by Dan Ames
It was a trail for the coyote.
It led her to a clear disturbance in the sand.
An alarm rose within the coyote. This was the smell of something foreign. Something to be feared.
It was the same kind of scent she had discovered around places where bad things happened.
But mixed in with the sense of danger was a delicious smell.
Food.
Life.
The coyote lifted her head and peered into the darkness around her.
She saw no threats. She backed off from the discovery, circled, and then came back.
Nothing had threatened her.
Nothing had leapt out from the darkness to attack.
For the moment, she felt safe enough to investigate further.
She planted a front paw at the edge of the disturbance in the sand.
And then she began to dig.
20
Luckily, probably because she had been crying so often lately, Cassady had a tissue in her purse. She used it to catch the tears before they completely ruined her makeup.
“I really have to get back to the office,” she said.
Pauling checked the time and made a decision.
“Do you trust me now?” she asked. “Enough to have a longer conversation?”
Cassady nodded, still wiping her eyes.
“Okay, since you have to get back to work and don’t want to look like you had the worst lunch of your life, why don’t we continue this conversation at your home?” Pauling asked. “I want to see the house, and maybe we can talk more and start to get some insights into what may have happened.”
“Okay,” Cassady said. She gave Pauling her address, and Pauling didn’t bother to tell her she already had it. It would just freak the girl out even more.
They walked back together and parted in front of the door Cassady had emerged from earlier.
“I still don’t understand something, though,” Cassady said. “If you’re not involved in whatever happened to Rick, how did you get involved? I mean, I didn’t contact you. So who did?”
“That’s part of why I’m here,” Pauling said. “I don’t know the answer to that, either. But the way I’m looking at it, once I have my answer, you’ll probably have yours, too.”
Cassady nodded and Pauling put a hand on her shoulder.
“We’ll figure this thing out together, okay?” she said.
Cassady gave a half-hearted smile and walked through the door back into her building.
Pauling’s words of encouragement had sounded even hollow to her. The truth was, she had no idea how she was going to get to the bottom of Rick Simmons’ disappearance. Already, she was having doubts about Cassady’s ability to help and figured the meeting tonight with her would probably produce very little.
Still, she had to remain positive.
And most of all, she wanted to find out Jack Reacher’s involvement.
Pauling went back to her Impala, put the car in gear and drove away.
She would check into a hotel, hook up her laptop, do some more research and then head out to meet Cassady.
There was something about the girl and the situation that just didn’t add up. Pauling felt like she was missing something, something obvious but she couldn’t force it to crystallize. It was like a memory you just couldn’t place.
Pauling headed into downtown Albuquerque.
She felt like staying in a nice hotel with a gym.
Maybe she had just enough time to work out some of the kinks from the flight.
21
The plane was being flown by a sixty-year-old man who’d left the advertising business to pursue his passion for aviation. Often times, in long meetings at the agency, he would daydream about being in his little plane, taking to the skies, flying over and above everything. A quiet and peaceful world where he was in control.
His office had sported all things aviation. An airplane clock. A paper clip holder in the shape of a fuselage. A coffee table featuring landing gear for supports.
Eventually, he’d saved enough money to lease a little hangar and keep his pride and joy, a Piper Cherokee from the 1970s, in excellent flying condition. He planned to fly as long as he possibly could. He was only sixty years old, and his savvy investing had paid off with a retirement fund that kicked off more than enough to keep what was normally a fairly expensive hobby from draining him dry.
Now, he’d spent a good amount of the afternoon crisscrossing the desert and the mountains, doing a big loop and enjoying near-perfect weather.
He never felt more at peace than he did in the air.
It seemed to put all of the world’s issues into perspective. Made them seem smaller somehow.
Now, he was on his way back to the airstrip just outside of Albuquerque. He would land, stow the plane, maybe hang out in his little hangar for an hour or two, nursing a whiskey and replaying the flight in his mind.
But his reverie was interrupted when he spotted something in the desert below.
With casual ease, he maneuvered the plane around for a closer look, dropping in altitude as he made his run.
The ground flew past him in a blur, but ahead, he saw a shape on the ground.
As his plane sped forward, the image came closer and closer until he was able to confirm what he thought he’d seen.
A body.
There was a definite shape of a torso, along with some limbs.
A pack of coyotes scattered as he flew overhead.
There was no doubt in his mind as he prepared to call in what he’d seen.
It had been a body.
Or at least, what was left of it.
22
Pauling chose an upscale hotel that belonged to a family of luxury properties, mainly because she knew they would have some of the amenities most important to her.
Room service coffee, twenty-four hours a day. A gym. And reliable Internet service.
