by Lee Child
The guys outside stopped banging long enough to shout something a couple of times. Open up, open up, Reacher guessed. Then they started banging again. Reacher stood up and walked to the door. He thumped on it from the inside, just as hard and just as loud. The commotion stopped on the outside. Reacher smiled. No one expects a door to talk back.
He opened up and saw two guys in army combat uniform. One had a sidearm drawn, and the other had a shotgun. Which was pretty damn serious, for a suburban Virginia afternoon. Behind them their car had three doors hanging open. Its motor was running.
Reacher said, “What?”
The guy on the hinge side of the door was in charge. Safest spot, for the senior guy. He said, “Sir, you’re to come with us.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Unit?”
“75th MP.”
“Acting for who?”
“You’ll find out.”
The name on the guy’s uniform tape was Espin. He was about the size of a flyweight boxer, dark haired, hard and muscled, with a flattened nose. He looked like an OK type of guy. In general Reacher liked warrant officers. Not as much as sergeants, but more than most commissioned officers.
He asked, “Is this an arrest?”
“Do you want it to be?” Espin said. “If so, keep talking.”
“Make your mind up, soldier. It’s one thing or the other.”
“I prefer voluntary cooperation.”
“Dream on.”
“Then yes, you’re under arrest.”
“What’s your name?”
“Espin.”
“First name?”
“Why?”
“I want to remember it as long as I live.”
“Is that a threat?”
“What’s your name?”
“Pete,” the guy said.
“Got it,” Reacher said. “Pete Espin. Where are we going?”
“Fort Dyer,” Pete Espin said.
“Why?”
“Someone wants to talk to you.”
The third guy came back from behind the building. Junior to Espin, but only technically. All three of them looked like veterans. Seen it all, done it all. Espin said, “We’re going to search you first.”
“Be my guest,” Reacher said. He held his arms out wide. He had nothing to hide. He had nothing in his pockets except his passport, his ATM card, his toothbrush, some cash money, some gum, and his motel key. Which was all quickly confirmed. Whereupon the guy with the shotgun motioned him over to the car. To the back seat on the passenger side. Which was the safest spot to carry a bad guy in a four-place vehicle without a security screen. Smallest chance of him interfering with the driver. The guy who had checked for a bathroom window got in the driver’s seat. Espin got in next to Reacher. The guy with the shotgun closed Reacher’s door on him and then climbed in the front passenger seat. All set, nice and easy and professional. A good crew.
It was too late for lunch and too early for rush hour, so the roads were clear and the drive was quick, on a different route than the one Reacher had used before, through a tangle of streets to Dyer’s northern entrance, which seemed much less used than the main gate to the south. But it was no less secure. Getting in took the same amount of time. Dragons’ teeth, barriers, and check, check, check, three separate times. Then they drove a looping back way around and fetched up at the rear door of the guardhouse. Reacher was ushered out of the car, and in through the door, to a guy behind it. Not exactly a prison guard. More like a clerk or an administrator. He was unarmed, like most prison staff, and he had keys on his belt. He was in a small square lobby, with locked quarantine doors to the left and the right.
Reacher was led through the door on the left and onward to an interview room. Which had no windows. Just four blank walls, and a table bolted to the floor, with two chairs on one side and one on the other. The room had not been designed by the dining room guy. That was clear. There was no blond wood or carpet. Just scuffed white paint on cinder block, and a cracked concrete floor, and a fluorescent bulb in a wire cage on the ceiling.
A Dyer guy Reacher hadn’t seen before came in with a clear plastic zip bag and took away all the stuff from his pockets. Reacher sat down on the solo side of the table. He figured that was his designated position. Espin sat down opposite him. Everyone else left. Espin said nothing. No questions, no pleasantries, no bullshit to pass the time.
Reacher said, “Who wants to talk to me?”
Espin said, “He’s on his way.”
“He?”
“Some Polish name.”
“Who is he?”
“You’ll see.”
Which Reacher did, about twenty minutes later. The door opened, and a man in a suit came in. The man was on the early side of middle age, with short dark hair showing some gray, and a pale, pouchy face showing some fatigue, and a hard compact body showing some time in the gym. The suit was black, not cheap, but worn and shiny in places, and it had a badge holder flipped open and hooked in the top breast pocket. The badge was Metro PD. Which was D.C.’s local police department.
A civilian.
The guy sat down next to Espin and said, “I’m Detective Podolski.”
“Good to know,” Reacher said.
“I need some answers.”
“To what kind of questions?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t.”
“Questions about a felony assault.”
“How old this time? Twenty years? A hundred? Something that happened during the Civil War?”
“Tell me about your morning.”
“What morning?”
“This morning. Today.”
“I got up, and then I spoke to a lawyer, and then I spoke to another lawyer, and then I spoke to another lawyer. This morning was wall to wall lawyers, basically.”
