by Diane Capri
“Talk to me, Sunshine,” Gaspar said. “Otherwise, I’m gonna take a nap.”
“Just so you keep this bus between the ditches, Cheech.”
“You’re never going to get that Cheech Marin is Mexican and I’m Cuban, are you?”
“Susie Wong was Chinese and I’m only half-Vietnamese. Doesn’t seem to bother you.”
He grinned. “What have you got over there?”
“I’m scanning now. Looks like the important part is a defunct California defense contractor called New Age Defense Systems.”
“What kind of a name is that for a defense contractor? What do they do, hold hands and meditate before they develop bio-weapons? Sounds like something even Gandhi would hate.”
Kim barely listened to his babble as she scanned the information on the screen. “Highly classified. Went out of business five years ago. Suspected of trading with the enemy, it says here. Berenson and Dean both worked there. The suggestion was they maybe were part owners or held significant stock or something.”
“What were they suspected of trading with what enemy, exactly?”
“Looks like the only thing New Age developed and manufactured were missiles. Chiefly something called Little Wing, which is now obsolete. It was a man-portable, shoulder-launched, surface-to-air missile.”
“Five years ago, we had plenty of enemies interested in those. Still do.”
“Right,” Kim said, scanning down the reports. “Dean was the R&D guy. Berenson was in HR. Nothing about Sanchez or O’Donnell that I can see.” She stopped talking and read more quickly.
After a while, Gaspar said, “What?”
“Head of security at New Age was Tony Swan,” she said.
“One of Reacher’s team, now dead.”
“Right.”
“What else?”
“New Age was the sole source of Little Wing. The project was discontinued after two years when countermeasures were designed to defeat Little Wing. And everything else in the file about Little Wing was classified. Which could mean that the Boss saw it and decided not to send it along.” Kim closed the laptop for a moment and rubbed her eyes. She was running low on every one of her standard triple A’s: ambition, anxiety and adrenaline. Caffeine would give her a temporary recharge until she could get some much-needed sleep. “Is there anywhere we can stop for coffee?”
“Might be some all-night diners around here somewhere. But it is Sunday night, so maybe not. I’ll keep a look out. What happened to Dean and Berenson when New Age went OOB?”
“The file doesn’t say. Presumably they lost their jobs, maybe their investments.”
“Lots of people lose their jobs. Doesn’t make ’em homicidal,” he said.
“It feels like everything’s all connected, though. Swan and the other members of Reacher’s team died five years ago. Sanchez went missing, presumed dead, five years ago. New Age went belly up five years ago. Neagley hasn’t seen Reacher for years, she said. I’m guessing about five years, don’t you think? But I don’t see anything in this file to give us a clue.”
“You think Neagley knows whatever the connection is?” he asked.
“She knows a lot more about the situation than we do. For sure. I’m only sorry we can’t arrest her for obstruction. Or treason. Or even murder. I’d take robbing candy from a little old lady if it meant I could slap the cuffs on her and lock her up.”
Gaspar laughed. “Frances really got under your skin, didn’t she, Susie Wong?”
Kim frowned, but he ignored her. “If I could prove she’s the one who assaulted us, she’d be sitting in a cell already.”
“The Boss wouldn’t like that.”
“Who cares what the Boss likes? You?”
Gaspar said nothing and Kim couldn’t see him very well in the dim interior of the Crown Vic. He’d been the one who’d distrusted the Boss from the start. Kim had been more gullible initially. But not anymore.
After a while, Gaspar said, “Let’s recap. This is one of those assignments where missing the smallest detail could be, well, not good for our health, right?”
“Exactly.”
“So we know that the point of connection is New Age. We know the time frame was five years ago.”
“We know Sanchez and Swan were involved,” Kim contributed. “Because Orozco and Franz died around the same time, it’s reasonable to assume the rest of Reacher’s unit was involved, too. Including the big guy.”
