Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

by Lee Child

  “But he’s been out of work for a while,” he said.

  “Why?” Finlay asked him.

  “Because all that evidence is old,” the doctor said. “Looks to me like he was driving a lot for a long period, but then he stopped. I think he’s done very little driving for nine months, maybe a year. So I make him a truck driver, but an unemployed truck driver.”

  “OK, doc, good work,” Finlay said. “You got copies of all that for us?”

  The doctor slid a large envelope across the desk. Finlay stepped over and picked it up. Then we all stood up. I wanted to get out. I didn’t want to go back to the cold store again. I didn’t want to see any more damage. Roscoe and Finlay sensed it and nodded. We hustled out like we were ten minutes late for something. The guy at the desk let us go. He’d seen lots of people rushing out of his office like they were ten minutes late for something.

  We got into Roscoe’s car. Finlay opened the big envelope and pulled out the stuff on Sherman Stoller. Folded it into his pocket.

  “That’s ours, for the time being,” he said. “It might get us somewhere.”

  “I’ll get the arrest report from Florida,” Roscoe said. “And we’ll find an address for him somewhere. Got to be a lot of paperwork on a trucker, right? Union, medical, licenses. Should be easy enough to do.”

  We rode the rest of the way back to Margrave in silence. The station house was deserted, apart from the desk guy. Lunch break in Margrave, lunch break in Washington, D.C. Same time zone. Finlay handed me a scrap of paper from his pocket and stood guard on the door to the rosewood office. I went inside to call the woman who may have been my brother’s lover.

  THE NUMBER FINLAY HAD HANDED ME REACHED MOLLY Beth Gordon’s private line. She answered on the first ring. I gave her my name. It made her cry.

  “You sound so much like Joe,” she said.

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to get into a whole lot of reminiscing. Neither should she, not if she was stepping out of line and was in danger of being overheard. She should just tell me what she had to tell me and get off the line.

  “So what was Joe doing down here?” I asked her.

  I heard her sniffing, and then her voice came back clear.

  “He was running an investigation,” she said. “Into what, I don’t know specifically.”

  “But what sort of a thing?” I asked her. “What was his job?”

  “Don’t you know?” she said.

  “No,” I said. “We found it very hard to keep in touch, I’m afraid. You’ll have to start from the beginning for me.”

  There was a long pause on the line.

  “OK,” she said. “I shouldn’t tell you this. Not without clearance. But I will. It was counterfeiting. He ran the Treasury’s anticounterfeiting operation.”

  “Counterfeiting?” I said. “Counterfeit money?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He was head of the department. Ran the whole show. He was an amazing guy, Jack.”

  “But why was he down here in Georgia?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t. What I aim to do is find out for you. I can copy his files. I know his computer password.”

  There was another pause. Now I knew something about Molly Beth Gordon. I’d spent a lot of time on computer passwords. Any military cop does. I’d studied the pyschology. Most users make bad choices. A lot of them write the damn word on a Post-it note and stick it on the monitor case. The ones who are too smart to do that use their spouse’s name, or their dog’s name, or their favorite car or ball player, or the name of the island where they took their honeymoon or balled their secretary. The ones who think they’re really smart use figures, not words, but they choose their birthday or their wedding anniversary or something pretty obvious. If you can find something out about the user, you’ve normally got a better than even chance of figuring their password.

  But that would never work with Joe. He was a professional. He’d spent important years in Military Intelligence. His password would be a random mixture of numbers, letters, punctuation marks, upper and lower case. His password would be unbreakable. If Molly Beth Gordon knew what it was, Joe must have told her. No other way. He had really trusted her. He had been really close to her. So I put some tenderness into my voice.

  “Molly, that would be great,” I said. “I really need that information.”

  “I know you do,” she said. “I hope to get it tomorrow. I’ll call you again, soon as I can. Soon as I know something.”

  “Is there counterfeiting going on down here?” I asked her. “Is that what this could be all about?”

  “No,” she said. “It doesn’t happen like that. Not inside the States. All that stuff about little guys with green eye-shades down in secret cellars printing dollar bills is all nonsense. Just doesn’t happen. Joe stopped it. Your brother was a genius, Jack. He set up procedures years ago for the special paper sales and the inks, so if somebody starts up, he gets nailed within days. One hundred percent foolproof. Printing money in the States just doesn’t happen anymore. Joe made sure of that. It all happens abroad. Any fakes we get here are shipped in. That’s what Joe spent his time chasing. International stuff. Why he was in Georgia, I don’t know. I really don’t. But I’ll find out tomorrow, I promise you that.”

  I gave her the station house number and told her to speak to nobody except me or Roscoe or Finlay. Then she hung up in a hurry like somebody had just walked in on her. I sat for a moment and tried to imagine what she looked like.

  TEALE WAS BACK IN THE STATION HOUSE. AND OLD MAN Kliner was inside with him. They were over by the reception counter, heads together. Kliner was talking to Teale like I’d seen him talking to Eno at the diner. Foundation business, maybe. Roscoe and Finlay were standing together by the cells. I walked over to them. Stood between them and talked low.

