by Child, Lee
‘About what?’ Reacher asked again.
‘The last thing Julian said. About the civil suit, against the employer. No point pursuing it because the assets are worthless. Usually good advice. Good advice in this case too, I’m sure. Except actually I’m not sure.’
‘Why not?’
‘The guy was famous here for a spell. Everyone was talking about him. Ironically Meg Shevick did a great job with the PR. Lots of tech sector mythology, lots of young entrepreneur stuff, lots of positive immigration spin, about how he came to this country with nothing, and made such a success. But I heard negative things too. Here and there, fragments, gossip, bits and pieces, all unconnected. All hearsay and uncorroborated, too, but from people who should know. I became weirdly obsessed with figuring out how all those random pieces fit together, behind the public image. There seemed to be three main themes. He was all about himself, he was ethically challenged, and he seemed to have way more money than he should. My crazy personal theory was that if you joined the dots the one and only way they could be joined, then logically you were forced to conclude he was skimming off the top. Which would have been easy for an ethically challenged person. There was a tsunami of cash back then. It was insane. I think it was irresistible. I think he shovelled millions of dollars of investor money under his own personal mattress.’
‘Which would explain how the company went down so fast,’ Reacher said. ‘It had no reserves. They had been stolen. The balance sheet was all messed up.’
‘The point is that money might still be there,’ Isaac said. ‘Or most of it. Or some of it. Still under his mattress. In which case the civil suit would be worth it. Against him personally. Not against the company.’
Reacher said nothing.
Isaac said, ‘The lawyer in me tells me it’s a hundred to one. But I would hate to see the Shevicks go down without checking it out. But I don’t know how to do it. That’s what I need advice about. A real law firm would hire a private investigator. They would locate the guy and dig through his records. Two days later we would know for sure. But the project doesn’t have the budget. And we don’t get paid enough to chip in ourselves.’
‘Why would they need to locate the guy? Has he disappeared?’
‘We know he’s still in town. But he’s lying low. I doubt if I could find him by myself. He’s very smart, and if I’m right, he’s also very rich. Not a good combination. It lengthens the odds.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Maxim Trulenko,’ Isaac said. ‘He’s Ukrainian.’
TWELVE
Gregory heard the first whispers out of the gourmet quarter an hour after the events there took place. His bookkeeper called to say his nightly report would be delayed because he was still waiting on two particular bagmen who hadn’t checked in yet. Gregory asked which two, and the bookkeeper told him the guys who did the five restaurants. At first Gregory thought nothing of it. They were grown-ups.
Then his right-hand man called to say the same two bagmen hadn’t been answering their phones for some time, and their car wasn’t where it should be, so accordingly word had gone out to the taxi fleet, with a description of the car, which for once had gotten an instant response. Two separate drivers said the exact same thing. Some time ago they had seen a car just like that getting a tow. Rear wheels off the ground, behind a medium-sized tow truck. Three silhouettes in the tow truck’s cab. At first Gregory thought nothing of it. Cars broke down.
Then he asked, ‘But why would that stop them answering their phones?’
In his head he heard Dino’s voice. We have a guy at the car crushing plant. He owes us money too. Out loud he said, ‘He’s making it four for two. Not two for two. He must have lost his mind.’
His guy said, ‘The restaurant block is worth less than the moneylending. Perhaps that’s the message.’
‘What is he now, a CPA?’
‘He can’t afford to look weak.’
‘Neither can I. Four for two is bullshit. Put the word out. I want two more of his by morning. Make it decorative this time.’
Reacher made the right and the left and came up on a sturdy triangle of three high-rise hotels, all national mid-market chains, two of them east of Center Street, and one of them west. He picked one out at random, and spent five whole minutes of his life at its front desk, using his passport as his photo ID, and his ATM card as his preferred method of payment, and then signing his name two times, in two different places, on two different lines, for two different reasons. He had gotten into the Pentagon more easily, back in the day.
He took a city map from the lobby and rode up to his room, which was a plain bland space with nothing to commend it, but it had a bed and a bathroom, which were all he needed. He sat on the bed to look at the map. The city was shaped like a pear, gridded out with streets and avenues, pulling upward at the top towards the distant highway. The Ford dealer and the agricultural machinery would be right at the tip, where the stalk would be. The hotels were plumb in the middle of the fat part. The business district. There was an art gallery and a museum. The development with the Shevick house was halfway to the eastern limit. On the map it looked like a tiny squared-up thumbprint.
Where would a very smart and very rich guy choose to lie low?
Nowhere. That was Reacher’s conclusion. The city was big, but not big enough. The guy had been famous. He had employed a Senior Vice President for Communications. Everyone was talking about him. Presumably his picture had been in the paper all the time. Could such a person become an instant overnight hermit? Not possible. The guy had to eat, at least. He had to go out and get food, or have it brought to him. Either way people would see him. They would recognize him. They would talk. A week later there would be bus tours to his house.
Unless the guys who brought him food didn’t talk.
