented Chevy Blazer. She took a look at the airline’s web site flight tracking data on her personal smart phone. “Terrorist.com,” she called it, because constant flight status updates on any commercial flight were quick and easy to find. Agent Gaspar’s flight from Miami had just landed. He’d be with her soon. She ate the last antacid in the roll. When it melted, she washed the chalky taste away with a swig of black coffee.

  Then she opened her computer and stared one more time at Jack Reacher’s face, critically analyzing the full photo, committing every pixel to memory. The Army’s black and white regulation head shot suggested but didn’t confirm Reacher’s height, which was recorded at six-five, or his hair color, described elsewhere as fair, or his eye color, which was blue, or his enormous build, listed at two hundred and fifty pounds.

  Kim shuddered. On the inside she was one hundred percent lithe, lanky, formidable German, like her father. But on the outside, she was exactly 5’0” tall, like her mother, and she weighed 100 pounds on her fat days. Reacher was more than twice her size; she hoped she was more than twice as smart. Brains, not brawn, would have to be her weapon.

  Therefore she needed a better photo. An army photo wouldn’t do the job. People would remember Reacher. He wasn’t just memorable. More like unforgettable. But no doubt patriotism was still alive and well in Margrave, Georgia. Locals would say nothing negative about a man dressed in army green and gold and sporting a chest full of medals. Witnesses might even deny knowing him, even though it was a federal crime to lie to an FBI agent in the course of an investigation.

  Kim had been trained to observe witness reactions to photographs. Witnesses found it difficult to deny recognition, and harder still to lie effectively when confronted with a picture. People had trouble remembering names, but faces were imprinted in a different area of the brain, more easily recalled. So she would know if a witness recognized Reacher, even if they lied. She’d be able to tell. But failure was not an option, so she needed a different picture.

  She switched to the altered head shot she had created on the plane. She had cropped out Reacher’s army uniform and removed his hat in this version. Was her photo editing good enough to deny Reacher his unfair advantage?

  Then knuckles rapped hard on the Blazer’s side window. Kim closed her computer and looked at the inquiring face only inches from her own. She pressed the button to lower the window. Before she had a chance to speak, Special Agent Carlos Gaspar said, “Sorry, didn’t m
ean to startle you. I tried to open the hatch, but it’s locked. Give me the key. I’ll toss my bags in and we can get on the road.”

  “Sure,” she said. She turned off the ignition, handed him the keys and stepped out of the truck. She met him at the rear of the vehicle, watching as he moved her bag out, placed his on the bottom, and then put hers back on top.

  A considerate guy.

  Very proper.

  She extended her hand in greeting and said, “Kim Otto.”

  “Carlos Gaspar,” he said, taking her hand in a firm grasp, neither too hard or too soft. A respectful handshake. Not at all macho. She liked him already.

  He said, “It’s about an hour to Margrave. I’ve been there before. I’ll drive.”

  “Actually, I prefer to drive,” she said. She felt uncomfortable with anyone else behind the wheel. Particularly someone she didn’t know and had never traveled with before. She had no idea what kind of driver he was. Her queasy stomach might not survive, and there was no way she was going to throw up in front of this guy. Not now. Not ever.

  “I’m a good driver,” he said. “And I’ll be faster, because I know where we’re going.”

  He opened the driver’s door and moved the seat back, for his longer legs.

  Maybe not so proper or respectful.

  Maybe he was going to be one of those overbearing Latino males.

  He was all the way inside the car now. He stuck his head out the window and asked, “Are you coming or not? We’ll have to hustle to get there on time as it is.”

  When there’s only one choice, it’s the right choice.

  She got into the passenger seat and Gaspar accelerated the second she’d closed the door.

  Purchase Don’t Know Jack to continue reading ...

  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  Judge Wilhelmina Carson

  Carly Austin

  Marilee Aymes

  Frank Bennett

  Michael Morgan

  Senator Sheldon Warwick

  Victoria Warwick (Tory)

  Christian Grover

  Fred Johnson

  O’Connell Worthington

  Pricilla Worthington

  Carolyn Young

  Alan Zimmer

  Court Personnel:

  Chief Judge Ozgood Livingston Richardson (CJ)

  Margaret Wheaton (secretary)

  Chief of Police Benjamin Hathaway

  Wilhelmina Carson’s Family:

  George Carson

  Kate Austin

  Jason Austin

  Mark Austin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tampa, Florida

  Wednesday 4:15 p.m.

  January 6, 1999

  I GREW UP OUTSIDE Detroit, where the weak were killed and eaten. Still are.

  Every morning during my high school years, my clock radio blasted me awake with morning news: Five men killed last night in Cass Corridor. Two hundred homicides this year.

  Like sports statistics, only bloodier.

  Somehow it never occurred to me to change the station.

  Even so, murder was far removed from my suburban life. Eventually I moved to Tampa for sunny charm, Southern hospitality, smiling grocery clerks, polite neighbors, small-town feel.

  And no crime. Ok, less crime.

  But lessons learned young stick with us. All those Detroit homicides proved one thing to me: You never see the bullet that gets you, even when it hits you right between the eyes.

  Of course, I didn’t think about any of this until long after the time to duck.

  Carly Austin ambushed me at home. I’d dashed home from work later than I’d planned. Preoccupied. Distracted. Too much to do, too little time to do it. And there she was. Waiting for me.

  Her mere presence was a shock; she’d been ignoring me for more than a year.

  I’d covered well; offered smiles, hugs. Asked her to join me for drinks. She feigned reluctance, but allowed me to persuade.