Gaspar didn’t argue. But he didn’t say he agreed, either. He’d flipped on his turn signal and moved into the exit lane. Kim glanced up to see a sign indicating an all-night truck stop ahead. Her nostrils quivered. Coffee.
He said, “The question is what the hell kind of ‘trading with the enemy’ they were involved in that got them all not arrested, tried, and convicted, but maimed or killed. Some at the time. Some years later. Any clue?”
Kim sighed, ran her hand over the sleek cap of black hair that she’d pulled back and twisted into a chignon hours ago. She felt so weary of it all. Even six hours of uninterrupted sleep seemed like the holy grail. Something she could forever seek but never find.
She sighed again. “Oh, it has to be money, doesn’t it? Money and maybe ego. Everything else is too perishable to have gotten them killed so many years later. It’s hard to sustain any sort of rage for five years, in my experience. Cold, hard, hatred is another matter.”
Gaspar’s eyebrows jumped up. “Missiles aren’t perishable.”
“Sure they are. They’re a strategic weapon. And they’ve pretty much been replaced by drones and newer missiles, haven’t they?”
Gaspar pulled the Crown Vic perpendicular to the curb in front of the truck stop. It was one of those all-in-one places where truckers could sleep or get a donut for breakfast or a beer before bed to go with their sandwich. Kim didn’t speculate about what else might be available for the right price. All she cared about was a caffeine jolt, which, for her, was the second best alternative to solid shuteye. She unlatched her seatbelt and rooted around in her pockets for the necessary cash.
“Let’s say you’re right that the missiles themselves are not the current motivator, at least,” he said. “I agree about the rage thing and nothing says this is a vengeance thing to me, either. So let’s focus on your best guess. Who has the money? And who wants it?”
Kim opened her door and stepped out into the cold dark. Gaspar did the same. Their gazes met over the hood. “Excellent questions. I’ll think about that. And you think about why you agreed with Neagley when she said she’d tried to contact Reacher for us. After I make a pit stop and buy a quart of stiff black caffeine, you can talk first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, November 13
10:21 p.m.
Chicago, IL
The coffee cup Kim returned to the Crown Vic with was at least a quart-sized one. She also had collected a nutritious dinner: a bag of donuts and a large pouch of peanut M&Ms. She settled into the Crown Vic’s seat, pulled out the alligator clamp she kept in her pocket and anchored it firmly to the shoulder harness to keep it from cutting her head off at her neck. She inhaled the coffee’s aroma like a coonhound sniffing prey and tore the M&Ms open with her teeth.
“Protein first. Then dessert,” she said.
“Bon appetit!” Gaspar hoisted his cold cola and sleeve of chocolate cookies in a one-hand salute. With the other, he slid the key into the ignition, buckled his own belt, and reached down to start the engine.
“Hold on a minute,” Kim said. “I want to know the answer to my question. When Neagley said she’d tried to contact Reacher, you confirmed. Why?”
Gaspar stretched, yawned, delayed. “I was just trying to make peace between you two.”
“No you weren’t. You believed her.” Kim continued to munch on her candy as if his answer didn’t matter. But they both knew it did.
He shrugged. “We’ve got to find out what she’s up to, don’t we? Maybe she lied. Maybe not. Either way, why not say we believe her
? Makes her feel a little less confident in her privacy methods and at the same time, suggests we know more about her actions than she thought. Diabolical, hmm?”
Kim reached over and pulled the keys from the ignition before he realized what she intended to do. The heavy V-8 engine died without so much as an extra whimper. “The woman’s a whack-job. She’s dangerous. And maybe crazy. I’m not going any further until I know what you know.”
He looked down at the steering wheel and then returned his gaze to hers, some decision reached, she figured. He said, “Remember I told you that Reacher’s bank records showed very few deposits except for his pension?”
She realized they were on treacherous ground whenever the bank records were mentioned, and that their conversation was being monitored, as always. Still, she was a little afraid of Neagley. Her gut told her she needed to know, even if the Boss overheard. She trusted Gaspar to protect whatever he needed to protect.