The population of Ukraine was about forty-five million. Some of them had come to America. No reason to believe they all knew each other. No reason to assume a connection. But a connection was the only way for a person to hide, in a city that size. The only guarantee of success was to be concealed and protected and catered to by a loyal and vigilant force. Like a secret agent in a safe house. Staring longingly out a window, while discreet couriers came and went.
Seven chances before the week is over, he thought.
He folded the map and jammed it in his back pocket. He rode down to the lobby and stepped out to the street. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since lunch with the Shevicks. A chicken salad sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a can of soda. Not much, and a long time ago. He turned and walked on Center Street, and within a block and a half he realized that in terms of food service, most places were already closed. It was already too late in the evening.
Which was OK. He didn’t want most places.
He walked north on Center, to where in his mind’s eye the fat part of the pear began to thin, and then he turned back south and sat on a bus bench and watched the ebb and flow in front of him. It was a slow motion exercise. Mostly the place was empty. There were long quiet gaps between vehicles. Pedestrians came and went, often in groups of four or five, which based on age and appearance were sometimes the last restaurant parties letting out and heading home, and sometimes the first fashionably late arrivals at whichever establishments were newly cool. Which seemed to be split about fifty-fifty east and west of Center, judging by the general drift. Which was actually more than a drift. There was some energy in it. Some attraction.
Also heading in one direction or the other was the occasional loner. A man, every time, some of them looking down at the sidewalk, some of them staring rigidly ahead, as if embarrassed to be seen. All of them anxious to get where they were going.
Reacher got up off the bus bench and followed the drift to the east. Up ahead he saw a glamorous quartet pass through a door on the right. When he got there he saw a bar dressed up to look like a federal prison. The bartenders were wearing orange jumpsuits. The only staff member not in costume was a big guy on
a stool inside the door. He was wearing black pants and a black shirt. He had black hair. Albanian, almost certainly. Reacher knew that part of the world. He had spent time there. The guy looked like a recent transplant. He had a smug look on his face. He had power, and he enjoyed it.
Reacher drifted onward. He followed a furtive but determined man around a corner and saw him go in an unmarked door, just as another man came out, all red in the face and happy. Gambling, Reacher thought. Not prostitution. He knew the difference. He had been an MP thirteen years. He guessed the guy going in thought he was about to win back what he lost yesterday, and the guy coming out had just won enough to pay his debts, with enough left over for a bouquet of flowers and dinner for two. Unless fate would be better served by continuing the winning streak. It was a tough decision. Almost a moral choice. What was a guy to do?
Reacher watched.
The guy opted for flowers and dinner.
Reacher drifted onward.
Albanian collections tended to be made later in the evening, because their scene tended to start later, which meant registers filled later. Their method was completely different than on the other side of Center Street. They didn’t go inside. No menacing presence. No dark suits. No black silk ties. They stayed in the car. They had been asked not to upset the various clienteles of the various establishments they serviced. They could be mistaken for cops or agents of some other kind. Bad for business. In no one’s interest. Instead a runner would bring out the envelope, hand it through the car window, and duck back inside. Thousands of dollars, for a ride around the block. Nice work if you could get it.
Two blocks east and one block north of the gambling club Reacher had seen a trio of side-by-side establishments all owned by the same family. First a bar, then an open-all-night convenience store, and in third place a liquor store. Their contributions were collected by a veteran pair, both retired legbreakers, both much respected. They had a practised rhythm for driving from door to door. It was about thirty feet from one to the next. One guy drove, and the other guy sat behind him. Their preferred method. The far back window was down two inches. The envelope was passed into a void. No contact. Nothing too close. Then the pedal was blipped, and a sluggish surge through the transmission propelled the car thirty feet, to the next door, where an envelope was passed into a void. And so on, except that night at the third stop outside the liquor store it wasn’t an envelope. It was a fat black suppressor on the end of a gun.
THIRTEEN
The gun was a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, and evidently it was set to fire threes, because that was what the guy in the back of the car received, aimed blind but smart, slightly back, stitching low to medium, hoping for legs and arms and maybe his chest. Meanwhile the driver was getting much the same thing from the other side, but mostly to his head, through the shattering glass, from another H&K, dancing in from the opposite sidewalk.
After which the car’s doors were wrenched open, almost symmetrically, the guy from the far sidewalk shoving the driver into the empty seat alongside him, and taking his place, while the guy from the liquor store crowded in the back. They slammed their doors and the car took off, all its seats filled, its occupants arranged diagonally, two guys feeling pretty good about things, plus one guy dead and one guy dying.
By that time Reacher was two blocks the other side of Center Street. He had figured out the demarcation line between Albanian and Ukrainian territory. He had found exactly what he was looking for. He was in a bar with small round cabaret tables and a stage in back. On the stage was a guitar-bass-drums trio, and on the tables were late-night small-bite menus. There was an espresso machine on the bar back. There was a guy on a stool inside the door. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, white skin, fair hair. Ukrainian for sure.
All good, Reacher thought. Everything he needed, and nothing he didn’t.
