“Why?”
He shrugged. “It was so halfhearted, wasn’t it? So tentative? I think it proves the guy is hiding behind appearances. It proves he’s pretending. Like there’s me, looking at the cases, and I’m thinking where’s the violence? Where’s the anger? And simultaneously somewhere the guy is reviewing his progress, and he’s thinking oh my God, I’m not showing any anger, and so on the next one he tries to show some, but he’s not really feeling any, so it comes across as really nothing much at all.”
Harper nodded. “Not even enough to make her flinch, according to Stavely.”
“Bloodless,” Reacher said. “Almost literally. Like a technical exercise, which it was, because this whole thing is a technical exercise, some cast-iron down-to-earth motive hiding behind a psycho masquerade.”
“He made her do it to herself.”
“I think so.”
“But why would he?”
“Worried about fingerprints? About revealing if he’s left-handed or right-handed? Demonstrating his control? ”
“It’s a lot of control, don’t you think? But it explains why it was so halfhearted. She wouldn’t really hurt herself.”
“I guess not,” he said, sleepily.
“Why Alison, though? Why did he wait until number four?”
“Ceaseless quest for perfection, I suppose. A guy like this, he’s thinking and refining all the time.”
“Does it make her special in some way? Significant? ”
Reacher shrugged. “That’s pointy-head stuff. If they thought so, I’m sure they’d have said.”
“Maybe he knew her better than the others. Worked with her more closely.”
“Maybe. But don’t stray into their territory. Keep your feet on the ground. You’re plain-vanilla, remember? ”
Harper nodded. “And the plain-vanilla motive is money.”
“Has to be,” Reacher said. “Always love or money. And it can’t be love, because love makes you crazy, and this guy isn’t crazy.”
The plane turned and stopped hard against its brakes at the head of the runway. Paused for a second and jumped forward and accelerated. Unstuck itself and lifted heavily into the air. The lights of D.C. spun past the window.
“Why did he change the interval?” Harper asked over the noise of the climb.
Reacher shrugged. “Maybe he just wanted to.”
“Wanted to?”
“Maybe he just did it for fun. Nothing more disruptive for you guys than a pattern that changes.”
“Will it change again?”
The plane rocked and tilted and leveled, and the engine noise fell away to a cruise.
“It’s over,” Reacher said. “The women are guarded, and you’ll be making the arrest pretty soon.”
“You’re that confident?”
Reacher shrugged again. “No point going in expecting to lose.”
He yawned and jammed his head between the seatback and the plastic bulkhead. Closed his eyes.
“Wake me when we get there,” he said.
BUT THE THUMP and whine of the wheels coming down woke him, three thousand feet above and three miles east of La Guardia in New York. He looked at his watch and saw he’d slept fifty minutes. His mouth tasted tired.
“You want to get some dinner?” Harper asked him.
He blinked and checked his watch again. He had at least an hour to kill before Jodie’s earliest possible ETA. Probably two hours. Maybe three.
“You got somewhere in mind?” he asked back.
“I don’t know New York too well,” she said. “I’m an Aspen girl.”
“I know a good Italian,” he said.
“They put me in a hotel on Park and Thirty-sixth,” she said. “I assume you’re staying at Jodie’s.”
He nodded. “I assume I am, too.”
“So is the restaurant near Park and Thirty-sixth?”
He shook his head. “Cab ride. This is a big town.”
She shook her head in turn. “No cabs. They’ll send a car. Ours for the duration.”
The driver was waiting at the gate. Same guy who had driven them before. His car was parked in the tow lane outside Arrivals, with a large card with the Bureau shield printed on it propped behind the windshield. Congestion was bad, all the way into Manhattan. It was the second half of rush hour. But the guy drove like he had nothing to fear from the traffic cops and they were outside Mostro’s within forty minutes of the plane touching down.
The street was dark, and the restaurant glowed like a promise. Four tables were occupied and Puccini was playing. The owner saw Reacher on the sidewalk and hurried to the door, beaming. Showed them to a table and brought the menus himself.
“This is the place Petrosian was leaning on?” Harper asked.
Reacher nodded toward the owner. “Look at the little guy. Did he deserve that?”
“You should have left it to the cops.”
“That’s what Jodie said.”
“She’s clearly a smart woman.”
It was warm inside the huge room, and Harper slipped her jacket off and twisted to hang it over the back of her chair. Her shirt twisted with her, tightening and loosening. First time since he’d met her, she was wearing a bra. She followed his gaze and blushed.
“I wasn’t sure who we’d be meeting,” she said.
He nodded.
“We’ll be meeting somebody,” he said. “That’s for damn sure. Sooner or later.”
The way he said it made her glance up at him.
“Now you really want this guy, right?” she said.
“Yes, now I do.”
“For Amy Callan? You liked her, didn’t you?”
“She was OK. I liked Alison Lamarr better, what I saw of her. But I want this guy for Rita Scimeca.”
“She likes you too,” she said. “I could tell.”
He nodded again.
“Did you have a relationship with her?”
He shrugged. “That’s a very vague word.”
