by Child, Lee
“So make it civilized,” Reacher said. “I’m Jack Reacher. Who the hell are you?”
“What?”
“Let’s have some introductions. That’s what civilized people do, right? They introduce themselves. Then they chat politely about the Yankees or the stock market or something.”
More silence. Then the guy nodded.
“I’m Alan Deerfield,” he said. “Assistant Director, FBI. I run the New York Field Office.”
Then he turned his head to his right and stared at the sandy guy on the end of the line and waited.
“Special Agent Tony Poulton,” the sandy guy said, and glanced to his left.
“Special Agent Julia Lamarr,” the woman said, and glanced to her left.
“Agent-in-Charge Nelson Blake,” the guy with the blood pressure said. “The three of us are up here from Quantico. I run the Serial Crimes Unit. Special Agents Lamarr and Poulton work for me there. We came up here to talk to you.”
There was a pause and the guy called Deerfield turned the other way and looked toward the man on his left.
“Agent-in-Charge James Cozo,” the guy said. “Organized Crime, here in New York City, working on the protection rackets.”
More silence.
“OK now?” Deerfield asked.
Reacher squinted through the glare. They were all looking at him. The sandy guy, Poulton. The woman, Lamarr. The hypertensive, Blake. All three of them from Serial Crimes down in Quantico. Up here to talk to him. Then Deerfield, the New York Bureau chief, a heavyweight. Then the lean guy, Cozo, from Organized Crime, working on the protection rackets. He glanced slowly left to right, and right to left, and finished up back on Deerfield. Then he nodded.
“OK,” he said. “Pleased to meet you all. So what about those Yankees? You think they need to trade?”
Five different people facing him, five different expressions of annoyance. Poulton turned his head like he had been slapped. Lamarr snorted, a contemptuous sound in her nose. Blake tightened his mouth and got redder. Deerfield stared and sighed. Cozo glanced sideways at Deerfield, lobbying for intervention.
“We’re not going to talk about the Yankees,” Deerfield said.
“So what about the Dow? We going to see a big crash anytime soon?”
Deerfield shook his head. “Don’t mess with me, Reacher. Right now I’m the best friend you got.”
“No, Ernesto A. Miranda is the best friend I got,” Reacher said. “Miranda versus Arizona, Supreme Court decision in June of 1966. They said his Fifth Amendment rights were infringed because the cops didn’t warn him he could stay silent and get himself a lawyer. ”
“So?”
“So you can’t talk to me until you read me my Miranda rights. Whereupon you can’t talk to me anyway because my lawyer could take some time to get here and then she won’t let me talk to you even when she does.”
The three agents from Serial Crime were smiling broadly. Like Reacher was busy proving something to them.
“Your lawyer is Jodie Jacob, right?” Deerfield asked. “Your girlfriend?”
“What do you know about my girlfriend?”
“We know everything about your girlfriend,” Deerfield said. “Just like we know everything about you, too.”
“So why do you need to talk to me?”
“She’s at Spencer Gutman, right?” Deerfield said. “Big reputation as an associate. They’re talking about a partnership for her, you know that?”
“So I heard.”
“Maybe real soon.”
“So I heard,” Reacher said again.
“Knowing you isn’t going to help her, though. You’re not exactly the ideal corporate husband, are you?”
“I’m not any kind of a husband.”
Deerfield smiled. “Figure of speech, is all. But Spencer Gutman is a real white-shoe operation. They consider stuff like that, you know. And it’s a financial firm, right? Real big in the world of banking, we all know that. But not much expertise in the field of criminal law. You sure you want her for your attorney? Situation like this?”
“Situation like what?”
“Situation you’re in.”
“What situation am I in?”
“Ernesto A. Miranda was a moron, you know that?” Deerfield said. “A couple of smokes short of a pack? That’s why the damn court was so soft on him. He was a subnormal guy. He needed the protection. You a moron, Reacher? You a subnormal guy?”
“Probably, to be putting up with this shit.”
“Rights are for guilty people, anyway. You already saying you’re guilty of something?”
Reacher shook his head. “I’m not saying anything. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Old Ernesto went to jail anyhow, you know that? People tend to forget that fact. They retried him and convicted him just the same. He was in jail five years. Then you know what happened to him?”
Reacher shrugged. Said nothing.
“I was working in Phoenix at the time,” Deerfield said. “Down in Arizona. Homicide detective, for the city. Just before I made it to the Bureau. January of 1976, we get a call to a bar. Some piece of shit lying on the floor, big knife handle sticking up out of him. The famous Ernesto A. Miranda himself, bleeding all over the place. Nobody fell over themselves rushing to call any medics. Guy died a couple minutes after we got there.”
“So?”
“So stop wasting my time. I already wasted an hour stopping these guys fighting over you. So now you owe me. So you’ll answer their questions, and I’ll tell you when and if you need a damn lawyer.”
“What are the questions about?”
Deerfield smiled. “What are any questions about? Stuff we need to know, is what.”
“What stuff do you need to know?”