He chose a table on the far side of the room, about halfway in, and he sat with his back to the wall. In the left corner of his eye was the guy on the stool, and in the right corner was the band. They were pretty good. They were playing blues covers in a 1950s jazz style. Soft round tones from the guitar, not too loud, woody thumps from the bass, brushes skittering over the snare drum. No vocals. Most of the crowd was drinking wine. Some had pizzas about the size of a teacup saucer. Reacher checked the menu. They were called personal size. Plain or pepperoni. Nine dollars.
A waitress came by. She fit the 1950s music. She was petite and gamine, maybe in her late twenties, neat and slender and dressed all in black, with short dark hair and lively eyes and a shy but contagious smile. She could have been in an old-time black and white movie, with jazz on the soundtrack. Probably someone’s sassy little sister. Dangerously advanced. Probably wanted to wear pants to the office.
Reacher liked her.
She said, ‘May I bring you something?’
Reacher ordered two glasses of tap water, two double espressos, and two pepperoni pizzas.
She asked, ‘Is someone joining you?’
‘I’m worried about malnutrition,’ he said.
She smiled and left and the band kicked into a mournful rendition of Howlin’ Wolf’s old song ‘Killing Floor’. The guitar took the vocal line, with a tumble of pearl-like notes explaining how he should have quit her, since his second time, and went on to Mexico. At the door people kept on coming in, always two or more together, never alone. They all paused a second, like Reacher had before, obediently, for the doorman’s scrutiny. He looked at them one by one, up and down and in the eye, and he moved them inside with a millimetric jerk of his head, towards the fun beyond his shoulder. They walked past him, and he crossed his arms and slumped back on his stool.
Two songs later the waitress brought his food. She set it all out. He said thank you. She said he was welcome. He said, ‘Does the guy at the door ever stop anyone coming in?’
‘Depends who they are,’ she said.
‘Who does he stop?’
‘Cops. Although we haven’t seen cops in here for years.’
‘Why cops?’
‘Never a good idea. Whatever happens, if the wind changes, suddenly it’s bribery or corruption or entrapment or some other big thing. That’s why cops have their own bars.’
‘Therefore he hasn’t stopped anyone coming in for years. Now I’m wondering what he’s for, exactly.’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘I’m curious,’ Reacher said.
‘Are you a cop?’
‘Next you’re going to tell me I look like your dad.’
She smiled.
‘He’s much smaller,’ she said.
She turned away with a last look, which was not a wink, but it was close. Then she was gone. The band played on. The guy at the door was counting, Reacher figured. He was a cuckoo in the nest. Most likely the protection money was on a percentage basis. The guy counted the crowd so the owners couldn’t fudge the numbers. Plus maybe he offered a nominal security presence. To sweeten the deal. So everyone felt better.
The waitress came back before Reacher was finished. She had his check in a black vinyl wallet. She was about to go off duty. He rounded it up and added ten for a tip and paid in cash. She left. He finished his meal but stayed at his table a moment, watching the guy at the door. Then he got up and walked towards him. No other way to leave the restaurant. In the door, out the door.
He stopped level with the stool.
He said, ‘I have an urgent message for Maxim Trulenko. I need you to figure out a way to get it to him. I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.’
Then he moved onward, out the door, to the street. Twenty feet away on his right the waitress came out the staff-only door. At the exact same moment. Which he hadn’t expected.
She stopped on the sidewalk.
Petite, gamine, going off duty.
She said, ‘Hi.’
He said, ‘Thanks again for looking after me, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.’
He was counting time in his head
.
She said, ‘You too, and thank you for the very nice tip.’
She stayed about seven feet away, a little tense, a little up on her toes. All kinds of body language going on.
He said, ‘I try to think what kind of tip I would like, if I was a waitress.’
‘That’s an image I’ll never unsee.’
He was counting time in his head because one of two things was about to happen. Either nothing or something. Maybe nothing, because maybe Maxim Trulenko’s name meant nothing to them. Or maybe something, because maybe Trulenko’s name was top of the list of their VIP clients.
Time would tell.
The waitress asked, ‘So what are you, if you’re not a cop?’
‘I’m between jobs right now.’
If Trulenko’s name was on a list, the likely protocol would be for the guy at the door to call it in or text it in, immediately, and then, either because of an instruction in an immediate response, or because it was part of the protocol anyway, he would come out to detain and delay, any way he could, at least long enough to snap a picture with his phone, hopefully long enough for a roving surveillance team to show up. Or a roving snatch squad. No doubt they had plenty of vehicles. And not a huge patch to patrol. Half of a pear-shaped city.
‘I’m sorry about your situation,’ the waitress said. ‘I hope you find something soon.’
‘Thank you,’ Reacher said.
It would take the guy inside maybe forty seconds to make the call, or to text back and forth, and then get set, and take a breath, and step out the door behind them. In which case he was due right about then.
If it was something.
Maybe it was nothing.
The waitress asked, ‘What kind of work do you like to do?’
The guy stepped out the door behind them.
Reacher moved to the kerb and turned around, to make a shallow triangle, with the waitress now on his left, and the guy on his right, and empty space at his back.