  “Counterfeiting,” I said. “This is about counterfeit money. Joe was running the Treasury Department’s defense for them. You know anything about that sort of a thing down here? Either of you?”

  They both shrugged and shook their heads. I heard the glass door suck open. Looked up. Kliner was on his way out. Teale was starting in toward us.

  “I’m out of here,” I said.

  I brushed past Teale and headed for the door. Kliner was standing in the lot, next to the black pickup. Waiting for me. He smiled. Wolf’s teeth showing.

  “Sorry for your loss,” he said.

  His voice had a quiet, cultured tone. Educated. A slight hiss on the sibilants. Not the voice to go with his sunbaked appearance.

  “You upset my son,” he said.

  He looked at me. Something burning in his eyes. I shrugged.

  “The kid upset me first,” I said.

  “How?” Kliner asked. Sharply.

  “He lived and breathed?” I said.

  I moved on across the lot. Kliner slid into the black pickup. Fired it up and nosed out. He turned north. I turned south. Started the walk down to Roscoe’s place. It was a half mile through the new fall chill. Ten minutes at a brisk pace. I got the Bentley out of the garage. Drove it back up the slope to town. Made the right onto Main Street and cruised along. I was peering left and right in under the smart striped awnings, looking for the clothes store. Found it three doors north of the barbershop. Left the Bentley on the street and went in. Paid out some of Charlie Hubble’s expenses cash to a sullen middle-aged guy for a pair of pants, a shirt and a jacket. A light fawn color, pressed cotton, as near to formal as I was prepared to go. No tie. I put it all on in the changing cubicle in the back of the store. Bagged up the old stuff and threw it in the Bentley’s trunk as I passed.

  I walked the three doors south to the barbershop. The younger of the two old guys was on his way out of the door. He stopped and put his hand on my arm.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked me.

  No reason not to tell him. Not that I could see.

  “Jack Reacher,” I said.

  “You got any Hispanic friend
s in town?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, you got some now,” he said. “Two guys, looking all over for you.”

  I looked at him. He scanned the street.

  “Who were they?” I asked him.

  “Never saw them before,” the old guy said. “Little guys, brown car, fancy shirts. Been all over, asking for Jack Reacher. We told them we never heard of no Jack Reacher.”

  “When was this?” I said.

  “This morning,” he said. “After breakfast.”

  I nodded.

  “OK,” I said. “Thanks.”

  The guy held the door open for me.

  “Go right in,” he said. “My partner will take care of you. But he’s a bit skittish this morning. Getting old.”

  “Thanks,” I said again. “See you around.”

  “Sure hope so, son,” he said.

  He strolled off down Main Street and I went inside his shop. The older guy was in there. The gnarled old man whose sister had sung with Blind Blake. No other customers. I nodded to the old guy and sat down in his chair.

  “Good morning, my friend,” he said.

  “You remember me?” I said.

  “Sure do,” he said. “You were our last customer. Nobody in between to muddle me up.”

  I asked him for a shave and he set about whipping up the lather.

  “I was your last customer?” I said. “That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. Business always that bad?”

  The old guy paused and gestured with the razor.

  “Been that bad for years,” he said. “Old Mayor Teale won’t come in here, and what the old mayor won’t do, nobody else white will do neither. Except old Mr. Gray from the station house, came in here regular as clockwork three, four times a week, until he went and hung himself, God rest his soul. You’re the first white face in here since last February, yes sir, that’s for sure.”

  “Why won’t Teale come in here?” I asked him.

  “Man’s got a problem,” the old guy said. “I figure he don’t like to sit all swathed up in the towel while there’s a black man standing next to him with a razor. Maybe worried something bad might happen to him.”

  “Might something bad happen to him?” I said.

  He laughed a short laugh.

  “I figure there’s a serious risk,” he said. “Asshole.”

  “So you got enough black customers to make a living?” I asked him.

  He put the towel around my shoulders and started brushing on the lather.

  “Man, we don’t need customers to make a living,” he said.

  “You don’t?” I said. “Why not?”

  “We got the community money,” he said.

  “You do?” I said. “What’s that?”

  “Thousand dollars,” he said.

  “Who gives you that?” I asked him.

  He started scraping my chin. His hand was shaking like old people do.

  “Kliner Foundation,” he whispered. “The community program. It’s a business grant. All the merchants get it. Been getting it five years.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s good,” I said. “But a thousand bucks a year won’t keep you. It’s better than a poke in the eye, but you need customers too, right?”

  I was just making conversation, like you do with barbers. But it set the old guy off. He was shaking and cackling. Had a whole lot of trouble finishing the shave. I was staring into the mirror. After last night, it would be a hell of a thing to get my throat cut by accident.

  “Man, I shouldn’t tell you about it,” he whispered. “But seeing as you’re a friend of my sister’s, I’m going to tell you a big secret.”

  He was getting confused. I wasn’t a friend of his sister’s. Didn’t even know her. He’d told me about her, was all. He was standing there with the razor. We were looking at each other in the mirror. Like with Finlay in the coffee shop.

  “It’s not a thousand dollars a year,” he whispered. Then he bent close to my ear. “It’s a thousand dollars a week.”

