by Lee Child
“The kid is out on her own.”
“It’s us they want.”
“And it’s her we want. They should stick with her. I would.”
“They don’t know where she went.”
“It’s not rocket science. Her mom’s not home, and she watched TV shows until the eight o’clock hour, and then she went out to get something to eat.”
“They’re not going to take her hostage.”
“They beat Moorcroft half to death. And they’re running out of time.”
“So what do you want to do?”
Reacher didn’t answer. He just dropped the binoculars in Turner’s lap and started the car and jammed it in gear and glanced back over his shoulder. He gunned it off the chevrons and into the traffic lane, and he swooped around the curve, leaving the 101, joining the 134, merging with slow traffic, looking ahead for the first exit, which he figured would be very soon, and which he figured would be Vineland Avenue. And it was, with a choice of north or south. Reacher inched through the congestion, frustrated, and went south, along the taller edge of the neighborhood, past the first mixed-use elbow, past the second, and onward, a hundred yards, until he saw the coach diner ahead, all lit up and shiny.
And crossing Vineland toward it was the girl.
He slowed and let her pass fifty yards in front of him, and then he watched her as she stepped into the diner’s lot. There was a gaggle of kids in one corner, maybe eight of them in total, boys and girls, just hanging out in the shadows and the night air, aimlessly, joking around, posturing and preening, the way kids do. The girl headed over toward them. Maybe she wasn’t going to eat after all. Maybe she had eaten at home. Something from the freezer, perhaps, microwaved. And maybe this was her after-dinner social life. Maybe she had come out to a regular rendezvous, to join the crowd at their chosen spot, to hang out and have fun, all night long.
Which would be OK. There was safety in numbers.
She stepped up close to the other kids, and there were some deadpan comments, and some high fives, and some laughter, and a little horsing around. Reacher was running out of road, so he took a snap decision and pulled into the lot, and parked in the opposite corner. The girl was still talking. Her body language was relaxed. These were her friends. They liked her. That was clear. There was no awkwardness.
But then minutes later she inched away, her body language saying I’m going inside now, and no one moved to follow her, and she didn’t look disappointed. Almost the opposite. She looked like she had enjoyed their company for sure, but now she was ready to enjoy her own. Equally for sure. As if it was all the same to her.
Turner said, “She’s a loner.”
Reacher said, “And tall.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“I know.”
“We can’t stay here.”
“I want to go inside.”
“No meet and greet. Not yet.”
“I won’t talk to her.”
“You’ll draw attention to her.”
“Only if those guys see this car out front.”
Turner said nothing. Reacher watched the girl pull the door and step inside. The diner was built in the traditional style, out of stainless steel, with folds and creases and triple accent lines like an old automobile, and small framed windows like an old railroad car, and neon letters configured in an Art Deco manner. It looked busy inside. The peak period, between the blue plate specials and the late-night coffee drinkers. Reacher knew all about diners. He knew their rhythms. He had spent hundreds of hours in them.
Turner said, “Observation only.”
Reacher said, “Agreed.”
“No contact.”
“Agreed.”
“OK, go. I’ll hide the car somewhere and wait. Don’t get in trouble.”
“You either.”
“Call me when you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Reacher said. He climbed out and crossed the lot. He heard cars on Vineland, and a plane in the sky. He heard the group of kids, scuffling and talking and laughing. He heard the Range Rover drive away behind him. He paused a beat and took a breath.
Then he pulled the diner door, and he stepped inside.
The interior was built in the traditional style, too, just as much as the outside, with booths to the left and the right, and a full-width counter dead ahead, about six feet from the back wall, which had a pass-through slot to the kitchen, but was otherwise all made of mirror glass. The booths had vinyl benches and the counter had a long line of stools, all chrome and pastel colors, like 1950s convertibles, and the floor was covered with linoleum, and every other horizontal surface was covered with laminate, in pink or blue or pale yellow, with a pattern, like small pencil notations, that given the dated context made Reacher think of endless arcane equations involving the sound barrier, or the hydrogen bomb.
There was a stooped and gray-haired counter man behind the counter, and a blonde waitress about forty years old working the left side of the coach, and a brunette waitress about fifty years old working the right side, and they were all busy, because the place was more than three-quarters full. All the booths on the left were taken, some by people eating at the end of the work day, some by people eating ahead of a night out, one by a quartet of hipsters apparently intent on period authenticity. The right side of the coach had two booths free, and the counter showed nineteen backs and five gaps.
The girl was all the way over on the right, at the counter, on the last stool, owning it, like the place was a bar and she had been a regular patron for the last fifty years. She had silverware and a napkin in front of her, and a glass of water, but no food yet. Next to her was an empty space, and then came a guy hunched over a plate, and another, and another, with the next empty stool nine spots away. Reacher figured he would get a better look at her from one of the empty booths, but diners had an etiquette all their own, and lone customers taking up four-place booths at rush hour was frowned upon.