“We need to know if we’re interested in you.”
“Why would you be interested in me?”
“Answer the questions and we’ll find out.”
Reacher thought about it. Laid his hands palms up on the table.
“OK,” he said. “What are the questions?”
“You know Brewer versus Williams, too?” the guy called Blake said. He was old and overweight and unfit, but his mouth worked fast enough.
“Or Duckworth versus Eagan?” Poulton asked.
Reacher glanced across at him. He was maybe thirty-five, but he looked younger, like one of those guys who stay looking young forever. Like some kind of a graduate student, preserved. His suit was an awful color in the orange light, and his mustache looked false, like it was stuck on with glue.
“You know Illinois and Perkins?” Lamarr asked.
Reacher stared at them both. “What the hell is this? Law school?”
“What about Minnick versus Mississippi?” Blake asked.
Poulton smiled. “McNeil and Wisconsin?”
“Arizona and Fulminante?” Lamarr said.
“You know what those cases are?” Blake asked.
Reacher looked for the trick, but he couldn’t see it.
“More Supreme Court decisions,” he said. “Following on from Miranda. Brewer was 1977, Duckworth 1989, Perkins 1990, Minnick 1990, McNeil 1991, Fulminante 1991, all of them modifying and restating the original Miranda decision.”
Blake nodded. “Very good.”
Lamarr leaned forward. The light scatter off the shiny tabletop lit her face from below, like a skull.
“You knew Amy Callan pretty well, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Who?” Reacher said.
“You heard, you son of a bitch.”
Reacher stared at her. Then a woman called Amy Callan came back at him from the past and slowed him just enough to allow a contented smile to settle on Lamarr’s bony face.
“But you didn’t like her much, did you?” she said.
There was silence. It built around him.
“OK, my turn,” Cozo said. “Who are you working for?”
Reacher swung his gaze slowly to his right and rested it on Cozo.
“I’m not workin
g for anybody,” he said.
“Don’t start a turf war with us,” Cozo quoted. “Us is a plural word. More than one person. Who is us, Reacher?”
“There is no us.”
“Bullshit, Reacher. Petrosian put the arm on that restaurant, but you were already there. So who sent you?”
Reacher said nothing.
“What about Caroline Cooke?” Lamarr called. “You knew her too, right?”
Reacher turned slowly back to face her. She was still smiling.
“But you didn’t like her either, did you?” she said.
“Callan and Cooke,” Blake repeated. “Give it up Reacher, from the beginning, OK?”
Reacher looked at him. “Give what up?”
More silence.
“Who sent you to the restaurant?” Cozo asked again. “Tell me right now, and maybe I can cut you a deal.”
Reacher turned back the other way. “Nobody sent me anywhere.”
Cozo shook his head. “Bullshit, Reacher. You live in a half-million-dollar house on the river in the Garrison and you drive a six-month-old forty-five-thousand-dollar sport-utility vehicle. And as far as the IRS knows, you haven’t earned a cent in nearly three years. And when somebody wanted Petrosian’s best boys in the hospital, they sent you to do it. Put all that together, you’re working for somebody, and I want to know who the hell it is.”
“I’m not working for anybody,” Reacher said again.
“You’re a loner, right?” Blake asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Reacher nodded. “I guess.”
He turned his head. Blake was smiling, satisfied.
“I thought so,” he said. “When did you come out of the Army?”
Reacher shrugged. “About three years ago.”
“How long were you in?”
“All my life. Officer’s kid, then an officer myself.”
“Military policeman, right?”
“Right.”
“Several promotions, right?”
“I was a major.”
“Medals?”
“Some.”
“Silver Star?”
“One.”
“First-rate record, right?”
Reacher said nothing.
“Don’t be modest,” Blake said. “Tell us.”
“Yes, my record was good.”
“So why did you muster out?”
“That’s my business.”
“Something to hide?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Blake smiled. “So, three years. What have you been doing?”
Reacher shrugged again. “Nothing much. Having fun, I guess.”
“Working?”
“Not often.”
“Just bumming around, right?”
“I guess.”
“Doing what for money?”
“Savings.”
“They ran out three months ago. We checked with your bank.”
“Well, that happens with savings, doesn’t it?”
“So now you’re living off of Ms. Jacob, right? Your girlfriend, who’s also your lawyer. How do you feel about that?”
Reacher glanced through the glare at the worn wedding band crushing Blake’s fat pink finger.
“No worse than your wife does, living off of you, I expect,” he said.
Blake grunted and paused. “So you came out of the Army, and since then you’ve done nothing much, right?”
“Right.”
“Mostly on your own.”
“Mostly.”
“Happy with that?”
“Happy enough.”
“Because you’re a loner.”
“Bullshit, he’s working for somebody,” Cozo said.
“The man says he’s a loner, damn it,” Blake snarled.
Deerfield’s head was turning left and right between them, like a spectator at a tennis game. The reflected light was flashing in the lenses of his glasses. He held up his hands for silence and fixed Reacher with a quiet gaze.