“Their names?”
“Sullivan, Edmonds, and Moorcroft.”
“And Moorcroft would be Colonel Moorcroft, of your JAG school in Charlottesville, but temporarily working out of this base?”
“Not my JAG school,” Reacher said. “But yes, that’s the guy.”
“And where did you speak with him?”
“Right here, on this base. In the OC dining room.”
“And when did you speak with him?”
“This morning. Like I said.”
“What time specifically?”
“Does a private conversation between two army officers on an army base fall into your jurisdiction, detective?”
“This one does,” Podolski said. “Believe me. When did you speak with him?”
“His breakfast time,” Reacher said. “Which was later than mine. I would say the conversation began at twenty-three minutes past nine.”
“That’s certainly specific.”
“You asked me to be specific.”
Podolski said, “What was the conversation with Colonel Moorcroft about?”
“A legal matter,” Reacher said.
“Privileged?”
“No, it was about a third party.”
“And the third party would be Major Susan Turner, of the 110th MP, currently under investigation by the army on corruption charges?”
“Correct.”
“And Major Sullivan witnessed this conversation, is that right?”
“Yes, she was there.”
“She says you wanted Colonel Moorcroft to do something, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You wanted him to appeal Major Turner’s pre-trial confinement?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But he wouldn’t? Is that correct? And in fact he told you to butt out?”
“At one point, yes.”
“You argued, in fact. In a heated manner.”
“We didn’t argue. We discussed a technical matter. It wasn’t heated.”
“But the bottom line is you wanted Colonel Moorcroft to do something for you, and he refused to do it. Is that a fair sum
mary?”
Reacher said, “What exactly is this about?”
Podolski said, “It’s about Colonel Moorcroft getting beaten half to death, late this morning, in southeast D.C. On my streets.”
Chapter 15
Podolski took out a notebook and a pen, and he laid them neatly on the table, and he said, “You should have a lawyer here.”
Reacher said, “I wasn’t in southeast D.C. today. Or any other part. I didn’t even cross the river.”
“Do you want a lawyer?”
“I already have a lawyer. Two of them, actually. They’re not much use to me. In fact one of them in particular seems to be doing me no good at all.”
“Major Sullivan, you mean?”
“She left before the conversation was over. Moorcroft was going to file the paperwork. He agreed just after Sullivan was gone.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s also true. Is Moorcroft saying different?”
“Moorcroft isn’t saying anything. He’s in a coma.”
Reacher said nothing.
“You had a car, didn’t you?” Podolski asked. “A blue Chevrolet sedan, borrowed from the 110th HQ.”
“So what?”
“You could have grabbed Moorcroft up and driven him across the river.”
“Could have, I suppose, but didn’t.”
“It was a brutal attack.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. There must have been blood everywhere.”
Reacher nodded. “Brutal attacks and blood everywhere tend to go hand in hand.”
“Tell me about your clothes.”
“What clothes?”
“The clothes you’re wearing.”
Reacher looked down. “They’re new. I just bought them.”
“Where?”
“At a strip mall two blocks from my motel.”
“Why did you buy them?”
She’ll be out and about before long.
“It was time,” Reacher said.
“Were your old clothes dirty?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you get something on them?”
“Like what?”
“Blood, for instance.”
“No, there was no blood on them.”
“Where are they now?”
Reacher said nothing.
Podolski said, “We talked to the clerk at your motel. He said you made a point of asking for your trash to be emptied.”
“I didn’t really make a point.”
“But still, he emptied your trash. Like you asked him to. Just before the garbage truck came. So now, your old clothes are gone.”
“Coincidence.”
“That’s convenient,” Podolski said again. “Isn’t it?”
Reacher didn’t reply.
Podolski said, “The clerk checked the clothes. He’s that kind of guy. They were too big for him, of course, but they might have had some value. But they didn’t. Too dirty, he said. And too stained. Including with what looked like blood to him.”
“Not Moorcroft’s,” Reacher said.
“Whose, then?”
“I’d been wearing them a long time. I have a hard life.”
“You fight a lot?”
“As little as possible. But sometimes I cut myself shaving.”
“You showered, too, didn’t you?”
“When?”
“When you trashed the clothes. The motel clerk said you asked him for new towels.”
“Yes, I showered.”
“Do you normally shower twice a day?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was there a particular reason, today?”
She’ll be out and about before long.
Reacher said, “No particular reason.”
“To rinse the blood, maybe?”
“I wasn’t bleeding.”
“If we checked the drain, what would we find?”
“Dirty water,” Reacher said.
“You sure about that?”
“The whole room is dirty.”
“You’re facing a homicide charge right now, is that correct? From sixteen years ago? Juan Rodriguez? Some guy you beat up?”
“False accusation.”
“I’ve heard that before. Which is what Colonel Moorcroft said too, isn’t it? Major Sullivan told me you mentioned the matter to him. But he wasn’t sympathetic. Did that make you angry?”