So Reacher stood in the doorway, unsure, and the blonde waitress from the left side of the coach took pity on him and detoured over, and she tried a welcoming smile, but she was tired and it didn’t really work. It came out as a dull and uninterested gaze, nothing there at all, and she said, “Sit anywhere you like, and someone will be right with you.” Then she bustled away again, and Reacher figured anywhere you like included four-person booths, so he turned to his right and took a step.
The girl was watching him in the mirror.
And she was watching him quite openly. Her eyes were locked on his, in the mirrored wall, via reflections and refractions and angles of incidence and all the other stuff taught in high school physics class. She didn’t look away, even when he looked right back at her.
No contact, he had promised.
He moved on into the right side of the coach, and he took an empty booth one away from directly behind her. To see her best put his shoulder against the window and his back to the rest of the room, which he didn’t like, but he had no option. The brunette waitress showed up with a menu and a smile as wan as the blonde’s, and she said, “Water?”
He said, “Coffee.”
The girl was still looking at him in the mirror.
He wasn’t hungry, because the meal Lozano had bought in West Hollywood had been a feast fit for a king. So he slid the menu aside. The brunette was not thrilled with his lack of an order. He got the feeling he wouldn’t see her again anytime soon. No free refills for him.
The girl was still watching.
He tried the coffee. It was OK. The counter man brought the girl a plate, and she broke eye contact long enough to say something to him that made him smile. He had an embroidered patch on his uniform, with his name, which was Arthur. He said something back, and the girl smiled, and he moved away again.
Then the girl picked up her silverware and her napkin in one hand, and her plate in the other, and she slid off her stool, and she stepped over to Reacher’s booth, and she said, “Why don’t I join you?”
Chapter 53
The girl put her silverware down, and her napkin, and her plate, and then she ducked back to the counter to retrieve her glass of water. She waved to the guy called Arthur and pointed at the booth, as if to say I’m moving, and then she came back with her water and put it next to her plate, and she slid along the vinyl bench, and she ended up directly opposite Reacher. Up close she looked the same as she did from a distance, but all the details were clearer. In particular her eyes, which seemed to work well with her mouth, in terms of getting all quizzical.
He said, “Why would you want to join me?”
She said, “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t know me.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“I could be.”
“Arthur keeps a Colt Python under the counter, about opposite where you’re sitting. And another one at the other end. They’re both loaded. With .357 Magnums. Out of eight-inch barrels.”
“You eat here a lot?”
“Practically every meal, but the word would be often. Not a lot. Lot refers to quantity, and I prefer small portions.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t help it. I’m naturally pedantic.”
He said, “Why did you want to join me?”
“Why did I see your car three times today?”
“When was the third time?”
“Technically it was the first time. I was at the lawyer’s office.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“About what?”
“About why we see the same cars three times a day.”
“We?”
“Those of us paying attention,” she said. “Don’t play dumb, mister. There’s something going on in the neighborhood, and we would love to know what it is. And you look like you might tell us. If I asked you nicely.”
“Why do you think I could tell you?”
“Because you’re one of them, cruising around all day, snooping.”
Reacher said, “What do you think is happening?”
“We know you’re all over the lawyer’s office. And we know you’re all over my street. So we’re guessing someone on my street is the lawyer’s client, and they’re in some shady business together.”
“Who on your street?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? It depends on how much of a head fake you use with your parking places. We think you would want to be close to your target, but not right in front of it, because that would be too obvious. But how close? That’s what we don’t know. You could be watching a lot of different houses, if you go left and right a little ways, up and down the street.”
Reacher said, “What’s your name?”
“Remember that Colt Python?”
“Loaded.”
“My name is Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Sam Dayton. What’s your name?”
“Is that really all you know about the operation on your street?”
“Don’t damn us with faint praise. I think we did very well to piece that much together. You’re all very tight-lipped about it. Which is a great expression, isn’t it? Tight-lipped? But the tell is the way you move your cars between the law office and where I live. I understand why you do it, but it gives away the connection.”
“No one has talked to you about it?”
“Why would they?”
“Has your mom said anything?”
“She doesn’t pay attention. She’s very stressed.”
“What about?”
“Everything.”
“What about your dad?”
“I don’t have one. I mean, obviously I must, biologically, but I’ve never met him.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“I don’t have any.”
Reacher said, “Who do you think we are?”
“Federal agents, obviously. Either DEA, ATF, or FBI. This is Los Angeles. It’s always drugs or guns or money.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost fifteen. You didn’t tell me your name yet.”
Reacher said, “Reacher,” and watched her very carefully. But there was no reaction. No spark. No aha! moment. Or no OMG!! moment, which Reacher understood to be more likely with kids. His name meant nothing to her. Nothing at all. It hadn’t been mentioned in her presence.