  He started stomping around, chuckling like a demon. He filled the sink and dabbed off the spare lather. Patted my face down with a hot wet cloth. Then he whipped the towel off my shoulders like a conjurer doing a trick.

  “That’s why we don’t need no customers,” he cackled.

  I paid him and got out. The guy was crazy.

  “Say hello to my sister,” he called after me.

  17

  THE TRIP TO ATLANTA WAS THE BEST PART OF FIFTY MILES. Took nearly an hour. The highway swept me right into the city. I headed for the tallest buildings. Soon as I started to see marble foyers I dumped the car and walked to the nearest corner and asked a cop for the commercial district.

  He gave me a half mile walk after which I found one bank after another. Sunrise International had its own building. It was a big glass tower set back behind a piazza with a fountain. That part looked like Milan, but the entranceway at the base of the tower was clad in heavy stone, trying to look like Frankfurt or London. Trying to look like a big heavy-duty bank. Foyer full of dark carpet and leather. Receptionist behind a mahogany counter. Could have been a quiet hotel.

  I asked for Paul Hubble’s office and the receptionist flipped through a directory. She said she was sorry, but she was new in the job and she didn’t recognize me, so would I wait while she got clearance for my visit? She dialed a number and started a low conversation. Then she covered the phone with her hand.

  “May I say what it’s in connection with?”

  “I’m a friend,” I said.

  She resumed the phone call and then directed me to an elevator. I had to go to reception on the seventeenth floor. I got in the elevator and tapped the button. Stood there while it carried me up.

  The seventeenth floor looked even more like a gentleman’s club than the entrance foyer had. It was carpeted and paneled and dim. Full of glowing antiques and old pictures. As I waded across the thick pile a door opened and a suit stepped out to meet me. Shook my hand and fussed me back into a little anteroom. He introduced himself as some sort of a manager and we sat down.

  “So how may I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Paul Hubble,” I said.

  “May I know why?”

  “He’s an old friend,” I said. “I remembered him saying he works here, so I thought I’d look him up while I’m passing through.”

  The guy in the suit nodded. Dropped his gaze.

  “Thing is, you see,” he said, “Mr. Hubble doesn’t work here anymore. We had to let him go, I’m afraid, about eighteen months ago.”

  I just nodded blankly. Then I sat there in the clubby little office and looked at the guy in the suit and waited. A bit of silence might set him talking. If I asked him questions straight out, he might clam up. He might go all confidential, like lawyers do. But I could see he was a chatty type of a guy. A lot of those managers are. They love to impress the hell out of you, given the chance. So I sat tight and waited. Then the guy started apologizing to me because I was Hubble’s friend.

  “No fault of his own, you understand,” he said. “He did an excellent job, but it was in a field we moved out of. A strategic business decision, very unfortunate for the people concerned, but there you are.”

  I nodded at him like I understood.

  “I haven’t been in touch for a long time,” I said. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even really know what he did here.”

  I smiled at him. Tried to look amiable and ignorant. Didn’t take much effort, in a bank. I gave him my best receptive look. Guaranteed to set a chatty guy talking. It had worked for me plenty of times before.

  “He was part of our retail operation,” the guy said. “We closed it down.”

  I looked inquiringly at him.

  “Retail?” I said.

  “Over-the-counter banking,” he said. “You know, cash, checks, loans, personal customers.”

  “And you closed that down?” I said. “Why?”

  “Too expens
ive,” he said. “Big overhead, small margin. It had to go.”

  “And Hubble was a part of that?” I asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Hubble was our currency manager,” he said. “It was an important position. He was very good.”

  “So what was his exact role?” I asked him.

  The guy didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t know where to start. He made a couple of attempts and gave them up.

  “Do you understand cash?” he said.

  “I’ve got some,” I said. “I don’t know if I understand it, exactly.”

  He got to his feet and gave me a fussy gesture. Wanted me to join him at the window. We peered out together at the people on the street, seventeen floors down. He pointed at a guy in a suit, hurrying along the sidewalk.

  “Take that gentleman,” he said. “Let’s make a few guesses, shall we? Probably lives in the outer suburbs, maybe has a vacation cabin somewhere, two big mortgages, two cars, half a dozen mutual funds, IRA provision, some blue chip stock, college plans, five or six credit cards, store cards, charge cards. Net worth about a half million, shall we say?”

  “OK,” I said.

  “But how much cash does he have?” the guy asked me.

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Probably about fifty dollars,” he said. “About fifty dollars in a leather billfold which cost him a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  I looked at him. I wasn’t following his drift. The guy changed gear. Became very patient with me.

  “The U.S. economy is huge,” he said. “Net assets and net liabilities are incalculably large. Trillions of dollars. But almost none of it is actually represented by cash. That gentleman had a net worth of a half million dollars, but only fifty of it was in actual cash. All the rest of it is on paper or in computers. The fact is, there isn’t much actual cash around. There’s only about a hundred and thirty billion actual cash dollars inside the whole U.S.”

  I shrugged at him again.

  “Sounds like enough to me,” I said.

  The guy looked at me severely.