It was surrounded by vehicles. There were five of them parked head-in against the walls, like airplanes at a terminal. Like animals at a trough. Like suckerfish on a corpse. There were two black Lincoln Town Cars and two blue Chevy Suburbans and a gray Mercury Grand Marquis. One of the Lincolns was the car I had been in when Harley drove me out to pick up the Saab. After we put the maid into the sea. I looked for enough space to park the Cadillac.
“Just let me out here,” Beck said.
I eased to a stop. “And?”
“Head back to the house,” he said. “Take care of my family.”
I nodded. So maybe Richard had talked to him, after all. Maybe his ambivalence was swinging my way, just temporarily.
“OK,” I said. “Whatever you need. You want me to pick you up again later?”
He shook his head.
“I’m sure I’ll get a ride back,” he said.
He slid out and headed for the weathered gray door. I took my foot off the brake and looped around the warehouse and rolled back south.
I used Route One instead of I-295 and drove straight to the new business park. Pulled in and cruised through the network of brand-new roads. There were maybe three dozen identical metal buildings. They were very plain. It wasn’t the kind of place that depends on attracting casual passersby. Foot-traffic wasn’t important. There were no retail places. No gaudy come-ons. No big billboards. Just discreet unit numbers with business names printed small next to them. There were lock-and-key people, ceramic tile merchants, a couple of print shops. There was a beauty products wholesaler. Unit 26 was an electric wheelchair distributor. And next to it was Unit 27: Xavier eXport Company. The Xs were much larger than the other letters. There was a main office address on the sign that didn’t match the business park’s location. I figured it referred to someplace in downtown Portland. So I rolled north again and recrossed the river and did some city driving.
I came in on Route One with a park on my left. Made a right onto a street full of office buildings. They were the wrong buildings. It was the wrong street. So I quartered the business district for five long minutes until I spotted a street sign with the right name on it. Then I watched the numbers and pulled up on a fireplug outside a tower that had stainless steel letters stretched across the whole of the frontage, spelling out a name: Missionary House. There was a parking garage under it. I looked at the vehicle entrance and was pretty sure Susan Duffy had walked through it eleven weeks earlier, with a camera in her hand. Then I recalled a high school history lesson, somewhere hot, somewhere Spanish, a quarter-century in the past, some old guy telling us about a Spanish Jesuit called Francisco Javier. I could even remember his dates: 1506 to 1552. Francisco Javier, Spanish missionary. Francis Xavier, Missionary House. Back in Boston at the start Eliot had accused Beck of making jokes. He had been wrong. It was Quinn with the twisted sense of humor.
I moved off the fireplug and found Route One again and headed south on it. I drove fast but it took me thirty whole minutes to reach the Kennebunk River. There were three Ford Tauruses parked outside the motel, all plain and identical apart from color, and even then there wasn’t much variation between them. They were gray, gray blue, and blue. I put the Cadillac where I had put it before, behind the propane store. Walked back through the cold and knocked on Duffy’s door. I saw the peephole black out for a second and then she opened up. We didn’t hug. I saw Eliot and Villanueva in the room behind her.
“Why can’t I find the second agent?” she said.
“Where did you look?”
“Everywhere,” she said.
She was wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. Different jeans, different shirt. She must have had a large supply. She was wearing boat shoes over bare feet. She looked good, but there was worry in her eyes.
“Can I come in?” I said.
She paused a second, preoccupied. Then she moved out of the way and I followed her inside. Villanueva was in the desk chair. He had it tilted backward. I hoped the legs were strong. He wasn’t a small guy. Eliot was on the end of the bed, like he had been in my room in Boston. Duffy had been sitting at the head of the bed. That was clear. The pillows were stacked vertically and the shape of her back was pressed into them.
“Where did you look?” I asked her again.
“The whole system,” she said. “The whole Justice Department, front to back, which means FBI as well as DEA. And she’s not there.”
“Conclusion?”
“She was off the books too.”
“Which begs a question,” Eliot said. “Like, what the hell is going on?”
Duffy sat down at the head of the bed again and I sat down next to her. There was no other place for me to go. She wrestled a pillow out from behind her and shoved it in behind me. It was warm from her body.
“Nothing much is going on,” I said. “Except all three of us started out two weeks ago just like the Keystone Cops.”
“How?” Eliot said.
I made a face. “I was obsessed with Quinn, you guys were obsessed with Teresa Daniel. We were all so obsessed we went right ahead and built a house of cards.”
“How?” he said again.
“My fault more than yours,” I said. “Think about it from the very beginning, eleven weeks ago.”
“Eleven weeks ago was nothing to do with you. You weren’t involved yet.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
He shrugged. Rehearsed it in his mind. “We got word from LA that a top boy just bought himself a first-class ticket to Portland, Maine.”
I nodded. “So you tracked him to his rendezvous with Beck. And took pictures of him doing what?”
“Checking samples,” Duffy said. “Doing a deal.”
