by Lee Child
‘What capacity?’ Jake asked again.
‘What did you tell me were the reasons behind the suicides you saw in Jersey?’
‘Financial or sexual.’
‘And Sansom didn’t make his money in the army.’
‘You think he was having an affair with Susan?’
‘Possible,’ I said. ‘He could have met her at work. He’s the kind of guy who is always in and out of the place. Photo opportunities, stuff like that.’
‘He’s married.’
‘Exactly. And it’s election season.’
‘I don’t see it. Susan wasn’t like that. So suppose he wasn’t having an affair with her.’
‘Then maybe he was having one with another HRC staffer, and Susan was a witness.’
‘I still don’t see it.’
‘Me either,’ I said. ‘Because I don’t see how information would be involved. Information is a big word. An affair is a yes-no answer.’
‘Maybe Susan was working with Sansom. Not against him. Maybe Sansom wanted dirt on someone else.’
‘Then why would Susan come to New York, instead of D.C. or North Carolina?’
Jake said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘And why would Sansom ask Susan for anything, anyway? He’s got a hundred better sources than an HRC clerk he didn’t know.’
‘So where’s the connection?’
‘Maybe Sansom had an affair long ago, with someone else, when he was still in the army.’
‘He wasn’t married then.’
‘But there were rules. Maybe he was banging a subordinate. That resonates now, in politics.’
‘Did that happen?’
‘All the time,’ I said.
‘To you?’
‘As often as possible. Both ways around. Sometimes I was the subordinate.’
‘Did you get in trouble?’
‘Not then. But there would be questions now, if I was running for office.’
‘So you think there are rumours about Sansom, and Susan was asked to confirm them?’
‘She couldn’t confirm the behaviour. That kind of stuff is in a different set of files. But maybe she could confirm that person A and person B served in the same place at the same time. That’s exactly what HRC is good for.’
‘So maybe Lila Hoth was in the army with him. Maybe someone is trying to link the two names, for a big scandal.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It all sounds pretty good. But I’ve got a local tough guy too scared to talk to the NYPD, and I’ve got all kinds of dire threats, and I’ve got a story about some barbarian crew ready to slip the leash. Politics is a dirty business, but is it that bad?’
Jake didn’t answer.
I said, ‘And we don’t know where Peter is.’
‘Don’t worry about Peter. He’s a grown-up. He’s a defensive tackle. He’s going to the NFL. He’s three hundred pounds of muscle. He can take care of himself. Remember the name. Peter Molina. One day you’re going to read about him in the paper.’
‘But not soon, I hope.’
‘Relax.’
I said, ‘So what do you want to do now?’
Jake shrugged and stumped around, up and down on tile sidewalk, an inarticulate man further stymied by the complexity of his emotions. He stopped, and leaned on a wall, directly across the street from the 14th Precinct’s door. He looked at all the parked vehicles, left to right, the Impalas and the Crown Vics, marked and unmarked, and the strange little traffic carts.
‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Nothing is going to bring her back.’
I didn’t speak.
‘So I’m going to call the funeral director,’ he said.
‘And then?
‘Nothing. She shot herself. Knowing the reason won’t help. Most of the time you never really know the reason, anyway. Even when you think you do.’
I said, ‘I want to know the reason.’
‘Why? She was my sister, not yours.’
‘You didn’t see it happen.’
He said nothing. Just gazed at the parked cars opposite. I saw the vehicle that Theresa Lee had used. It was fourth from the left. One of the unmarked Crown Vics farther along the row was newer than the others. Shinier. It winked in the sun. It was black, with two short thin antennas on the trunk lid, like needles. Federal, I thought. Some big-budget agency with the pick of the litter when it came to transportation choices. And communications devices.
Jake said, ‘I’m going to tell her family, and we’re going to bury her, and we’re going to move on. Life’s a bitch and then you die. Maybe there’s a reason we don’t care how or where or why. Better not to know. No good can come of it, just more pain. Just something bad about to hit the fan.’
‘Your choice,’ I said.
He nodded and said nothing more. Just shook my hand and moved away. I saw him walk into a garage on the block west of Ninth, and four minutes later I saw a small green Toyota SUV drive out. It went west with the traffic. I guessed he was heading for the Lincoln Tunnel, and home. I wondered when I would see him again. Between three days and a week, I thought.