  Twenty minutes later we sat outdoors on the Sunset Bar patio. I played with the pink flamingo swizzle stick in my iced Bombay Sapphire and tonic, moving the lemon twist around the cubes, afraid to sip because the alcohol would do what alcohol does. The swirling gin, yellow lemon and white ice mesmerized, passed the time.

  Perfect late January afternoon. Warm and clear. Setting sun and rising full moon cast simultaneous glow on Hillsborough Bay, giving a mystical quality to my experience.

  I knew it was the atmosphere that made me feel this way because I hadn’t swallowed any gin. Yet.

  Carly’s visit was urgent in some way; she never came to me bearing good news or even minor trouble.

  I felt my muscles tense with anticipation and anxiety.

  Sought understanding. Gaze lifted. Watched my almost-sibling. What was the problem? Sure I could handle it, if only she’d tell me what it was. Too much drama. With Carly, always. If only she’d come tomorrow, when everything in my world was scheduled to be less tense. She had to know that today wasn’t the best time to commandeer my attention.

  Something was very wrong.

  Again I noted the setting sun reflected glistening orange that flattered her copper coloring; but her clothes were wrinkled and dark circles under her eyes showed through her concealer. Lipstick smeared. Bright pink blush on pale cheeks made her look more like Bozo than Garbo. Even her curly red hair was dirty.

  So not-Carly.

  More gin. Definitely. But not yet.

  I felt the familiar ambivalent emotions Carly always inspired. She was fiercely independent, but perpetually getting into some mess that I had to get her out of. I loved her, of course; she was the only sister I’d ever have. But I could strangle her sometimes. Gleefully.

  Stubborn as an elephant, she couldn’t be pushed. Believe me. I’ve tried.

  While I waited for her to speak I flashed back to the first time we met. Gathered around the bassinet, watching. Instantly beloved. Tiny face, flashing blue eyes. Red ringlets framed porcelain skin. Mom cooed over Carly’s little feet and perfect hands. Her brothers murmured in hushed wonder as they examined miniscule fingernails, perfect eyelashes. One of the boys, not quite ten and very clever, wanted to call her Curly, but his mother insisted on Carly, and his brother punched him in the arm whenever he refused to get it right.

  No one noticed me, Wilhelmina, standing off to the side, already five foot six and still growing. Nothing about me was petite or cute, then or now. I was gawky and awkward. Even my earlobes were big.

  The only things Carly and I had in common were red hair and double X chromosomes.

  And her family.

  My relationship with Carly was born in that minute. Conflicting feelings of awe, jealousy, irritation—and protectiveness. I’d always taken care of Carly and she’d always resisted. She thought she could take care of herself. Experience proved otherwise.

  I like to think we’ve both matured in twenty-nine years, but maybe not.

  She was all grown up now, but still 110 pounds and 5’2”. Carly’s style was anything but cute. Sporting brightly polished artificial claws and perfect makeup, she was a proud glamour hound. “It’s better to look good than to be good” is her personal creed.

  Maybe she can’t be good, or maybe she just doesn’t try. Either way, the result is the same: whirling dervish in a small, perfect package.

  I sighed loudly. Stopped playing with my watery gin and pushed it aside. As much as drinking would have helped, I’d need to keep all my wits about me to deal with Carly, and I was now dangerously short of time.

  Too soon, my husband expected more than six hundred guests to attend an AIDS research benefit here in his restaurant. It’s no secret that I hate these shindigs. Not my thing. At all. George might actually have been holding me captive when he extracted my promise to act as hostess. A thousand dollars a plate. Movers and shakers and poseurs showing up to see and be seen at what they considered their finest. I was hot, sweaty, and still wearing my work clothes.

  “OK, the suspense is killing me.
I don’t know what it is you have on your mind, but it can’t be that bad.” Realizing I was sticking my neck out, I asked, “What’s up?”

  As if she’d been waiting for me to ask, Carly said, “It’s worse than anything you can imagine.”

  She said it quietly, with none of her usual bravado.

  Impatience deflated like a bayoneted blimp.

  “Hey, come on. I have quite an imagination,” I joked. “Just because you haven’t talked to me in a while doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

  The truth was that I cared too much. Always had. Never figured out how to toughen up my heart where Carly was concerned.

  She smiled a little, sheepishly; seemed to take the edge off.

  Carly slumped back in her chair and looked at the water. There were a couple of late afternoon sunfish sailors out, racing back and forth from Davis Islands to a spot 100 yards off the edge of our island, Plant Key.

  About a year or two later, or at least it seemed that long as I imagined myself forced to greet senators and celebrities wearing nothing but my underwear, Carly finally started to talk. I resisted the urge to cheer.

  “Did you see NewsChannel eight this morning?”

  “Why?”

  More silence.

  She picked up her white wine, took a sip, put it down, picked up the blue paper cocktail napkin, concentrated hard while she folded it into a fan. She never looked directly at me.

  I wondered if my deodorant would hold on another eight hours. Maybe I could skip my bath?

  “Did you see the news story on the drowning victim?” She finally asked, in a small voice.

  Drowning victim? Are you kidding me?

  Maybe he drowned, but I hoped he was dead before he went into the water.

  Frank Bennett had the report. He’d said pieces of a body were pulled out of Tampa Bay before dawn. The largest portion, the part the sharks hadn’t eaten, was found banging against the pilings of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge in Pinellas County. Hands and feet were bound together by clothesline and tied to heavy cement slabs. Face unrecognizable.