She picked up her purse and her briefcase and walked out of the office alone.
Reacher sat still and listened to the sounds out on the street. He heard a car door opening and closing. An engine starting. A car driving away. He sipped his coffee and said, “I guess I upset her.”
Franklin nodded. “I guess you did.”
“These guys have got someone on the inside. That’s clear, right? That’s a fact. So we should be able to discuss it.”
“A cop makes more sense than a DA.”
“I don’t agree. A cop controls only his own cases. Ultimately a prosecutor controls everything.”
“I’d prefer it that way. I was a cop.”
“So was I,” Reacher said.
“And I have to say, Alex Rodin kills a lot of cases. People say it’s caution, but it could be something else.”
“You should analyze what kind of cases he kills.”
“Like I don’t have enough to do already.”
Reacher nodded. Put his mug down. Stood up.
“Start with Oline Archer,” he said. “The victim. She’s what’s important now.”
Then he stepped to the window and checked the street. Saw nothing. So he nodded to Franklin and walked down the hallway and out the door to the top of the outside staircase.
He paused on the top step and stretched in the warmth. Rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, took a deep breath of air. He was cramped from driving and sitting all day. And oppressed by hiding out. It felt good just to stand still and do nothing, high up and exposed. Out in the open, in the daylight. Below him to his left the cars were gone except for the black Suburban. The street was quiet. He glanced to his right. There was traffic building up on the north-south drag. To his left, there was less. He figured he would dodge west first. But a long way west, because the police station must be near. He would need to loop around it. Then he would head north. North of downtown was a warren. North of downtown was where he felt best.
He started down the stairs. As he stepped off onto the sidewalk at the bottom he heard a footfall fifteen feet behind him. A side step. Thin soles on limestone grit. Quiet. Then the unmistakable crunch-crunch of a pump-action shotgun racking a round.
Then a voice.
It said: “Stop right there.”
An American accent. Quiet, but distinct. From somewhere way north. Reacher stopped. Stood still and stared straight ahead at a blank brick wall across the street.
The voice said: “Step to your right.”
Reacher stepped to his right. A long sideways shuffle.
The voice said: “Now turn around real slow.”
Reacher turned around, real slow. He kept his hands away from his body, palms out. Saw a small figure fifteen feet away. The same guy he had seen the night before, from the shadows. Not more than five-four, not more than a hundred and thirty pounds, slight, pale, with cropped black hair that stuck up crazily. Chenko. Or Charlie. In his right hand, rock-steady, was a sawn-off with a pistol grip. In his left hand was some kind of a black thing.
“Catch,” Charlie said.
He tossed the black thing underhand. Reacher watched it tumble and sparkle through the air straight at him and his subconscious said: Not a grenade. So he caught it. Two-handed. It was a shoe. A woman’s patent-leather dress shoe, black, with a heel. It was still slightly warm.
“Now toss it back,” Charlie said. “Just like I did.”
Reacher paused. Whose shoe was it? He stared down at it.
Low heel.
Rosemary Barr’s?
“Toss it back,” Charlie called. “Nice and slow.”
Assess and evaluate. Reacher was unarmed. He was holding a shoe. Not a stone, not a rock. The shoe was lightweight and unaerodynamic. It wouldn’t do anyone any harm. It would stall and flutter in the air and Charlie would just swat it away.
“Toss it back,” Charlie said again.
Reacher did nothing. He could tear the heel off and throw it like a dart. Like a missile. But Charlie would shoot him while he was drawing his arm back and winding up. Charlie was fifteen feet away, poised, balanced, unblinking, with the gun rock-steady in his hand. Too close to miss, too far to get to.
“Last chance,” Charlie said.
Reacher soft-tossed the shoe back. A long, looping underhand throw. Charlie caught it one-handed and it was like the scene had rewound right back to the beginning.
“She’s in summer school,” Charlie said. “Think about it like that. She’s going to get acquainted with the facts of life. She’s going to work on her testimony. About how her brother planned in advance. About how he let slip what he was going to do. She’s going to be a great witness. She’s going to make the case. You understand that, right?”
Reacher said nothing.
“So the game is over now,” Charlie said.
Reacher said nothing.
“Take two steps backward,” Charlie said.
Reacher took two steps backward. They put him right on the curb. Now Charlie was twenty feet away. He was still holding the shoe. He was smiling.
“Turn around,” he said.
“You going to shoot me?” Reacher asked.
“Maybe.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to find you and I’m going to make you sorry.”
“Big talk.”
“Not just talk.”
“So maybe I’ll shoot you.”
“You should.”
“Turn around,” Charlie said.
Reacher turned around.
“Now stand still,” Charlie said.
Reacher stood still. Faced the street. He kept his eyes open. Stared down at the blacktop. It was laid over ancient cobblestones. It was full of small humps in a regular pattern. He started counting them, to fill what might be the last seconds of his life. He strained to hear sounds behind him. Listened for the whisper of clothing as Charlie’s arm extended. Listened for the quiet metallic click as the trigger moved through its first tenth of an inch. Would Charlie shoot? Common sense said no. Homicides were always investigated.