“It made me a little frustrated.”
“Yes, it must get tiring, being so widely misunderstood.”
Reacher said, “How bad is Moorcroft?”
“Feeling guilty now?”
“I’m feeling concerned, about him and his client.”
“I heard you never even met the woman.”
“Should that make a difference?”
“The doctors say Moorcroft might wake up at some point. No one can say when, or what state he’ll be in when he does. If he does.”
Reacher said, “I was at the 110th HQ part of the morning.”
Podolski nodded. “For about twenty minutes total. We checked. What were you doing the rest of the morning?”
“Walking.”
“Where?”
“Here and there.”
“Anyone see you walking?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s convenient,” Podolski said, for the third time.
“You’re talking to the wrong guy, detective. Last I saw of Moorcroft, he was making his way out of the OC dining room right here, happy as a clam. Whoever attacked him is running around out there, laughing at you, while you’re wasting your time with me.”
“In other words, some other dude did it?”
“Obviously.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Podolski said again.
“You ever been wrong?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is, am I wrong now? And I don’t think I am. I’ve got a guy with a history of violence, who was seen arguing with the victim right before the time of the crime, and who dumped a full set of clothes right after the time of the crime, and took his second shower of the day, and who had access to a vehicle, and whose movements aren’t entirely accounted for. You were a cop, correct? What would you do?”
“I would find the right guy. I’m sure I saw that written down somewhere.”
“Suppose the right guy says he’s the wrong guy?”
“Happened all the time. You have to use your judgment.”
“I am.”
“Pity,” Reacher said.
“Show me your hands.”
Reacher put his hands on the table, flat, palms down. They looked big and tan, and worn and rough. Both sets of knuckles were very slightly pink, and very slightly swollen. From the night before. The two guys, in the T-shirts. The left hook, and the right uppercut. Big impacts. Not the biggest ever, but solid. Podolski stared for a long time.
“Inconclusive,” he said. “Maybe you used a weapon. A blunt instrument of some kind. The doctors will tell me.”
Reacher said, “So what next?”
“That’s the DA’s decision. In the meantime you’ll come with me. I want you locked up downtown.”
The room went quiet, and then Espin spoke for the first time.
“No,” he said. “Unacceptable. He stays here. Our homicide beats your felony assault.”
Podolski said, “This morning beats sixteen years ago.”
Espin said, “Possession is nine points of the law. We’ve got him. You don’t. Imagine the paperwork.”
Podolski didn’t answer.
Espin said, “But you can come over and talk to him anytime you want.”
“Will he be locked up?” Podolski asked.
“Tighter than a fish’s butt.”
“Deal,” Podolski said. He stood up, and gathered his pen and his notebook, and walked out of the room.
After that it was straight into routine pre-trial confinement. Reacher was searched again, and his boot laces were taken away
, and he was half-pushed and half-led along a narrow blank corridor, past two grander interview rooms opposite, and around two corners, all the way to the cell block. Which was a lot more civilized than some Reacher had seen. It was more like the far corner of a chain hotel than a prison. It was a warren of subcorridors and small lobbies, and the cell itself was like a motel room. Hardened, for sure, with bolts and locks, and a steel door that opened outward, and concrete walls, and a barred foot-high slit window near the ceiling, and metal fittings in the bathroom, and a narrow barracks-style cot for a bed, but it was spacious and reasonably comfortable all the same. Better than the place on the three-lane, overall. That was for damn sure. There was even a chair next to the bed. Joint Base Dyer-Helsington House, in all its opulent glory. High status prisoners on the inside got it better than low status officers on the outside.
Reacher sat down in the chair.
Espin waited in the doorway.
Hope for the best, plan for the worst.
Reacher said, “I need to see the duty captain, as soon as possible.”
Espin said, “He’ll stop by anyway. He’ll need to tell you the rules.”
“I know the rules. I was a duty captain myself, once upon a time. But I still need to see him as soon as possible.”
“I’ll pass on the message.”
And then Espin left.
The door slammed, and the lock turned, and the bolts shot home.
Twenty minutes later the same sounds happened in reverse. The bolts slammed back, and the lock turned the other way, and the door opened. The beanpole captain ducked his head under the lintel and walked in. He said, “Are we going to have trouble with you?”
Reacher said, “I don’t see why you should, as long as you all behave yourselves properly.”
The tall guy smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“You can call someone for me. Sergeant Leach at the 110th. Tell her where I am. She might have a message for me. If she does, you can come and tell me what it is.”
“You want me to feed your dog and pick up your dry cleaning, too?”
“I don’t have dry cleaning. Or a dog. But you can call Major Sullivan, at JAG, if you like. She’s my lawyer. Tell her I want to see her, here, by the close of business today. Tell her I need a client conference. Tell her it’s extremely important.”