“An affair?”
He shook his head. “I only met her after she was raped. Because she was raped. She wasn’t in any kind of a state to be having affairs. Still isn’t, by the look of it. I was a little older than she was, maybe five or six years. We got very friendly, but it was like a paternalistic thing, you know, which I guess she needed, but she hated it at the same time. I had to work hard to make it feel at least brotherly, as I recall. We went out a few times, but like big brother and little sister, always completely platonic. She was like a wounded soldier, recuperating.”
“That’s how she saw it?”
“Exactly like that,” he said. “Like a guy who has his leg shot off. It can’t be denied, but it can be dealt with. And she was dealing with it.”
“And now this guy is setting her back.”
Reacher nodded. “That’s the problem. Hiding behind this harassment thing, he’s pounding on an open wound. If he was up-front about it, it would be OK. Rita could accept that as a separate problem, I think. Like a one-legged guy could deal with getting the flu. But it’s coming across like a taunt, about her past.”
“And that makes you mad.”
“I feel responsible for Rita, he’s messing with her, so he’s messing with me.”
“And people shouldn’t mess with you.”
“No, they shouldn’t.”
“Or?”
“Or they’re deep in the shit.”
She nodded, slowly.
“You’ve convinced me,” she said.
He said nothing.
“You convinced Petrosian too, I guess,” she said.
“I never went near Petrosian,” he said. “Never laid eyes on him.”
“But you are kind of arrogant, you know?” she said. “Prosecutor, judge, jury, executioner, all in one? What about the rules?”
He smiled.
“Those are the rules,” he said. “People mess with me, they find that out pretty damn quick.”
Harper shook her head. “We arrest this guy, remember? We
find him and we arrest him. We’re going to do this properly. According to my rules, OK?”
He nodded. “I already agreed to that.”
Then the waiter came over and stood near, pen poised. They ordered two courses each and sat in silence until the food came. Then they ate in silence. There wasn’t much of it. But it was as good as always. Maybe even better. And it was on the house.
AFTER COFFEE THE FBI driver took Harper to her hotel uptown and Reacher walked down to Jodie’s place, alone and enjoying it. He let himself into her lobby and rode up in the elevator. Let himself into her apartment. The air was still and silent. The rooms were dark. Nobody home. He switched on lamps and closed blinds. Sat down on the living room sofa to wait.
22
THIS TIME THERE will be guards. You know that for sure. So this time will be difficult. You smile to yourself and correct your phraseology. Actually, this time will be very difficult. Very, very difficult. But not impossible. Not for you. It will be a challenge, is all. Putting guards into the equation will elevate the whole thing up a little nearer to interesting. A little nearer the point where your talent can really flex and stretch like it needs to. It will be a challenge to relish. A challenge to beat.
But you don’t beat anything without thinking. You don’t beat anything without careful observation and planning. The guards are a new factor, so they need analysis. But that’s your strength, isn’t it? Accurate, dispassionate analysis. Nobody does it better than you. You’ve proved that, over and over again, haven’t you? Four whole times.
So what do the guards mean to you? Initial question, who are the guards? Out here in the sticks a million miles from nowhere, first impression is you’re dealing with dumb-ass local cops. No immediate problem. No immediate threat. But the downside is, out here in the sticks a million miles from nowhere, there aren’t enough dumb-ass local cops to go around. Some tiny Oregon township outside of the Portland city limits won’t have enough cops to keep up a twenty-four-hour watch. So they’ll be looking for help, and you know that help will come from the FBI. You know that for sure. The way you predict it, the locals will take the day, and the Bureau will take the night.
Given the choice, obviously you aren’t going to tangle with the Bureau. So you’re going to avoid the night. You’re going to take the day, when all that stands between you and her is some local fat boy in a Crown Vic full of cheeseburger wrappers and cold coffee. And you’re going to take the day because the day is a more elegant solution. Broad daylight. You love the phrase. They use it all the time, don’t they?
“The crime was committed in broad daylight,” you whisper to yourself.
Getting past the locals in broad daylight won’t be too hard. But even so, it’s not something you’re going to undertake lightly. You’re not going to rush in. You’re going to watch carefully, from a distance, until you see how it goes. You’re going to invest some time in careful, patient observation. Fortunately, you’ve got a little time. And it won’t be hard to do. The place is mountainous. Mountainous places have two characteristics. Two advantages. First of all, they’re already full of idiots hanging out in sweaters with field glasses around their necks. And second of all, mountainous terrain makes it easy to see point A from point B. You just get yourself concealed high up on some peak or knoll or whatever the hell they call them. Then you settle in, and you gaze downward, and you watch. And you wait.
REACHER WAITED A long time in the stillness of Jodie’s living room. His posture on the sofa changed from sitting to sprawling. After an hour he swiveled around and lay down. Closed his eyes. Opened them again and struggled to stay awake. Closed them again. Kept them closed. Figured he’d catch ten minutes. Figured he’d hear the elevator. Or the door. But when it came to it, he heard neither. He woke up and found her bending over him, kissing his cheek.
“Hey, Reacher,” she said softly.