But these people were crazy. And there was a fifty percent chance they owned a local cop. Or that he owned them.
Silence. Reacher strained to hear sounds behind him.
But he heard nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. One minute. Two. Then a hundred yards away to the east he heard a siren. Just two brief electronic blips from a cop car forcing a path through traffic.
“Stand still,” Charlie said again.
Reacher stood still. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then two police cruisers turned into the street simultaneously. One from the east and one from the west. They were both moving fast. Their engines roared. Their tires howled. Their sounds beat against the brick. They jammed to a stop. Doors opened. Cops spilled out. Reacher turned his head. Charlie wasn’t there anymore.
CHAPTER 14
The arrest was fast and efficient. It went down the usual way. Guns, shouting, handcuffs, Miranda. Reacher stayed silent throughout. He knew better than to speak. He had been a cop and he knew the kind of trouble that talking can get a guy into. And the kind of delay it can cause. Say something, and the cops have to stop to write it down. And Reacher couldn’t afford for anyone to stop. Not right then.
The trip to the station house was mercifully short. Not more than four blocks. Reacher guessed it made sense that an ex-cop like Franklin would pick an office location in the neighborhood he was accustomed to. He used the drive time to work on a strategy. He figured he would be taken straight to Emerson, which gave him a fifty percent chance of being put in a room with a bad guy.
Or with a good guy.
But he ended up a hundred percent sure he was in a room with a bad guy because Emerson and Alex Rodin were both there together. Reacher was hauled out of the squad car and hustled straight to Emerson’s office. Emerson was behind the desk. Rodin was in front of it.
Can’t say a word, Reacher t
hought. But this has got to be real fast.
Then he thought: Which one? Rodin? Or Emerson? Rodin was wearing a suit. Blue, summer weight, expensive, maybe the same one as on Monday. Emerson was in shirtsleeves. Playing with a pen. Bouncing it off his blotter, one end, then the other.
Get on with it, Reacher thought.
“You weren’t so hard to find,” Emerson said.
Reacher said nothing. He was still handcuffed.
“Tell us about the night Alexandra Dupree was killed,” Rodin said.
Reacher said nothing.
“Tell us how it felt,” Emerson said. “When her neck snapped.”
Reacher said nothing.
“The jury’s going to hate you,” Rodin said.
Reacher said, “Phone call.”
“You want to lawyer up?” Emerson said.
Reacher said nothing.
“Who’s your lawyer?” Rodin asked.
“Your daughter,” Reacher said.
“Want us to call her?” Emerson asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe Rosemary Barr instead.”
He watched their eyes.
“The sister?” Rodin said.
“You want us to call the sister?” Emerson said.
One of you knows she ain’t going to answer, Reacher thought.
Which one?
Nothing in their eyes.
“Call Ann Yanni,” he said.
“From the TV?” Rodin said. “Why her?”
“I get a phone call,” Reacher said. “I don’t have to explain anything. I say who, you dial the number.”
“She’ll be getting ready to go on the air. The local news is at six o’clock.”
“So we’ll wait,” Reacher said. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Which one of you knows that isn’t true?
They waited, but it turned out the wait wasn’t long. Emerson placed the call to NBC and told Ann Yanni’s assistant that the police department had arrested Jack Reacher and that Reacher was requesting Yanni’s presence, reason unknown. It was a bizarre message. But Yanni was in Emerson’s office less than thirty minutes later. She was a journalist on the scent of a story. She knew that network tomorrow was better than local today.
“How can I help?” she asked.
She had presence. She was a star in her market. And she was media. Both Emerson and Rodin looked a little intimidated. Not by her as an individual. But by what she represented.
“I’m sorry,” Reacher said to her. “I know you won’t want to, and I know I said I would never tell, but under the circumstances you’re going to have to confirm an alibi for me. No choice, I’m afraid.”
He glanced at her. Saw her following his words. Saw confusion cross her face. She had no reaction. He kept his eyes on hers. No reaction.
Help me out here, girl.
One second.
Two seconds.
No reaction.
Reacher held his breath. Get with the damn program, Yanni. One more second and it’s all going to fall apart.
No reaction.
Then she nodded. She had caught on. Reacher breathed out. Good call. Professional skill. She was a person accustomed to hearing breaking news in her earpiece and repeating it live on air half a second later like she had known about it all her life.
“What alibi?” Emerson said.
Yanni glanced at him. Then at Rodin.
“I thought this was about Jack Reacher,” she said.
“It is,” Emerson said.
“But this is Joe Gordon,” she said. “At least, that’s what he told me.”
“He told you his name was Gordon?”
“When I met him.”
“Which was when?”
“Two days ago.”
“You’ve been running his picture on your show.”
“That was his picture? It looked nothing like him. The hair was totally different. No similarity at all.”
“What alibi?” Emerson said again.
“For when?” Yanni asked.
“The night the girl was killed. That’s what we’re talking about here.”
Yanni said nothing.
Rodin said, “Ma’am, if you know something, you need to tell us now.”
“I’d rather not,” Yanni said.