I was wrong.
NINETEEN
I was still directly acrosst the street from the 14th Precinct’s door when Theresa Lee came out with two guys in blue suits and white button-down shirts. She looked tired. She had caught the call at two in the morning, which put her on the night watch, so she should have quit around seven and been home in bed by eight. She was six hours into overtime. Good for her bank balance, not so good for anything else. She stood in the sunlight and blinked and stretched and then she saw me on the far sidewalk and did a classic double take. She smacked the guy next to her on the elbow and said something and pointed straight at me. I was too far away to hear her words, but her body language screamed Hey, that’s him right there, with a big exclamation point in the vehemence of her physical gesture.
The guys in the suits automatically checked left for traffic, which told me they were based in town. Odd-numbered streets run east to west, even numbers run west to east. They knew that, in their bones. Therefore, they were local. But they were more used to driving than walking, because they didn’t check for bicycle messengers coming the wrong way. They just hustled across the street, dodging cars, scrambling, splitting up and coming at me from the left and the right simultaneously, which told me they were field-trained to some degree, and in a hurry. I guessed the Crown Vic with the needle antennas was theirs. I stood in the shade and waited for them. They had black shoes and blue ties and their undershirts showed through at the neck, white under white. The left sides of their suit coats bulged more than the right. Right-handed agents with shoulder holsters. They were late thirties, early forties. In their prime. Not rookies, not out to pasture.
They saw that I wasn’t going anywhere, so they slowed up a little and approached me at a fast walk. FBI, I thought, closer to cops than paramilitaries. They didn’t show me ID. They just assumed I knew what they were.
‘We need to talk to you,’ the left-hand guy said.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Because you just ran through traffic to get here.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘No idea. Unless it’s to offer me counselling because of my traumatic experience.’
The guy’s mouth set in an impatient scowl, like he was ready to bawl me out for my sarcasm. Then his expression changed a little to a wry smile, and he said, ‘OK, here’s my counsel. Answer some questions and then forget you were ever on that train.’
‘What train?’
The guy started to reply, and then stopped, late to catch on that I was yanking his chain, and embarrassed about looking slow.
I said, ‘What questions?’
He asked, ‘What’s your phone number?’
I said, ‘I don’t have a phone number.’
‘Not even a cell?’
‘Especially not even,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘I’m th
at guy,’ I said. ‘Congratulations. You found me.’
‘What guy?’
‘The only guy in the world who doesn’t have a cell phone.’
‘Are you Canadian?’
‘Why would I be Canadian?’
‘The detective told us you speak French.’
‘Lots of people speak French. There’s a whole country in Europe.’
‘Are you French?’
‘My mother was.’
‘When were you last in Canada?’
‘I don’t recall. Years ago, probably.’
‘You sure?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘You got any Canadian friends or associates?’
‘No.’
The guy went quiet. Theresa Lee was still on the sidewalk outside the 14th Precinct’s door. She was standing in the sun and watching us from across the street. The other guy said, ‘It was just a suicide on a train. Upsetting, but no big deal. Shit happens. Are we clear?’
I said, ‘Are we done?’
‘Did she give you anything?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Completely. Are we done?’
The guy asked, ‘You got plans?’
‘I’m leaving town.’
‘Heading where?’
‘Someplace else.’
The guy nodded. ‘OK, we’re done. Now beat it.’
I stayed where I was. I let them walk away, back to their car. They got in and waited for a gap in the traffic and eased out and drove away. I guessed they would take the West Side Highway all the way downtown, back to their desks.
Theresa Lee was still on the sidewalk.
I crossed the street and threaded between two parked blue and white prowl cars and stepped up on the kerb and stood near her, far enough away to be respectful, close enough to be heard, facing the building so I wouldn’t have the sun in my eyes. I asked, ‘What was that all about?’
She said, ‘They found Susan Mark’s car. It was parked way down in SoHo. It was towed this morning.’
‘And?’
‘They searched it, obviously.’
‘Why obviously? They’re making a lot of fuss about something they claim is no big deal.’
‘They don’t explain their thinking. Not to us, anyway.’
‘What did they find?’
‘A piece of paper, with what they think is a phone number on it. Like a scribbled note. Screwed up, like trash.’
