Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  Grassley asked, “Did you know any of Jacob’s friends or family?”

  Copeland cocked his head again. “There was an ex-husband, I guess. And after that, a significant other. Do we still say ‘boyfriend’ anymore?”

  Brice replied, “Boyfriend is fine. We know what you mean.”

  “He came to her partnership party, but he was late getting here. Big guy. Huge. Must have been six-five, two-fifty, at least. Hands the size of catcher’s mitts. I remember he looked a mess. Like he’d been in a bar fight or something.” Copeland paused and wrinkled his nose. “He wore dusty work boots, and his clothes were wrinkled and crusty with what he said was dried paint. Really strange. We don’t see many guys like that in our offices. Not the kind of thing you forget.”

  Kim felt her breath catch in her throat. “What was his name?”

  “Joe? Jim? Jack? John? Something short like that, I think. But she called him something like Teacher, as I recall. No clue why.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, January 29

  9:45 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Copeland had already given up the only useful thing he was likely to admit, so Kim tuned him out. Reacher was Jacob’s boyfriend. She’d been serious enough about him to invite him to her partnership celebration, which no newly elected partner would do with a casual date. That day, his work boots and clothes were wrinkled, dusty, and stiff with dried paint.

  First question, unless Copeland was lying, which seemed unlikely, how could Reacher explain the paint? Jodie Jacob might have asked him. Under those circumstances, a normal girlfriend would have. If Reacher had been the original serial killer, he’d probably have lied. If he wasn’t the original killer, then he might have told her something no one else would know. Lovers shared stuff like that, or at least the normal ones did.

  Kim wandered to the window wall and looked fifty stories down to the almost deserted street below. Saturday wasn’t a big day on Wall Street for traders or tourists, either, when the temperatures were below freezing.

  Grassley and Brice continued with the Copeland interview. When Grassley asked to speak to associates Jacob had worked with, Kim was ready to move on. She understood why Grassley needed to follow every possible lead, but she wasn’t going to find Jacob here.

  It was time to talk to the Boss. She’d put it off too long already. She had questions, and he had answers. Whether he’d tell her anything helpful was always a crapshoot, but he might.

  She asked Brice for the keys, slipped out of the conference room, and returned to the SUV. She found the Boss’s manila envelope, tore it open, and retrieved the burner phone inside. It wasn’t set up for voicemail and he wouldn’t have left any kind of recorded message anyway. But the list of recent calls were all from one unidentified number, as expected.

  This area, like all New York City, was under constant surveillance. Everything was recorded. But monitoring all that data was a monumental task and on a Saturday wouldn’t be a top priority. She closed the SUV and walked half a block along the sidewalk before she pushed the call back on the last one. After two rings, she wondered where he was.

  He picked up on the fifth. “Making any progress?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” She swiped her palm over her face. The cold wind blowing through the street felt like standing in a wind tunnel. She hugged her coat tighter around her body.

  He ignored the question. “I sent file materials to your partner.”

  She knew he meant Gaspar. “What kind of materials? The old serial killer file? I can get that from here.”

  “Remember where you are. Eyes and ears are always on. Not all are friendly.” He said nothing more for a moment. “Talk to him.”

  She understood the surveillance risks but took a chance anyway. “How does Deerfield know about our assignment?”

  Another long silence on his end of the connection. “I’m working on that.”

  “Did you redirect the media from this case?”

  “No.”

  “Takes the spotlight off the bathtub murder, which is exactly the opposite of what Deerfield wants. Can’t see why he’d be responsible for that particular misdirection.”

  “In that case, we’ll give the shooter a medal when they find him,” he snapped.

  Kim grinned. She’d pushed him into showing his hand. That didn’t happen often. His view of Deerfield was the same as hers. The Boss didn’t like the guy. Good to know because it meant he could take care of Deerfield. Maybe he would.

  “After you talk to your partner, call me back,” he said.

  Before he disconnected, Kim asked, “Is Jacob’s body in the bathtub?”

  This time, the long pause was eventually followed by a terse reply before he hung up. “Possibly.”

  She stood outside in the biting cold wind for another half a second. It was too cold to stay out here, but the cabin of the SUV was monitored more closely than the eyes and ears constantly surveilling the financial heartbeat of the country.

  She glanced around the almost deserted street until she spied an open coffee shop up the block on the other side and a drugstore on the corner. She locked the SUV and hurried along the sidewalk, careful of the snow and ice along her path.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saturday, January 29

  10:45 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Kim hurried into the drugstore, found the small electronics aisle in the back, and bought four new burner phones and a package of gum. She paid with cash and stuffed the phones in her pockets and hurried out again. Two doors down, she entered the coffee shop.

  She texted her location to Brice once she settled into a table in the back. The Boss and anyone else who could track her personal cell phone would know where she was. Who else would care enough to pay attention? Deerfield and Finlay, at least. Which was okay for now.

  Brice replied to her text. They’d found a couple of associates to question about Jacob. He’d be another half hour, at least. She texted, “OK.”