She sipped to delay her final decision a moment more. The coffee was strong and hot and hit her stomach like a jolt of nauseous energy added to the sugar from the candy. She was starting to feel wired.
Kim nodded. “I remember.”
“Well, I found four deposits,” he said, quietly. “The first three happened five years ago. The first was $1,030.00. Five weeks later, two more deposits made on the same day, $101,810.18 and $10,012. The first one came from a bank in Chicago. The last two from a bank in New York.”
She thought about it. Obviously, if the bank deposits were somehow used to contact Reacher back when he collected money from Western Union offices, people close to him might know about the arrangement. Maybe Neagley and Dixon improvised, or maybe Reacher suggested the covert connection. Either way, Gaspar was probably right. They’d found no other way to locate Reacher. Follow the money. Always the best plan, in Kim’s experience.
She sipped, munched, considered carefully. She returned the keys to the ignition and Gaspar started the engine. She punched the on button for the radio and turned up the volume, then looked at Gaspar and mouthed, “And the fourth was Tuesday?”
He nodded, “The same amount as the first. $1,030.00.” He shifted the car into reverse, turned the radio volume down. “Geez! Even my kids don’t blast my eardrums like that!”
“What do you make of the deposits?” Kim asked between thoughtful crunches.
“Dunno. You?”
They returned to the expressway and continued toward Lake Forest, while Kim considered what would likely happen when and if Reacher got Neagley’s message, whatever the message was.
Kim tried to think about the deposit numbers, but she was too tired to hold them in her head, so made a quick note of the amounts and then she focused on the circumstances. She could usually see the hidden relationships others missed.
Two deposits of the same amount, five years apart. If the second was a signal from Neagley, did that mean the first was a signal from Neagley, too? Probably.
Or at least it meant the deposit amount was a signal and Neagley knew about the signal and what it meant and she duplicated it now because it had worked five years ago to get Reacher’s attention.
But what about the other two deposits? Were they signals as well? From whom? Neagley? Or Dixon? Or someone else?
A hundred-and-one grand was one hell of a signal, if that was the case.
Maybe if she finished the coffee and chocolate, her synapses would fire correctly again and she could figure things out.
Gaspar said, “We’re close to Neagley’s. Let’s talk about your money theory. Suppose this is all about money. Which is as good a guess as any.”
“High praise, Chico.”
He grinned. “So if this is about money, you figure it’s what? Somebody got cheated back in the day?”
“Makes sense.”
“Who has the money? And who wants it?”
“I figure that’s what we’ll ask Neagley when we get there. If nothing else, it’ll be fun to watch her squirm.”
“Assuming you’re doing the teasing, not me. And from an assured clear distance,” he said, as he turned the Crown Vic onto Neagley’s street. Her address was two dark and silent blocks ahead.
They could see Neagley’s home clearly in the distance.
While most of the homes in the sleepy neighborhood were closed up for the night, Neagley’s was flooded with bright lights and three local police cruisers were parked out front. The newer, reengineered versions of the Interceptors. No match for the Crown Vic, should it come to a challenge. Which Kim hoped it wouldn’t.
“What the hell do you suppose is going on here?” Gaspar said, as if he was asking no one but himself.
Kim turned on the police scanner inside the Crown Vic. She heard the usual radio calls between dispatch and patrol units.
“Ten-forty-three, please,” the dispatcher requested. Polite.
“Ten-eighty-five; ten-sixteen; ten-ninety-six,” an officer responded.
“Ten-sixty-nine,” she said.
“Say what?” Gaspar asked.
Kim easily located the Illinois State Police 10-codes list on her laptop and translated. “Dispatcher wants information. He says he’s delayed due to a domestic problem involving a mentally disturbed subject.” She looked up from the screen. “I told you Neagley was crazy, but you didn’t believe me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. “Though her brother can get a little agitated, too, don’t you agree? What else?”
“The dispatcher says ten-sixty-nine, message received.”
Gaspar scowled. “How wacky is that? Who could remember all those 10-codes? We only had fifty in the Army.”