“Tell me about Amy Callan and Caroline Cooke,” he said.
“What’s to tell?” Reacher asked.
“You knew them, right?”
“Sure, way back. In the Army.”
“So tell me about them.”
“Callan was small and dark, Cooke was tall and blond. Callan was a sergeant, Cooke was a lieutenant. Callan was a clerk in Ordnance, Cooke was in War Plans.”
“Where was this?”
“Callan was at Fort Withe near Chicago, Cooke was at NATO headquarters in Belgium.”
“Did you have sex with either of them?” Lamarr asked.
Reacher turned to stare at her. “What kind of a question is that?”
“A straightforward one.”
“Well, no, I didn’t.”
“They were both pretty, right?”
Reacher nodded. “Prettier than you, that’s for damn sure.”
Lamarr looked away and went quiet. Blake turned dark red and stepped into the silence. “Did they know each other?”
“I doubt it. There’s a million people in the Army, and they were serving four thousand miles apart at different times.”
“And there was no sexual relationship between you and either of them?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
“Did you attempt one? With either of them?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not? Afraid they’d rebuff you?”
Reacher shook his head. “I was with somebody else on both occasions, if you really want to know, and one at a time is usually enough for me.”
“Would you like to have had sex with them?”
Reacher smiled, briefly. “I can think of worse things.”
“Would they have said yes to you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Were you ever in the Army?”
Blake shook his head.
“Then you don’t know how it is,” Reacher said. “Most people in the Army would have sex with anything that moves.”
“So you don’t think they’d have rebuffed you?”
Reacher kept his gaze tight on Blake’s eyes. “No, I don’t think it would have been a serious worry.”
There was a long pause.
“Do you approve of women in the military?” Deerfield asked.
Reacher’s eyes moved across to him. “What?”
“Answer the question, Reacher. You approve of women in the military?”
“What’s not to approve?”
“You think they make good fighters?”
"Stupid question,” Reacher said. “You already know they do.”
“I do?”
“You were in ’Nam, right?”
“I was?”
“Sure you were,” Reacher said. “Homicide detective in Arizona in 1976? Made it to the Bureau shortly afterward? Not too many draft dodgers could have managed that, not there, not back then. So you did your tour, maybe 1970, 1971. Eyesight like that, you weren’t a pilot. Those eyeglasses probably put you right in the infantry. In which case you spent a year getting your ass kicked all over the jungle, and a good third of the people kicking it were women. Good snipers, right? Very committed, the way I heard it.”
Deerfield nodded slowly. “So you like women fighters? ”
Reacher shrugged. “You need fighters, women can do it the same as anybody else. Russian front, World War Two? Women did pretty well there. You ever been to Israel? Women in the front line there too, and I wouldn’t want to put too many U.S. units up against the Israeli defenses, at least not if it was going to be critical who won.”
“So, you got no problems at all?”
“Personally, no.”
“You got problems otherwise than personally?”
“There are military problems, I guess,” Reacher said. “Evidence from Israel shows an infantryman is ten times more likely to stop his advance and help a wounded buddy if the buddy is a woman rather than a man
. Slows the advance right down. It needs training out of them.”
“You don’t think people should help each other?” Lamarr asked.
“Sure,” Reacher said. “But not if there’s an objective to capture first.”
“So if you and I were advancing together, you’d just leave me if I got wounded?”
Reacher smiled. “In your case, without a second thought.”
“How did you meet Amy Callan?” Deerfield asked.
“I’m sure you already know,” Reacher said.
“Tell me anyway. For the record.”
“Are we on the record?”
“Sure we are.”
“Without reading me my rights?”
“The record will show you had your rights, any old time I say you had them.”
Reacher was silent.
“Tell me about Amy Callan,” Deerfield said again.
“She came to me with a problem she was having in her unit,” Reacher said.
“What problem?”
“Sexual harassment.”
“Were you sympathetic?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
“Because I was never abused because of my gender. I didn’t see why she should have to be.”
“So what did you do?”
“I arrested the officer she was accusing.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Nothing. I was a policeman, not a prosecutor. It was out of my hands.”
“And what happened?”
“The officer won his case. Amy Callan left the service. ”
“But the officer’s career was ruined anyway.”
Reacher nodded. “Yes, it was.”
“How did you feel about that?”
Reacher shrugged. “Confused, I guess. As far as I knew, he was an OK guy. But in the end I believed Callan, not him. My opinion was he was guilty. So I guess I was happy he was gone. But it shouldn’t work that way, ideally. A not-guilty verdict shouldn’t ruin a career.”
“So you felt sorry for him?”
“No, I felt sorry for Callan. And I felt sorry for the Army. The whole thing was a mess. Two careers were ruined, where either way only one should have been.”
“What about Caroline Cooke?”
“Cooke was different.”
“Different how?”
“Different time, different place. It was overseas. She was having sex with some colonel. Had been for a year. It looked consensual to me. She only called it harassment later, when she didn’t get promoted.”