She checked in, didn’t bother unpacking, plugged in her laptop and put on workout clothes. She headed down to the fitness center, was pleasantly surprised by its extensive collection of machines and free weights, and put in forty-five minutes of intense exertion.
Afterward, she showered, dressed and checked the time.
She had an hour to kill before she had to rendezvous with Cassady. Pauling decided to use the time to plow through her always-accruing email.
There were status updates from subcontractors on other active cases. Initial queries on new investigations. Purchase order requests. And then there was yet another email from a huge competitor who wanted to buy Pauling’s company, along with her services.
They were pursuing her mostly because they kept losing business to her.
If you can’t beat ‘em, buy ‘em. That was their strategy. It had worked for a lot of holding companies, Pauling knew.
They also wanted her because of her pedigree. They were apparently having a hard time matching it, when it came to selling themselves to new clients.
Pauling politely declined their offer.
The money was certainly attention-getting, however. She could sell her private investigative company, buy a villa in the south of France…and what? Sit on the beach all day? Go through a bunch of lovers on vacation? Develop a drinking problem?
The fact was, her job was important to her. She had family, sure. A sister in Portland with three children.
It was good to visit them. Pauling even looked forward to seeing everybody.
They were as close as two sisters could be who’d chosen distinctly different life paths.
Pauling could still have kids, through adoption. Maybe one day she would. She certainly had the financial resources to give a child everything they could need.
But her job demanded travel.
And the ability to drop everything on a moment’s notice and just go. The last time she’d checked, that wasn’t a good lifestyle for a single mother.
That spontaneity was essential to the life of a private investigator.
Just like this case.
The Reacher File.
That’s how she thought of it. She didn’t consider it the Cassady Simmons Case.
It was the Reacher File.
Pauling had taken the mystery letter with the phone number, put it in a folder, and filed it under the name “Reacher.”
Perhaps she’d done it because she felt wistful thinking of Jack Reacher.
Or, perhaps it just made sense.
Checking the clock on her laptop, Pauling saw it was time to go.
She snapped her laptop shut. Put on her holster and slipped her gun into its spot. She double-checked her keys and phone and then left the room. She put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle.
Pauling retrieved the Impala, pulled out of the hotel parking garage and pointed the big vehicle toward the home of Cassady Simmons.
She would be there in fifteen minutes.
23
Petrie was summoned to Rollins’ office. It was a corner space, with a window on each side. The view wasn’t much, just the side of another building, but at least natural light made its way in.
Which seemed misplaced. In contrast to the content of the discussion.
“How good is Hess?” Rollins asked.
“She’s good. Sharp. Ivy League. Not afraid to do what has to be done.”
Rollins was sitting in his chair, his cell phone on the desk in front of him. Petrie remained standing.
“Have you read the safeguards that were in place to prevent this exact kind of thing from happening?”
“I have.”
“And?”
Petrie sighed. “Nearly all preventive measures in this type of situation are to minimize the impact of human error.”
“This wasn’t error.”
“The side product of this approach is that it also eliminates windows of opportunity for folks with bad intentions. The more processes that are automated and regulated, remove bad actors from the equation.”
“A good theory.”
“The one drawback nearly every operation of this type has is that the human element can never be fully removed,” Petrie said. “Otherwise it becomes Artificial Intelligence. Which has its own worst-case scenarios.”
“Indeed,” Rollins asserted.
“Suffice to say, this was a combination of human interaction combined with technologic savvy.”
“Had to be,” Rollins agreed.
“So unless you are willing to take human beings completely out of the equation, you will always be dancing with the devil.”
Rollins raised an eyebrow at Petrie.
“Dancing with the devil?”
“It’s all about odds. You limit the number of people with access to certain things, but you always have to have someone there. And no matter how much you lower the odds, mathematically, there’s always the potential for the dice to land on the wrong spot.”
“And now we’re adding someone else to the equation,” Rollins said. “I hope Hess can handle this.”
“She’s not alone, sir,” Petrie pointed out. “I’m monitoring this thing from start to finish. And like I said, Ostertag is capable. He and his team can accomplish whatever Hess asks them to do. If need be, we can provide more support to Hess once she makes an initial assessment.”
Rollins swiped his cell phone from his desk and looked at the screen.
“Okay. Let’s get this thing taken care of. No more surprises.”
Petrie was about to answer, but Rollins had put the phone to his ear.
He let himself out of the office.
24
Pauling turned down the street that Cassady Simmons called home, and began looking for the correct house number.
It was a modest neighborhood, full of single-story homes, many with Spanish tile roofs and white stucco. Some had garages, most didn’t. Cars were parked in driveways and landscapes featured mostly rock and thin shrubbery, punctuated by the occasional cactus plant. Walkways were paved with dark red stones, often bordered with white edging.
