Jack and Joe

by Diane Capri

  “That would be great. If she were present. But she isn’t. Which means the job falls to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Have you ever been in the Army, Agent Otto?”

  I shook my head.

  “You don’t get to be a major in the U.S. Army by disobeying orders from a superior officer, especially one who is directly in your chain of command.” He took a breath, paused, and seemed to make up his mind about something. “In fact, that’s the sort of thing that can get you busted back to Captain and sent off to the front of the fighting pretty quickly. Probably take less than three weeks, start to finish.”

  I nodded again, wondering why he was so reluctant to directly address Reacher’s old story. “What other kinds of things can get an officer demoted and transferred like that?”

  “Conduct unbecoming would do it. Civilian complaints and officer complaints of a significant nature. Unauthorized absence. Away without leave. Misuse of resources.” He listed them slowly as if he had to think about the options, which I was pretty sure he did not. I had the clear impression that these particular offenses came straight out of the facts in Reacher’s old case files.

  He hesitated a moment and leveled his gaze my way. “This is the Army. There’s a long list of don’ts that can get a guy in big trouble pretty fast.”

  I considered each option he’d offered.

  If Reacher had done all that, Jones was right. He was the farthest thing from a team player.

  Crazy thing was, busting him back and sending him out of here was a puny slap on the wrist that Reacher would have barely noticed.

  CHAPTER 5

  The desk phone rang and Major Clifton answered. He listened for less than a minute, said “Thank you,” and hung up.

  “The sergeant says Colonel Summer has not arrived and right now she’s unreachable.” He frowned and tapped his forefinger on the desktop. “It’s not unusual for us to get called out without notice like that, but I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  How convenient. And no real surprise, either. Not just because that had so often been how the cards had fallen throughout my investigation into Reacher. Something happened here back in 1990 and it had been buried for twenty years. The Army wouldn’t want to open that old can of worms, no matter how cooperative they appeared.

  “Happens to me all the time, too.” I stood and extended my hand to Major Clifton. “I’ll leave a voice mail for Colonel Summer and I’m sure she’ll call me when she can.”

  Another dead end. I was annoyed, but not shocked. Reacher had been off the grid since his honorable discharge. No small feat. Only a clever man with a certain skill set could manage to do that in the modern age. Stood to reason that he’d honed those skills in the Army. I was glad I hadn’t pulled Gaspar away from his family and wasted his time as well as mine.

  And I wondered why the Boss was pushing these particular hot buttons. He had an ulterior motive. He always did.

  Major Clifton dialed the charm factor up to full throttle, now that the Army appeared to have dodged my questions. “In the meantime, is there anyone else here at Bird you’d like to talk with or anything else I can help you find?”

  What he meant was that he’d be glad to let me go on a wild goose chase around a base that was as large as Detroit, knowing I’d find nothing of value. I cocked my head so he’d know I was considering the offer.

  And I was. Summer had been Reacher’s subordinate officer at a time when critical events occurred in Reacher’s life. Pressure points. The type that shaped a man, pushed him to make tough choices, revealed his character or changed it, for better or worse.

  Someone besides Summer knew what had happened. I could find witnesses, uncover facts, do my job. If everyone would get out of my way. So I deflected. “I have a list of people to interview off the base, but if I hear of anyone back here who might be of interest, it’s good to know I’ll find the door open.”

  He frowned but said nothing.

  Which probably meant I could look until Hell froze over and I wouldn’t find a scrap of paper or a single person at Fort Bird who would tell me anything. Whatever had happened was sensitive and buried too deep. Jones was right, too. Army bases were filled with transients. Most of the soldiers here now hadn’t been here two years ago, let alone two decades ago.

  Major Clifton walked with me to the front door and continued along outside, where the November wind sliced through my lightweight suit. I had been in Florida yesterday, where sunshine and temperatures in the 80s had warmed my blood too much. Cold, gusty wind and rain were far from my favorite combination, but it was normal for the season and to be expected. Worse was coming before the mountain weather improved in the spring.