Reacher smiled to himself. The way she said it absolutely guaranteed that Emerson and Rodin were a minute away from begging to hear the story. She was standing there, blushing on command all the way up to her temples, her back straight, her blouse open three buttons. She was a hell of an actress. Reacher figured maybe all news anchors were.
“It’s a question of evidence,” Emerson said.
“Obviously,” Yanni said. “But can’t you just take my word?”
“For what?”
“That he didn’t do it.”
“We need details,” Rodin said.
“I have to think of my reputation,” Yanni said.
“Your statement won’t be made public if we drop the charges.”
“Can you guarantee dropping the charges?”
“Not before we hear your statement,” Emerson said.
“So it’s a Catch-22,” Yanni said.
“I’m afraid it is.”
Don’t push too far, Reacher thought. We don’t have time.
Yanni sighed. Looked down at the floor. Looked up, straight into Emerson’s eyes, furious, embarrassed, magnificent.
“We spent that night together,” she said.
“You and Reacher?”
“Me and Joe Gordon.”
Emerson pointed. “This man?”
Yanni nodded. “That man.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“From when to when?”
“From about eleven-forty. When the news was over. Until I got paged the next morning when you guys found the body.”
“Where were you?”
Reacher closed his eyes. Recalled the conversation the night before in the parking garage. The car window, open an inch and a half. Had he told her?
“The motor court,” Yanni said. “His room.”
“The clerk didn’t say he saw you.”
“Of course the clerk didn’t see me. I have to think about things like that.”
“Which room?”
Had he told her?
“Room eight,” Yanni said.
“He didn’t leave the room during the night?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
Yanni looked away. “Because we didn’t actually sleep a wink.”
The office went quiet.
“Can you offer any corroboration?” Emerson asked.
“Like what?” Yanni asked back.
“Distinguishing marks? That I can’t see right now but that someone who had been in your position would have seen?”
“Oh, please.”
“It’s the last question,” Emerson said.
Yanni said nothing. Reacher recalled switching on the Mustang’s dome light and lifting his shirt to reveal the tire iron. He moved his cuffed hands and laid them across his waistband.
“Anything?” Emerson said.
“It’s important,” Rodin said.
“He has a scar,” Yanni said. “Low down on his stomach. A horrible big thing.”
Emerson and Rodin both turned and looked at Reacher. Reacher got to his feet. Grabbed a fold of fabric in both hands and pulled his shirt out of his pants. Lifted it.
“OK,” Emerson said.
“What was that?” Rodin asked.
“Part of a Marine sergeant’s jawbone,” Reacher said. “The medics figured it must have weighed about four ounces. It was traveling at five thousand feet per second away from the epicenter of a trinitrotoluene explosion. Just surfing along on the pressure wave, until it hit me.”
He dropped his shirt back down. Didn’t try to tuck it in. The handcuffs would have made that difficult.<
br />
“Satisfied now?” he asked. “Have you embarrassed the lady enough?”
Emerson and Rodin looked at each other. One of you knows for sure I’m innocent, Reacher thought. And I don’t care what the other one thinks.
“Ms. Yanni will have to put it in writing,” Emerson said.
“You type it, I’ll sign it,” Yanni said.
Rodin looked straight at Reacher. “Can you offer corroboration?”
“Like what?”
“Something along the lines of your scar. But relating to Ms. Yanni.”
Reacher nodded. “Yes, I could. But I won’t. And if you ask again I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
Silence in the office. Emerson dug in his pocket and found a handcuff key. Turned suddenly and tossed it underarm through the air. Reacher’s hands were cuffed but he was careful to lead with his right. He caught the key in his right palm, and smiled.
“Bellantonio been talking to you?” he said.
“Why did you give Ms. Yanni a false name?” Emerson asked.
“Maybe I didn’t,” Reacher said. “Maybe Gordon is my real name.”
He tossed the key back and stepped over and held his wrists out and waited for Emerson to unlock the cuffs.
The Zec took the phone call two minutes later. A familiar voice, low and hurried.
“It didn’t work,” it said. “He had an alibi.”
“For real?”
“Probably not. But we’re not going to go there.”
“So what next?”
“Just sit tight. He can’t be more than one step away now. In which case he’ll be coming for you soon. So be locked and loaded and ready for him.”
“They didn’t fight very hard,” Ann Yanni said. “Did they?” She started the Mustang’s engine before Reacher even got his door closed.
“I didn’t expect them to,” he said. “The innocent one knows the case was weak. And the guilty one knows putting me back on the street takes me off the board about as fast as putting me in a cell right now.”
“Why?”
“Because they’ve got Rosemary Barr and they know I’ll go find her. So they’ll be waiting for me, ready to rock and roll. I’ll be dead before morning. That’s the new plan. Cheaper than jail.”
They drove straight back to Franklin’s office and ran up the outside staircase and found Franklin sitting at his desk. The lights were off and his face was bathed in the glow from his computer screen. He was staring at it blankly, like it was telling him nothing. Reacher broke the news about Rosemary Barr. Franklin went very still and glanced at the door. Then the window.
Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16] Page 371