Ahead, she saw a full-sized sedan parked along the curb. Something about it gave Pauling pause.
It looked like a cop car.
Or a Bureau car.
And it appeared to be parked in front of the house bearing Cassady’s address.
Pauling parked behind the car, noted its license plate number and exited the Impala. She walked to the front door. Before ringing the bell, she listened. There was no sound. Pauling turned around and looked back at the car.
Okay, decision time.
One, it could be that the owners of the mystery car weren’t here, at Cassady’s house. Maybe they were visiting the home across the street. Two, maybe Cassady herself wasn’t even home yet. Three, if Cassady was home, and there was someone inside with her, would ringing the bell make sense?
Pauling weighed her options.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that maybe she had slightly discounted Cassady’s fear. Had the young woman finally called the police? Had she ignored her husband’s advice not to call them? Had they sent out a pair of detectives?
At times like this, Pauling trusted her instincts. And right now, they told her to test the door first and see if it was unlocked. She reached forward, and turned the doorknob. The latch clicked open.
Unlocked.
Now she knew.
There was no way Cassady Simmons in her current state of mind would leave the front door unlocked.
Pauling gently pushed the door open and stepped inside the house.
Staring back at her, with a disappointed look on his face, was a man with a gun.
25
Michael Tallon’s behavior wasn’t governed by money. Most of what he’d done professionally in his life had been because he believed in something. His father had been a bit of a genius with numbers and had found a home in the accounting industry. His son had shared some of the ability, but none of the desire.
He had been captivated at an early age by a belief in his country. It was something he’d come to organically, and it had blossomed within him as a young man.
It was why he’d chosen to enter the military.
Still, money was money.
You had to respect it.
Or it would make you pay.
Tallon kept close tabs on his modest investment portfolio, and particularly focused monitoring of his liquid investments. It was something his father had taught him.
He had done well in his career so far and through various efforts, had achieved a steady income from both his military and government work. He had invested shrewdly and his return was steady. Some now might even say he was fairly well off.
But Tallon lived for something more.
So, he logged out of his banking and investment accounts, went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer.
His casita featured an open kitchen, with clean lines and high-end finishes. Tallon had sprung to have a professional designer do his space, with certain adaptions that he needed for his line of work.
A sliding glass door opened out onto a rear deck, with a stone fire pit in the middle. Tallon loved to sit out here when the evening cooled down, with a small fire, a beer in hand, looking out at the distant mountains.
He sat in a chair, and put his feet up on the edge of the fire pit, contemplated building a fire. He used juniper wood and the scent was oddly comforting to him.
He drank his beer and thought about his run in the desert.
How something had troubled him.
It was still there, in the back of his mind.
The sense that something was about to happen.
When it did, he knew he would be ready.
And as always, he hoped he would be given the opportunity to do something good. Maybe even, to right a wrong.
26
The man with the gun didn’t hesitate.
And neither did Pauling.
As he raised his gun to fire, she dove left, into a space off the hallway that turned out to be a living room.
Something exploded behind her and Pauling knew that the front door had received the round meant for her. She heard plaster explode and chunks of it landed on the floor.
Pauling got to her feet with her gun in hand as the sound of gunshots continued to echo in the hallway.
Well, the car outside didn’t belong to cops, she knew that now. And she felt a sudden surge of anger, not just at the shooter in the hall, but at herself. Cassady had been right to fear for her life. Pauling felt awful that she had simply sent the woman back to work.
Now, Pauling scooted close to the edge of the wall and took a quick peek around into the hallway.
The man was gone.
Pauling darted back into the living room and looked to the other end of the space. There was a pass-through to the kitchen and an opening to the right of the room that no doubt doubled back to the hallway.
That’s where the man with the gun would be if he planned to ambush her again. Or, it would be the way he would come for her.
It was the obvious choice.
Maybe he was hoping she would stay looking toward the hallway which would mean he’d have a clear chance to shoot her in the back.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
Pauling ducked down and crossed the living area to the edge of the pass-through. She took a quick look.
It was a narrow kitchen, with an opening on the other side into a dining room. It was a basic setup. Stove. Refrigerator. A little bit of counter space and some cabinets. A small table with two chairs.
No sign of the shooter.
Pauling kept moving, crossed the pass-through into the kitchen with her gun extended in front of her.
The kitchen was empty and so was the hallway.
Pauling ducked into the dining room. Empty.
She could see through the kitchen into the living room but there was no one there.
Which left the hallway and the rooms beyond.
Suddenly, at the rear of the house, Pauling heard a thump and then a door slammed.