He pulled her to him and held her in a tight silent embrace. She hugged back, one-handed because she was still carrying her briefcase, but hard.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Later,” she whispered.
She dropped the briefcase and he pulled her down on top of him. She struggled out of her coat and let it fall. The silk lining whispered and sighed. She was in a wool dress with a zipper all the way down the back to the base of her spine. He unzipped it slowly and felt the warmth of her body underneath. She pushed up with her elbows sharp points in his stomach. Her hands scrabbled at his shirt. He pushed the dress off her shoulders. She pulled his shirt out of his waistband. Tore at his belt.
She stood up and her dress fell to the floor. She held out her hand and he took it and she led him to the bedroom. They stumbled out of their clothes as they walked. Made it to the bed. It was white and cool. Neon glow from the city outside lit it in random patterns.
She pushed him down, with her hands on his shoulders. She was strong, like a gymnast. Urgent and energetic and lithe on top of him. He was lost. They finished filmed in sweat in a tangle of sheets. She was pressed against him. He could feel her heart hammering on his chest. Her hair was in his mouth. He was breathing hard. She was smiling. Her face was tucked into his shoulder and he could feel the smile against his skin. The shape of her mouth, the cool of her teeth. The impatient curve in the muscles of her cheek.
She was beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. She was tall and lean and graceful, and blond and faintly tanned and she had spectacular hair and eyes. But she was more than that. She was shot through with energy and will and passion. Crackling with restless intelligence, like electricity. He traced his hand down the smooth curve of her back. She stretched her foot all the way down his leg and tried to lace her toes into his. The secret smile was still there, against his neck.
“Now you can ask me about my day,” she said.
Her words were muffled by his shoulder.
“How was your day?” he asked.
She put her hand flat on his chest and pushed herself up onto her elbow. Made a shape with her mouth and blew her hair off her face. Then the smile came back.
“It was great,” she said.
He smiled in turn.
“Great how?” he asked.
“Secretary gossip,” she said. “Mine talked to one from upstairs over lunch.”
“And?”
“There’s a partners’ meeting in a few days.”
“And?”
“The upstairs secretary had just typed the agenda. They’re going to make a partnership offer.”
He smiled. “Who to?”
She smiled back. “To one of the associates.”
“Which one?”
“Guess.”
He pretended to think about it. “They’d go for somebody special, right? The best they got? The smartest, hardest-working, most charming and all that?”
“That’s usually what they do.”
He nodded. “Congratulations, babe. You deserve it. You really do.”
She smiled happily and threaded her arms around his neck. Pressed herself down in a full-body hug, head to toe.
“Partner,” she said. “What I always wanted.”
“You deserve it,” he said again. “You really do.”
“A partner at thirty,” she said. “Can you believe it?”
He stared up at the ceiling and smiled. “Yes, I can believe it. If you’d gone into politics, you’d be president by now.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I never can, when I get what I want.”
Then she was quiet for a second.
“But it hasn’t happened yet,” she said. “Maybe I should wait until it has.”
“It’ll happen,” he said.
“It’s only an agenda. Maybe they’ll all vote no.”
“They won’t,” he said.
“There’ll be a party,” she said. “Will you come?”
“If you want me to. If I won’t ruin your image.”
“You could buy a suit. Wear your medals. You’d blow them away.
”
He was quiet for a spell, thinking about buying a suit. If he did, it would be the first suit he’d ever worn.
“Have you got what you want?” she asked.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Right now?”
“Overall?”
“I want to sell the house,” he said.
She lay still for a moment.
“OK,” she said. “Not that you need my permission.”
“It burdens me down,” he said. “I can’t handle it.”
“You don’t need to explain to me.”
“I could live the rest of my life on the money I get for it.”
“You’d have to pay taxes.”
He nodded. “Whatever. What’s left would buy me plenty of motel rooms.”
“You should think carefully. It’s the only asset you’ve got.”
“Not to me. Money for motels is an asset. The house is a burden.”
She was silent.
“I’m going to sell my car, too,” he said.
“I thought you liked it,” she said.
He nodded. “It’s OK. For a car. I just don’t like owning things.”
“Owning a car isn’t exactly the end of the world.”
“It is to me. Too much hassle. It needs insurance, all that kind of stuff.”
“You don’t have insurance?”
“I thought about it,” he said. “They need all kinds of paperwork first.”
She paused.
“How will you get around?”
“Same as I always did, hitch rides, take the bus.”
She paused again.
“OK, sell the car if you want to,” she said. “But maybe keep the house. It’s useful.”
He shook his head, next to hers. “It drives me crazy.”
He felt her smile.
“You’re the only person I know who wants to be homeless,” she said. “Most people try real hard to avoid it.”
“There’s nothing I want more,” he said. “Like you want to make partner, I want to be free.”
“Free of me too?” she asked, quietly.
“Free of the house,” he said. “It’s a burden. Like an anchor. You’re not.”
She unwrapped her arms from his neck and propped herself on an elbow.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “The house anchors you and you don’t like it, but I anchor you too, don’t I?”
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