She said, “So will you tell me what’s going on?”
Reacher said, “Your dinner is getting cold. That’s what’s going on. You should eat.”
“Are you eating?”
“I already ate.”
“So why come in?”
“For the decor.”
“Arthur is very proud of it. Where are you from?”
“I move around.”
“So you are a federal agent.” And then she started eating some of her food, which Reacher bet himself was billed on the menu as Mom’s Amazing Meatloaf. The smell of ground beef and ketchup was unmistakable. He knew all about diners. He had spent hundreds of hours in them, and he had eaten most of what they had to offer.
She said, “So am I right? Is it the lawyer and a client?”
“Partly,” Reacher said. “But there’s no shady business between them. It’s more about a guy who might visit with one of them. Or both of them.”
“A third party? With a beef?”
“Kind of.”
“So it’s going to be an ambush? You’re waiting for the guy to show? You’re going to bust him on my street? That would be very cool. Unless it happens at the law office. Can you choose? If you can, will you do it on my street? You should think about it anyway. The street would be safer. That little mall is busy. Is the guy dangerous?”
“Have you seen anyone around?”
“Only your own people. They sit in their cars and watch all day. Plus your mobile crews. The guy in the silver Malibu comes by a lot.”
“A lot?”
“Frequently, I should say. Or often. And the two guys in the rental. And you two in the Range Rover. But I haven’t seen a man on his own, looking dangerous.”
“What two guys in a rental?”
“One of them has a funny-shaped head. And cropped ears.”
“Cropped?”
“At first from a distance I thought they were just small. But up close you can see they’ve been cut. Like into tiny hexagons.”
“When did you get up close with that guy?”
“This afternoon. He was on the sidewalk outside my house.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not a thing. But why would he? I’m not a lawyer or a client and I don’t have a beef with anyone.”
Reacher said, “I’m not authorized to tell you much, but those two guys are not with us. They’re not ours, OK? In fact they might be a part of the problem. So stay away from them. And tell your friends.”
The girl said, “Not so cool.”
Then Reacher’s phone rang. He was unaccustomed to carrying a phone, and at first he assumed it was someone else’s. So he ignored it. But the girl stared at his pocket, until he pulled it out. Turner’s stored number was on the screen.
He excused himself, and answered.
Turner was breathing hard.
She said, “I’m heading back, and I need you out front of the diner, right now.”
Some kind of tight emotion in her voice.
So Reacher clicked off the call, and left Sam Dayton alone in the booth, and went outside, and hustled through the lot to the street. A minute later he saw headlights way to his left, spaced high and wide, coming toward him fast. The old Range Rover, out of the south, in a big hurry. Then its lights lit him up and it jammed to a hard stop right next to him and he yanked the door and slid inside.
He said, “What’s up?”
Turner said, “A situation got a little out of hand.”
“How bad?”
“I just shot a guy.”
Chapter 54
Turner took the Ventura Freewa
y going west, and she said, “I figured the law office would be closed for the night by now, and probably the whole strip with it, and therefore I figured the watchers would be gone by now, too, so I went up to take a look around, because there are things we may need to know in the future, including what kind of locks the law office has, and what kind of alarm. Which, by the way, are both fairly basic. You could buy five minutes in there, if you had to. And then I looked at my map and saw how I could get to Mulholland Drive pretty easily, because I’ve always wanted to drive a car on Mulholland Drive, like a G-man in a movie, and I figured if the kid is in there with you for her dinner, then she’s in there for at least thirty minutes more, which gives me time for a personal excursion, so off I went.”
“And?” Reacher said, simply to keep her going. Shooting people was stressful, and stress was a complex thing. People reacted to it in all kinds of different ways. Some people bottled it up, and some talked it out. She was a talker, he figured.
She said, “I was followed.”
“That was dumb,” he said, because she didn’t like mindless agreement.
“I spotted him early. There were lights behind him and I could see it was only one guy. A solo driver, and that was all. So I didn’t think much of it. And lots of people like Mulholland Drive, so it didn’t bother me he was going the same direction.”
“So what did?”
“He was also going the same speed. Which is unnatural. Speed is a personal thing. And I’m pretty slow, most of the time. Usually people are bunching up behind me, or I’m getting passed by altogether. But this guy was just there, always. Like I was towing him on a rope. And I knew it wasn’t the 75th MP or the FBI, because neither one knows what we’re driving, so it had to be our other friends, except there was only one guy in the car, not two, which meant either it was neither one of them, or they’ve split up now and they’re hunting solo, but whatever, it got old real quick, and the movies say Mulholland gets wild real quick, so I figured I better stop at the very first turn-out I saw, like a message, to tell him I had made him, which would then give him a choice, either accept defeat gracefully and keep on rolling down the road, or be a sore loser and stop and harass me in person.”