“Soldiers have notoriously bad memories. They didn’t want to over-tax your systems.” Kim’s caffeine high had finally kicked in. She felt buzzed with energy.
Most agencies had abandoned the old 10-codes in favor of plain words because 10-codes varied too much from one jurisdiction to the next. But here in Illinois, where they were invented back in 1937, not only did they remain in use, but the locals had devised quite a few extras in the past seventy-five years.
“Well, 50 ten-codes should be enough for anybody,” Gaspar groused. “In the Army, we never had a situation that didn’t fit somewhere.”
Kim turned the scanner’s volume down. Before she could formulate a snappy reply, the answer to an earlier brain-teaser gobsmacked her. She grinned. “I know what those deposits to Reacher’s bank account mean.”
“You do?”
“Ten-twenty-eight.”
“In Army-speak, that means loud and clear,” Gaspar said.
“Ten-four.”
“Wrecker requested? What the hell is that?”
Kim laughed out loud. “Okay, Chico, okay. Ten-four means okay.”
Her mirth only annoyed Gaspar further. “No, it doesn’t. In the Army it means ‘wrecker requested.’ In the civilian world, it means ‘acknowledged.’ What’s acknowledged?”
Still chuckling, Kim replied, “Think about the deposits. You’re good with numbers. Meanwhile, park the car. Let’s go see what’s going on here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, November 14
12:13 a.m.
Chicago, IL
As instructed, Gaspar parked the Crown Vic along the curb behind one of the cruisers, making sure to leave enough room for an easy exit. They left the vehicle unlocked and walked down the tree-lined sidewalk toward Neagley’s home, which looked like it had been owned by a railroad baron once upon a time.
The house was set back from the road and surrounded by at least an acre of green all around. Lots of doors and roofs and huge windows and giant garages. The brick pavers alone would have cost Kim a year’s pay.
The first uniformed officer they reached stood leaning against his patrol car which, upon closer inspection, was a private security service vehicle, not Lake Forest PD. Kim pulled out her badge wallet and showed it. Gaspar did the same.
But before she could introduce herself, probably because of his as
sumptions about their jurisdiction, the guard said, “No need for the FBI. We’ve called the locals. The kid’s run away a dozen times before. We’ll probably find him in the next hour.”
The former secret service agent Kim remembered standing guard at Neagley’s office came out the front door and hustled down the long and winding sidewalk toward the police vehicles ahead on the street.
Kim called out. He turned, saw them, and waited for their approach.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Gaspar asked when they were within hailing distance.
“Never give up, do you?” he said. “We didn’t report a kidnapping. Why are you here?”
“Is Ms. Neagley inside?” Kim asked.
“She is.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said to Gaspar, leaving him to interrogate Nameless as well as possible while she traveled the sidewalk he’d used to reach the curb.
The air smelled like home to Kim. This Chicago suburb was a long way from the Michigan farm town she grew up in, but Midwestern fall smelled clean and cold here, too.
The wide-open space around Neagley’s house allowed cold wind to blow through her lightweight overcoat. She hugged her arms to her body and thought about how cold Paul would be now, and much colder he’d be as the night wore on, if he’d run out without a good warm fleece and knit cap, at least.
The front door of the house stood open and every light on the lower level was ablaze, spilling brightness onto the front pavers and lawns like outdoor floodlights.
Wearing the same clothes she’d worn in New York earlier, Neagley stood just inside the entrance, talking with two uniformed officers, her back to the door. Which allowed Kim to approach the group unnoticed.
Kim listened to the conversation while forcing herself not to gape at the home’s spacious open floor plan and pricey interior decor. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen as many wing chairs collected in one place. She counted fifteen from her vantage point at the entrance. Not to mention the artwork she recognized and the sheer volume of high-end stuff everywhere. Several heavy wood pieces were tall and dark and solid enough to require a forklift simply to rearrange the furniture. Could this possibly be Neagley’s taste? She’d seemed much more practical up until now.