  She pulled up a list of recent calls on her personal cell. Brice’s number was repeatedly listed, covering about twenty minutes this morning before she’d finally picked up. Before that, the last call was the one she made yesterday from the airport in Detroit to tell her mother she wouldn’t be there for Friday night dinner.

  From her personal cell, she dialed Gaspar’s home number. On the third ring, he declined the call, which was their signal that he was available.

  She called again on one of the new burners she’d bought at the drugstore. A blocked number called back less than a minute later. She noticed it was one digit different from the number she’d dialed to reach the Boss. He wanted to talk on a phone the Boss gave him, which would make this new burner useless after the call.

  “Good to hear from you,” she said when she answered.

  Gaspar replied, “You’ve got file materials to download. From both of us. As soon as you can.”

  “Will do. But it could be a while. I don’t get much time to myself.”

  “Understood.” Gaspar’s words were clipped, but his tone was relaxed.

  “I’ll call again when I can,” she said and waited for him to disconnect.

  She’d worked with Gaspar for not quite ninety days and she’d never seen him lose his composure. Not once. No matter what happened.

  She’d discovered that Gaspar and Reacher were wired very much alike. Both were exceptionally masculine men. Similar ages. Similar expertise. Ex-Army officers. Cops, more or less. Reacher had been a military policeman for thirteen years. Gaspar was an MP and afterward, had joined the FBI as a special agent. Both had stellar careers, for a while. Both had washed out early but in different ways.

  Gaspar was unlike Reacher in a few other critical ways as well. Reacher was a loner, a drifter, no family, few friends, never around when needed. Gaspar was happily married and the father of five, including a new baby. He’d lived in Miami all his life, amid a very close extended family. H
e was about as anchored down as a man could get, and he loved it.

  The differences between the two men made Gaspar a great partner and a good friend. The similarities made him her secret weapon. Simply put, Gaspar understood how Reacher thinks. When she used Gaspar’s expertise appropriately, it gave her an edge she wouldn’t otherwise have. An edge Reacher definitely did not have when he tried to anticipate her moves.

  She walked back to the unisex restroom and went inside. She locked the door. The place was filthy, which wasn’t okay, even though she didn’t intend to touch anything. She removed the back from the burner phone she’d used to call Gaspar and dismantled it. She flushed those bits down the toilet. She stomped on the plastic case and flushed those pieces next.

  Every conversation in this area of the city, including the coffee shop, was recorded and could have been monitored in real time. Her brief exchange with Gaspar, too. Nothing she could do to change those facts. But she could try to make them feel comfortable enough that they wouldn’t bother paying attention to her. At least, not immediately.

  She walked back to her table, pulled out her personal cell and placed another call to Gaspar, this time to his personal cell. When he picked up, she said, “I’ve got a little time to kill while I’m waiting for Agent Brice. You have a minute to talk, Chico?”

  She could feel Gaspar’s grin traveling all the way from Miami. “I got nothing but time, Susie Wong. My leg’s improving. I’m going insane watching soaps all day.”

  “I’ll bet you’re driving your family nuts, too. When can you get back to work?”

  “Monday. Marie will drive me. Desk duty only, for a while. But at least I’ll be doing something useful.”

  Gaspar loved his kids like crazy, but he wasn’t the kind of hands-on dad who coached soccer. His talents lay elsewhere. Even with his disability, he was a damn fine FBI Special Agent, and he’d saved Kim’s butt more than once. He loved being in the field. Sitting at a desk would drive him nuts.

  “I’ve caught a new case while you’re basking in the sunshine by the pool. Detroit loaned me out to the New York Field Office,” she said, choosing her words carefully to convey only what she wanted known. Since she was in a public place, discretion would be expected by civilians, anyway.

  “Anything you can tell me about it?” Gaspar replied.

  “Not much at the moment. Two reasons. One is we really don’t know much yet. The other is that I’m in a coffee shop.” She paused. “Tell me about the kids.”

  So he did. For about five minutes, until Brice’s text interrupted. He was on his way back to the SUV. She casually left the coffee shop, chatting with Gaspar all the way back to the vehicle.

  When Brice and Grassley walked out of the Spencer Gutman building together, Kim moved a bit quicker. She wrapped up the call, dropped the phone into her pocket, and met them at the SUV where they stood huddled against the wind on the sidewalk.

  “What’s next on the lineup?” Kim asked.

  Brice said, “Looks like the coroner is running behind. She hasn’t started on the autopsy yet. No use going to the morgue until she’s got something to tell us.”

  “We’ve got a residential address for Jodie Jacob. I’m going to head over there,” Grassley replied. “You coming?”

  “Where is it?” Brice asked.

  “Broadway. South of Canal, I think. I don’t have the address handy,” Grassley replied.

  Kim could see that Brice was torn between seeing Jacob’s apartment firsthand, and something else. She wondered what the other thing was because Jacob’s apartment had probably been unoccupied for quite a while. Visiting her apartment was pro forma for Grassley, but nothing useful to Kim would come of it.

  Brice said, “Have you interviewed her ex-husband? He’s a lawyer, too, I guess.”