  “Look,” Major Clifton said, “let me buy you some lunch at least. We can go over to the Officers Club. You’ve got a long drive to wherever you’re going.” Now that he’d mentioned lunch, my stomach growled like one of Pavlov’s dogs. He delivered the closer: “And who knows, maybe Colonel Summer will get here by the time we’ve finished.”

  Maybe Summer had blown me off. Maybe she’d never intended to follow her orders. What did I really know about her? Or maybe her orders were delivered with a wink and a nod. Maybe the Army placated the Boss but never had any intention of following through.

  I had no answers to any of that, but I was hungry, so I tossed my briefcase into the front seat of my rental and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”

  Clifton flashed that smile again, which probably worked to get him anything he wanted from most women. Truth be told, the impact wasn’t lost on me, either, as much as I wished otherwise.

  I hugged my arms around my thin blazer and put my head down against the wind as we walked. Within a dozen steps, the rain became sleet. It pelted my exposed skin like tiny ice needles that melted after contact, leaving only the damage to prove they’d existed.

  “Driving on the mountain roads will be treacherous when you leave here,” Major Clifton bent his head to make sure his voice carried. “We’ll have snow on top of this ice before midnight. You’ll want to be very careful and stick to the well-traveled highways as much as possible.”

  We reached our destination after five minutes of brisk walking, but I was chilled to the bone and my wool suit had absorbed enough icy rain to weigh me down. Inside, the Officers Club was warm and dry. Logs crackled in the fireplace. The place was almost homey.

  Most of the tables were already full of officers who had no interest in venturing off base. They were all dressed in what the Army calls ACUs, or Army Combat Uniforms, the standard uniform worn daily on base. ACUs replaced the old BDUs, or Battle Dress Uniforms, that were worn during Reacher’s time.

  Everything was an acronym around the Army and I often felt like I needed an interpreter. Maybe there was an app for that. I made a mental note to check.

  Several officers exchanged brief pleasantries with Major Clifton as we passed through the room. He introduced me to a few. Colonel James Artem, Major Sebastian Rochester, even a General Declan Maunder. Clifton seemed well-regarded by all.

  Two female officers, Lieutenants Betty Farish Johnston and Lynne Graham, made a point of engaging him in a longer conversation than was necessary. He appreciated the attention a bit too much, which helped to squelch his appeal for me. My ex had been a little too popular with women. It was a trait I never appreciated.

  It didn’t take long to choose what turned out to be surprisingly good food from the lunch buffet. Along with a big mug full of that great coffee.

  Clifton steered me to an empty table in the back where we could talk quietly without interruption, which I thought was a little curious under the circumstances. He’d already made an elaborate point of pretending he didn’t know anything and couldn’t tell me what he did know. Why did we need privacy? Unless he was simply on the prowl. In which case he had plenty of willing participants already.

  I organized my lunch from the tray to the table while he led the first ten minutes of our conversation. Irrelevant
small talk of the kind I’m not good at and never remember afterward.

  And then he got to the point. “Listen. I never met Jack Reacher. That was before my time.”

  I nodded. “How old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

  “Pretty good guess. I’m thirty-five.” He grinned. “How old are you?”

  Once I’d begun to eat, I realized how hungry I was. “Irrelevant. This chowder is excellent, though. Hearty and hot.”

  “Indulge me.” When I looked up from my chowder, his eyes were laser-focused on me, which made me wary. I’m not that interesting, not even to my parents.

  “Thirty-two,” I said. “The perfect age. Or so my mother says.”

  “Now I’m feeling too old.” He cocked his head. He hadn’t touched his food. “Did your mother give you a reason for choosing thirty-two as the perfect age?”

  He was listening, paying attention, maybe even interested. He wasn’t totally self-absorbed. Maybe this guy was more than a pretty face after all. Maybe. But not likely. Men as attractive as he was usually don’t bother developing their other talents. They don’t need to. The rest of us have to try harder.