“In a private parking garage,” I said. “And as an aside, if it was private enough to get you in trouble with the Fourth Amendment, maybe you should have wondered how Beck got himself in there.”
She said nothing.
“Then what?” I said.
“We looked at Beck,” Eliot said. “Concluded he was a major importer and a major distributor.”
“Which he most definitely is,” I said. “And you put Teresa in to nail him.”
“Off the books,” Eliot said.
“That’s a minor detail,” I said.
“So what went wrong?”
“It was a house of cards,” I said. “You made one tiny error of judgment at the outset. It invalidated everything that came after it.”
“What was it?”
“Something that I should have seen a hell of a lot earlier than I did.”
“What?”
“Just ask yourself why you can’t find a computer trail for the maid.”
“She was off the books. That’s the only explanation.”
I shook my head. “She was as legal as can be. She was all over the damn books. I found some notes she made. There’s no doubt about it.”
Duffy looked straight at me. “Reacher, what exactly is going on?”
“Beck has a mechanic,” I said. “Some kind of a technician. For what?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I never even asked myself,” I said. “I should have. I shouldn’t have needed to, actually, because I should have known before I even met the damn mechanic. But I was locked in a groove, just like you were.”
“What groove?”
“Beck knew the retail on a Colt Anaconda,” I said. “He knew how much it weighed. Duke had a Steyr SPP, which is a weird Austrian gun. Angel Doll had a PSM, which is a weird Russian gun. Paulie’s got an NSV, probably the only one inside the United States. Beck was obsessed with the fact that we attacked with Uzis, not H and Ks. He knew enough to spec out a Beretta 92FS so it looked just like a regular military M9.”
“So?”
“He’s not what we thought he was.”
“So what is he? You just agreed he’s definitely a major importer and distributor.”
“He is.”
“So?”
>
“You looked in the wrong computer,” I said. “The maid didn’t work for the Justice Department. She worked for Treasury.”
“Secret Service?”
I shook my head.
“ATF,” I said. “The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”
The room went quiet.
“Beck isn’t a drug dealer,” I said. “He’s a gunrunner.”
The room stayed quiet for a very long time. Duffy looked at Eliot. Eliot looked back at her. Then they both looked at Villanueva. Villanueva looked at me. Then he looked out the window. I waited for the tactical problem to dawn on them. But it didn’t. Not right away.
“So what was the LA guy doing?” Duffy said.
“Looking at samples,” I said. “In the Cadillac’s trunk. Exactly like you thought. But they were samples of the weapons Beck was dealing. He as good as told me. He said dope dealers were driven by fashion. They like new and fancy things. They change weapons all the time, always looking for the latest thing.”
“He told you?”
“I wasn’t really listening,” I said. “I was tired. And it was all mixed in with stuff about sneakers and cars and coats and watches.”
“Duke went to Treasury,” she said. “After he was a cop.”
I nodded. “Beck probably met him on the job. Probably bought him off.”
“Where does Quinn fit in?”
“I figure he was running a rival operation,” I said. “He probably always was, ever since he got out of the hospital in California. He had six months to make his plans. And guns are a much better fit with a guy like Quinn than narcotics. I figure at some point he identified Beck’s operation as a takeover target. Maybe he liked the way Beck was mining the dope dealer market. Or maybe he just liked the rug side of the business. It’s great cover. So he moved in. He kidnapped Richard five years ago, to get Beck’s signature on the dotted line.”
“Beck told you the Hartford guys were his customers,” Eliot said.
“They were,” I said. “But for their guns, not for their dope. That’s why he was puzzled about the Uzis. He’d probably just gotten through selling them a whole bunch of H and Ks, and now they’re using Uzis? He couldn’t understand it. He must have thought they had switched suppliers.”
“We were pretty dumb,” Villanueva said.
“I was dumber than you,” I said. “I was amazingly dumb. There was evidence all over the place. Beck isn’t rich enough to be a dope dealer. He makes good money, for sure, but he doesn’t make millions a week. He noticed the marks I scratched on the Colt cylinders. He knew the price and the weight of a laser sight to use on the Beretta he gave me. He put a couple of mint H&Ks in a bag when he needed to take care of some business down in Connecticut. Probably pulled them right out of stock. He’s got a private collection of Thompson grease guns.”
“What’s the mechanic for?”
“He gets the guns ready for sale,” I said. “That’s my guess. He tweaks them, adjusts them, checks them out. Some of Beck’s customers wouldn’t react well to substandard merchandise.”
“Not the ones we know,” Duffy said.
“Beck talked about the M16 at dinner,” I said. “He was conversing about an assault rifle, for God’s sake. And he wanted to hear my opinion about Uzis versus H&Ks, like he was really fascinated. I thought he was just a gun nerd, you know, but it was actually professional interest. He has computer access to the Glock factory in Deutsch-Wagram in Austria.”
Nobody spoke. I closed my eyes, then I opened them again.