  Grassley replied, “Not yet. He’s on the list. But they’ve been divorced for years. It’s not likely he’s got anything helpful to add.”

  Kim said, “Have you identified the body in the tub yet?”

  Grassley shook her head. “Her DNA doesn’t match any of our databases, which only means she wasn’t convicted of a felony in New York since we started collecting DNA from prisoners. We’ve got a subpoena being prepared for the ancestry websites, which could turn something up next week.”

  “Doubtful.” Kim stomped her feet to stay warm. “Fingerprints?”

  “Because Jacob is a lawyer, her fingerprints are on file. But the fingerprints on the body were degraded by what we believe is the chemicals in that paint. The lab is working on it.”

  “Dental records?” Brice asked.

  “Jacob left no family to give consent. We’re working on a court order for the dental records.” Grassley raised a hand to tame wisps of curly red hair that had escaped her scrunchie and bounced around her freckled face. “This case is less than twelve hours old, Brice. We’re working on all of it. And it’s not the only thing on our plate besides the gangbangers, as you no doubt heard.”

  “Right. Of course,” Brice said, shivering. “Any leads on the latest Center Line Theater killer?”

  “That’s not my case.” Grassley grimaced. “But nothing, as far as I know. It was a professional hit. That’s all we know so far.”

  Brice nodded. “We’ve got a meeting with another agent on a different case. Let’s touch base in a couple of hours. How’s that?”

  “Fine. I’m friggin’ freezing my ass off out here. Call me whenever you feel like it,” Grassley growled and stomped off toward her unmarked sedan parked at the curb down the block.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Brice’s quizzical expression reminded Kim of a puppy who doesn’t understand potty training.

  Kim pushed the button on the key fob to unlock the SUV and handed Brice the keys. She climbed into the cabin. She managed to stifle her laughter while he started the engine and buckled up. Her empty stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since that dry toast in Newburgh last night, and for a long while before that because of the plane flight. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Almost noon. Her stomach growled.

  Brice glanced over. “Don’t worry. I’m planning to feed you.”

  “Glad to hear it. When?”

  “Half an hour or less. Traffic’s light.”

  “It takes that long to get to FBI headquarters from Wall Street on a Saturday?”

  “We’re not meeting at headquarters.” Brice took a quick left.

  Something about his tone was odd. “Who are we meeting? If I don’t need to be there, I brought a ton of work with me. I can get room service.”

  “One of the agents who worked on the original bathtub cases with Reacher is in town for meetings. She’s leaving later today, so this is our only chance to connect with her before she goes back to Portland.”

  A dark red blush started at his collar and flooded his face all the way to his hairline.

  Uh, huh. Just as Kim figured. “What’s her name?”

  “Harper, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, I mean, I-I haven’t met her before. But the caller ID on the message said L. Harper.” He was perspiring now, and he looked thoroughly miserable.

  “You’ve seen her picture. She’s attractive. Right?”

  “I swear, I would have mentioned her name when you asked me about female agents on the cold case. I didn’t know she was in town. I hadn’t seen her photo when you asked me about attractive women yesterday.” His apoplectic complexion and the pulsing vein in his right temple attested to his stress levels. Maybe he had high blood pressure, too. The guy was a walking stroke waiting to happen.

  “Of course not,” Kim replied, sarcasm thick as peanut butter on bread.

  Her cell phone rang before she had the chance to let him off the hook. She fished it out of her pocket and saw the caller ID. It was the hot Treasury Agent she’d met a couple of weeks ago. They’d been talking regularly, but that’s as far as things had progressed because they were both busy and he lived too far aw
ay for casual drinks after work.

  She put the smile into her voice when she connected the call. “Hello.”

  “Kim? It’s John Lawton.”

  “Good to hear from you. Guess where I am?” she said, warmly.

  “Detroit, I hope. I just landed. Still on the ground at the Delta terminal. I’m only here for a couple of nights. Any chance we can have dinner while I’m in town?”

  She shook her head. No wonder she never had a date. Not that she’d been looking when Lawton showed up. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she really was married to the FBI.

  CHAPTER NINETEN

  Saturday, January 29

  10:45 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Reed had followed Brice from Otto’s hotel to the building that housed Jacob’s Wall Street office. When they went inside, he moved the stolen car he’d borrowed from a parking lot to a better location, one with a clear sight line to Brice’s unmarked SUV. He’d recognized Grassley’s unmarked sedan parked a few spaces farther up.

  Otto came outside alone. She’d made a phone call, but she hadn’t used her personal cell phone. She was using burners. He slammed the flat of his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. Who was she talking to? Reacher? No way to tell using the equipment he had with him.

  He’d watched her walk along the sidewalk, doing more talking than listening. The call was fairly short. She returned to the SUV and locked it. Then she trotted across the street to the drug store, went in and came out with no shopping bags in her hands. She moved into the coffee shop. He had a clear view of both from his new vantage point.

  She moved deeper into the coffee shop where he couldn’t see her. She had her personal cell on her so he could track her. After a while, she made a call. She moved even deeper into the shop, stayed a short time, then returned and made another call, this time on her personal cell.