  What was his motive?

  “My mother is Vietnamese-American.” I shrugged, spooning the chowder. “She always thinks everything is simultaneously perfect and not perfect. Next year, thirty-three will be the perfect age.”

  He laughed. His laugh was as deep and warm as his voice. The kind of voice that would make you feel cozy and protected in the middle of the night. A dangerous voice. A woman could be enticed to rely on a voice like that.

  Some women. Not this one. “Now that you know everything there is to know about my mother, tell me why you invited me to lunch.”

  “I was hungry.” He still had not touched his food. “I figured you probably were, too. That’s all.”

  “I was hungry.” I finished the last bit of my chowder to prove it. “But that’s not why you asked me to lunch, or why I accepted.”

  “No?” His left eyebrow arched while the right one didn’t move a smidge. Then he reversed the process.

  Seriously? Ambidextrous eyebrows?

  “I accepted your invitation,” I said, “because I want you to tell me more about Colonel Summer. Jones said she’s a bulldog. Summer told me she was in the middle of a corruption investigation now. I imagine the bulldog personality helps with work like that. What’s the most successful approach for me to take with her to find out everything she knows about Reacher?”

  He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. There he went: He seemed reticent again all of a sudden.

  He said, “I asked you to lunch because I might be able to help you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I could certainly use the help,” I said, wondering what he could possibly know that would be of use to me.

  “When I was at West Point, Reacher was long gone. I only knew him by reputation.” He hesitated a couple of beats. “But my brother knew him.”

  “Your brother?” I blinked, recalibrating swiftly.

  “I had two brothers.” He held up two fingers. “Both older and both also at West Point. Frank was in Jack Reacher’s class.”

  The rest of my food instantly lost its appeal and my pulse quickened. An actual witness. “Can I talk to him? Has he kept in touch with Reacher at all?”

  “No.” He lowered his gaze briefly, cleared his throat and returned a steady stare. “Frank was killed in Desert Storm.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was also confused.

  He nodded. “Stories about Jack Reacher are the stuff of legend, though. There are lots of tough guys at West Point and in the Army. We’ve got a lot of them here on base. Reacher’s reputation was different.”

  “How so?”

  “He wasn’t well liked or popular. But he was respected.”

  “Feared, you mean?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a fine line sometimes. Word was, he never put up with any kind of bullshit. Even from superior officers. Had a very low tolerance level for crap coming his way. And because he was so huge, people didn’t mess with him and live to tell about it, if you know what I mean.” He paused. Cleared his throat again. “But my older brother, Matt, was at West Point with Joe Reacher.”

  Reluctant to rush into another faux pas, I said nothing.

  “For another few days until he reports for new orders, that brother, Major General Matthew Clifton, is the Commander of the First Team.” I must have looked as clueless as I surely felt because he explained. “The 1st Cavalry Division in Fort Herald, Texas.”

  I shook my head. Of course, I’d heard of the 1st Cavalry. But what I knew had been gleaned mostly from the movie Apocalypse Now, which loosely followed the 1st Cavalry Division during the Viet Nam war. I’d always been interested in the Viet Nam conflict because my parents met and fell in love when Dad was serving in the Army there.

  “One of the most decorated divisions of the Army.” Major Clifton leaned in and lowered his voice. “If you give me your word that I can trust you to keep this confidential, I will ask Matt your questions. He may or may not have answers. But he liked and respected Joe Reacher immensely. They were very close at West Point and for quite a while afterward. Up until Joe died.”

  I remained silent. I’d learned a few facts about Joe Reacher’s death early in my assignment. He’d died in the line of duty in a small Georgia town, not long after Jack Reacher left the Army fifteen years ago.

  “In our business, we see a lot of death. We’ve lost friends and family many times over.” His gaze seemed to be asking for my consent, but consent to what? “Joe Reacher was a special friend to Matt and I know he would want to help Joe’s brother.”