“There was a smell in a basement room,” I said. “I should have recognized it. It was the smell of gun oil on cardboard. It’s what you get when you stack boxes of new weapons and leave them there for a week or so.”
Nobody spoke.
“And the prices in the Bizarre Bazaar books,” I said. “Low, medium, high. Low for ammunition, medium for handguns, high for long guns and exotics.”
Duffy was looking at the wall. She was thinking hard.
“OK,” Villanueva said. “I guess we were all a little dumb.”
Duffy looked at him. Then she stared at me. The tactical problem was finally dawning on her.
“We have no jurisdiction,” she said.
Nobody spoke.
“This is ATF business,” she said. “Not DEA.”
“It was an honest mistake,” Eliot said.
She shook her head. “I don’t mean then. I mean now. We can’t be in there. We have to butt out, right now, immediately.”
“I’m not butting out,” I said.
“You have to. Because we have to. We have to fold our tents and leave. And you can’t be in there on your own and unsupported.”
A whole new definition of alone and undercover.
“I’m staying,” I said.
I searched my soul for a whole year after it happened and concluded I wouldn’t have answered any differently even if she hadn’t been fragrant and naked under a thin T-shirt and sitting next to me in a bar when she asked the fateful question. Will you let me make the arrest? I would have said yes, whatever the circumstances. For sure. Even if she had been a big ugly guy from Texas or Minnesota standing at attention in my office, I would have said yes. She had done the work. She deserved the credit. I was vaguely interested in getting ahead back then, maybe a little less so than most people, but any structure that has a ranking system tempts you to try to climb it. So I was vaguely interested. But I wasn’t a guy who hijacked subordinates’ achievements in order to make myself look good. I never did that. If somebody performed well, did a good job, I was always happy to stand back and let them reap the rewards. It was a principle I adhered to throughout my career. I could always console myself by basking in their reflected glow. It was my company, after all. There was a certain amount of collective recognition. Sometimes.
But anyway, I really liked the idea of an MP noncom busting an intel light colonel. Because I knew a guy like Quinn would absolutely hate it. He would see it as the ultimate indignity. A guy who bought Lexuses and sailboats and wore golf shirts didn’t want to be taken down by a damn sergeant.
“Will you let me make the arrest?” she asked again.
“I want you to,” I said.
“It’s a purely legal issue,” Duffy said.
“Not to me,” I said.
“We have no authority.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“It’s suicide,” Eliot said.
“I survived so far.”
“Only because she cut the phones.”
“The phones are history,” I said. “The bodyguard problem resolved itself. So I don’t need backup anymore.”
“Everybody needs backup. You can’t go undercover without it.”
“ATF backup did the maid a whole lot of good,” I said.
“We lent you a car. We helped you every step of the way.”
“I don’t need cars anymore. Beck gave me my own set of keys. And a gun. And bullets. I’m his new right-hand man. He trusts me to protect his family.”
They said nothing.
“I’m an inch away from nailing Quinn,” I said. “I’m not butting out now.”
They said nothing.
“And I can get Teresa Daniel back,” I said.
“ATF can get Teresa Daniel back,” Eliot said. “We go to ATF now, we’re off the hook with our own people. The maid was theirs, not ours. No harm, no foul.”
“ATF isn’t up to speed,” I said. “Teresa will be caught in the crossfire.”
There was a long silence.
“Monday,” Villanueva said. “We’ll sit on it until Monday. We’ll have to tell ATF by Monday at the latest.”
“We should tell them right now,” Eliot said.
Villanueva nodded. “But we won’t. And if necessary I’ll make sure that we don’t. I say we give Reacher until Monday.”
Eliot said nothing more. He just looked away. Duffy laid her head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
“Shit,” she said.
“It’ll be over by Monday,” I said. “I’ll bring Teresa back to you here and then you can head home and make all the calls you want.”
She was quiet for a whole minute. Then she spoke.
“OK,” she said. “You can go back. And you should probably go back right now. You’ve been gone a long time. That’s suspicious in itself.”
“OK,” I said.
“But think first,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“I’m not your responsibility,” I said.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Just answer the question. Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Now think again. Still sure?”
“Yes,” I said again.
“We’ll be here,” she said. “Call us if you need us.”
“OK,” I said.
“Still sure?”
“Yes,” I said.
“So go.”
She didn’t get up. None of them did. I just eased myself off the bed and walked out through the silent room. I was halfway back to the Cadillac when Terry Villanueva came out after me. He waved me to wait and walked across to me. He moved stiff and slow, like the old guy he was.
“Bring me in,” he said. “Any chance you get, I want to be there.”
I said nothing.
“I could help you out,” he said.
“You already did.”
“I need to do more. For the kid.”
“Duffy?”
He shook his head. “No, Teresa.”
“You got a connection?”
“I got a responsibility,” he said.
“How?”
“I was her mentor,” he said. “It worked out that way. You know how that is?”
I nodded. I knew exactly, totally, and completely how that was.
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