‘What was the number?’
‘It had a 600 area code, which they say is a Canadian cellular service. Some special network. Then a number, then the letter D, like an initial.’
‘Means nothing to me,’ I said.
‘Me either. Except I don’t think it’s a phone number at all. There’s no exchange number and then it has one too many digits.’
‘If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.’
‘It doesn’t look right.’
‘So what was it?’
She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-coloured page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.
600-8221 9-D.
‘See anything?’ she asked.
I said, ‘Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.’ I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.
Lee said, ‘It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.’
‘Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.’
‘Not my problem.’
I asked, ‘Was there luggage in the car?’
‘No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.’
‘So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.’
Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.
I asked, ‘Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.’
‘Understandable,’ Lee said. ‘There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.’
‘Are you closing the file?’
‘It’s already closed.’
‘You happy with that?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Statistics,’ I said. ‘Eighty per cent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.’
‘But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.’
‘Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.’
‘Then all suicides are.’
She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, ‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.’
‘You leaving town?’
I nodded. ‘I’m going to Washington D.C.’
TWENTY
I took the train from Penn station. More public transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.
The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves and all three of them were irritable, but apart from that nothing rang a bell. Not that the D.C. Amtrak would attract suicide bombers anyway. It was tailor-made for a suitcase bomb instead. At Penn the track is announced at the last minute. The crowd mills around on the concourse and then rushes down and piles on. No security. Identical black roll-ons are stacked on the luggage racks. Easy enough for a guy to get off in Philadelphia and leave his bag behind, and then explode it a little later, by cell phone, as the train pulls into Union Station without him, right in the heart of the capital.
But we got there OK and I made it out to Delaware Avenue unharmed. D.C. was as hot as New York had been, and damper. The sidewalks ahead of me were dotted with knots of tourists. Family groups, mostly, from far and wide. Dutiful parents, sullen children, all dressed in gaudy shorts and T-shirts, maps in their hands, cameras at the ready. Not that I was either well dressed or a frequent visitor. I had worked in the area from time to time, but always on the left of the river. But I knew where I was going. My destination was unmistakable and right there in front of me. The U.S. Capitol. It had been built to impress. Foreign diplomats were supposed to visit during the fledgling days of the Republic and come away convinced that the new nation was a player. The design had succeeded. Beyond it across Independence Avenue were the House offices. At one time I had a rudimentary grasp of congressional politics. Investigations had sometimes led all the way to committees. I knew that the Rayburn Building was full of bloated old hacks who had been in Washington for ever. I figured a relatively new guy like Sansom would have been given space in the Cannon Building instead. Prestigious, but not top d
rawer.
The Cannon Building was on Independence and First, crouching opposite the far corner of the Capitol like it was paying homage or mounting a threat. It had all kinds of security at the door. I asked a guy in a uniform if Mr Sansom of North Carolina was inside. The guy checked a list and said yes, he was. I asked if I could messenger a note to his office. The guy said yes, I could. He supplied a pencil and special House notepaper and an envelope. I addressed the envelope to Major John T. Sansom, US. Army, Retired, and added the date and the time. On the paper I wrote: Early this morning I saw a woman die with your name on her lips. Not true, but close enough. I added: Library of Congress steps in one hour. I signed it Major Jack-none-Reacher. US. Army, Retired. There was a box to tick at the bottom. It asked: Are you my constituent? I ticked the box. Not strictly true. I didn’t live in Sansom’s district, but no more so than I didn’t live in any of the other 434 districts. And I had served in North Carolina, three separate times. So I felt I was entitled. I sealed the envelope and handed it in and went back outside to wait.
TWENTY- ONE
I walked in the heat on independence as far as the air and Space Museum and then about-turned and headed for the library. I sat down on the steps fifty minutes into the hour. The stone was warm. There were men in uniform behind the doors above me, but none of them came out. Threat assessment exercises must have placed the library low on the list.
I waited.
I didn’t expect Sansom himself to show. I figured I would get staffers instead. Maybe campaign workers. How old and how many, I couldn’t guess. Between one and four, maybe, between post-grad and professional. I was interested to find out. One youngster would show that Sansom wasn’t taking my note very seriously. Four senior people would suggest he had sensitivity on the issue. And maybe something to hide.