  Only then did Major Clifton tuck into his meal, giving me time to work things out while he ate.

  His implied question was tricky. If General Matthew Clifton told me whatever he knew about Joe Reacher, would that information help Joe’s brother, Jack?

  The truth was, I had no idea why the Boss tasked us with building a file on Jack Reacher or what he would do with the data we uncovered. The job Reacher was being considered for was classified and above my clearance level.

  But there was a lot that was hinky about the whole business.

  The Boss wanted to find Jack Reacher. And he usually sent us to places he felt Reacher was likely to show up. He believed the key to finding Reacher lay with his old contacts. That was really all I knew for sure. For a normal human, that would be a good strategy, too. We’d exploited it many times in routine FBI investigations.

  What I suspected, but couldn’t prove, was that the Boss was illegally monitoring Reacher’s old contacts. When they were either already or about to be enmeshed in serious trouble and the Boss thought Reacher might show up, he sent Gaspar and me into the middle of the situation.

  If that’s what he was doing, the Boss was breaking every rule there was. He likely believed that if we got a good result, breaking the rules might not matter.

  Based on what I’d learned so far, that seemed to be Reacher’s philosophy, too. The two of them were well-matched that way.

  On the flip side, I didn’t know whether Reacher was actively hiding or simply hadn’t been located yet. Big difference. The behavior of everyone we’d met who had actually known Reacher was wary and suspicious, at best. Which strongly suggested that Reacher had good reason to hide.

  Nothing about my off-the-books assignment was normal or routine or even explainable. I’d been told to stay under the radar. Not undercover, but pretty damn close. I’d been given permission to share a sanitized version of my orders when required, but nothing more.

  And General Clifton would have questions, no doubt. Questions I couldn’t answer.

  Short story long, even if I wanted to tell Major Tony Clifton and his brother all about my assignment, I’d been ordered not to do so. Violating orders wasn’t a healthy way to get ahead in the FBI. And I couldn’t promise anything about what the Boss would do or not do with the information I manag
ed to acquire, anyway.

  So the tough question was whether I would volunteer more to Tony Clifton now and tell him what was really going on, against my orders, or not. I’d ignored the Boss before and I didn’t have a philosophical problem with doing so when the situation called for it.

  But this time, the answer was no. For two reasons.

  The first was my number two, Gaspar. I was the lead agent on this case so it was my call to make, but I couldn’t put his career on the line without asking him, at the very least. He needed this job and he’d made it plain he would do whatever was required to stay employed. He had four kids and another due any minute and a wife to support and twenty years to go before he retired. He was disabled and this was the only job he could get.

  Gaspar’s career was not mine to risk. Simple as that.

  The second thing was, I intended to be the director of the FBI someday. The road to that particular brass ring was long and winding. The Boss could help me or he could make damn sure I never reached my destination.

  So far, he’d been in my corner. Mostly.

  The Boss had already made the call, contacting General Clifton again would be a waste of time. If he hadn’t called, he wouldn’t appreciate me doing so unless I could produce something tangible. At the moment, I had no clue how I could make that happen.

  I pushed my plate away, crossed my ankles and sat more comfortably with my coffee. The icy rain pelted harder against the windows and I had no real desire to rush. What I did have was a rare chance to get some straight answers, even though the answers were old.

  “Did you ever meet Joe Reacher?”

  Major Clifton nodded. “A few times. I was just a kid when Matt brought him home for a weekend or two. Joe’s parents were posted overseas and Jack was with them, so Joe was on his own for a couple of years before Jack entered West Point.”

  “What was Joe like?”

  “Big. Tall. Wide. As a kid, I thought he was a giant. Studious, I guess you’d say. More than a little exacting sometimes.” He grinned and tore off a piece of bread to sop up the last of his chowder. “Joe didn’t have a middle name, but he joked that if he had, it would have been Joe Pedantic Reacher.”