Hit the Road Jack

by Diane Capri

  “I was just wondering that myself,” Gaspar said. “Maybe he’s got a death wish.”

  “Or homicidal intent,” she said.

  Gaspar didn’t argue. Either option was possible.

  He again checked the potential sniper points he could identify and pointed them out to her. Shooting into a crowd and hitting only the intended target was not a simple thing, but it wasn’t impossible, either. The best locations were in the west, with the sun behind him. Firing out of the sun was every sniper’s basic preference.

  “Just stay out of the line of fire,” he told her. “If my partner is shot and killed on a military base, I’ll be buried in paperwork for the rest of my natural lifetime. I’ve got kids to raise.”

  “Your concern is touching,” she said, just before she slugged him in the bicep hard enough to knock him off balance. He righted himself and hammed it up a little to conceal how easily she could fell him.

  “Enough horsing around. Be serious for the next ninety minutes, will you?” she scolded.

  She was tiny, but fierce. He admired that about her.

  Not that he’d let her know it.

  Movement near the stage caught his attention. “There’s Weston. Let’s go.”

  He set off toward the opposite side of the venue at a good clip. Otto struggled to keep pace at first and then strode past him until it was his turn to struggle. They closed the distance to the edge of the stage where Weston stood at ground level, flanked by a military escort and two women. The escort would be Corporal Noah Daniel, according to the Boss’s instructions.

  Twenty feet behind Weston stood three bulky civilians wearing navy business suits, white shirts and rep ties, and thick-soled shoes. These could only be private bodyguards. More holes in the “no guns on base” theory, Gaspar figured.

  He slowed so Otto reached their target first, allowing Gaspar time to gather quick impressions of the Weston group.

  The older woman was Samantha Weston. She was draped in ridiculous fashion garments that probably came from Paris or Milan without benefit of filtering through American good sense.

  She was fortyish. Lanky. Lean. Artfully styled hair. Handsomely well-constructed.

  Gaspar could spot skilled plastic surgery and haute couture across a dim and crowded Miami ballroom. No detective work required here, though. Mrs. Weston’s familiarity with both was revealed by Tampa’s brutally honest sunlight.

  The younger woman standing slightly behind Mrs. Weston was well groomed but plain. Wholesome. Smallish. About thirty, or a couple of years either side, Gaspar guessed. Dark hair. Short, scrubbed fingernails. Everything about her appearance was professionally no-nonsense.

  And something else.

  She seemed familiar.

  A certain lilt to her nose, crinkles around her eyes as she squinted into the sun, dimple in her chin.

  Who was she?

  Wife of an acquaintance? Ring-less fingers ruled out that option.

  Maybe she resembled a celebrity or even a crime victim from a prior case.

  He waited a moment for the information to bubble up. No luck. He couldn’t place her.

  Next, from behind the aviators he scanned the subject like a full body x-ray machine. Weston’s dark suit covered him from turkey neck to shiny, cap-toed shoes. All visible body parts were pathetic. Gaspar’s scan noted pasty skin, eye pouches, jowls, tremors. Weston was fifty-five, maybe? But he looked every moment of twenty years older.

  The expat life in Iraq as a military contractor suspected of murdering local civilians carried its own unhealthy burdens, sure. In Weston’s case, the added pressure of surviving the murder of his wife and children on U.S. soil couldn’t be easy. Guilt might have gnawed his organs, maybe. Whatever the cause, he looked like he was being eaten alive.

  Otto presented herself to them. “Corporal Daniel. Colonel Weston. Mrs. Weston.” She hesitated briefly before reaching out to the unidentified younger woman.

  “Jennifer Lane,” the woman said, extending her hand for a firm shake with Otto first, then Gaspar. “I’m Mrs. Weston’s lawyer.”

  Instantly, Samantha Weston became more concerning. In Gaspar’s experience, only people already in trouble and expecting worse trouble traveled with a lawyer.

  “I am FBI Special Agent Kim Otto and this is my partner Special Agent Carlos Gaspar. We’d like to talk to Colonel Weston for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

  The expression settling on Weston’s face was something close to satisfaction. He didn’t smile, exactly. More like a smirk. So Weston had expected them. Or someone like them. Which made Gaspar more uneasy than he already was. Why would Weston anticipate that cops would approach him today? The Boss said Weston’s arrest was a sting. Gaspar could dream up a dozen explanations, but none of them were good news.

  Corporal Daniel performed as ordered. “Mrs. Weston, Ms. Lane, our base chaplain would like a word with you before we begin,” he said, leading Samantha Weston away by a firm forearm grip.

  Attorney Jennifer Lane followed her client like a pit bull on a leash.

  Gaspar positioned himself facing Weston, better to observe and avoid the sniper positions he’d previously noted. Otto stood to one side, also out of identifiable firing lines. Weston remained an easy target and had to know it, but didn’t seem to care.

  “Sir, we’ll only take a few moments of your time,” Otto said. “We’re hoping you can help us with some background data about the investigating military police officer on your wife’s murder case.”

  “Reacher,” Weston said, as though naming an enemy more heinous than Bin Laden. Then, eagerly, “Is he with you?”

  Otto’s expression, betraying equal parts horror and astonishment at the very thought, was quickly squelched.

  Gaspar hid his grin behind a cough. One mystery solved. Weston meant to lure Reacher here today.

  And maybe he had. Gaspar didn’t find that option comforting in the least.

  “We haven’t seen him recently,” Gaspar said, truthfully enough. He slouched a little and settled his hands into his trouser pockets because it made him seem friendlier. Gaspar knew many successful interrogation techniques, but none of them worked unless the subject wanted to talk. Most of the problem was making them want to. Once they wanted to tell him everything, witnesses were nearly impossible to shut up.

  Disappointed that they hadn’t served up his quarry, Weston became more suspicious. “Why are you collecting background on Reacher?”

  The half-truth rolled more easily off Otto’s tongue after weeks of practice, “We’re completing a routine investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s being considered for a special assignment.”

  “Cannon fodder? Road kill?” Weston’s sharp retorts came fast. “Those are the only jobs Reacher’s fit for.”

  “Meaning what?” Otto asked, unintimidated.

  Weston said, “My wife and children were executed. By cowards. While I was serving my country.”

  “Nothing to do with Reacher, right?” Otto asked.

  Weston’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Reacher accused me. He arrested me. I wasn’t there to see my children buried. I wasn’t there to see my wife buried. I sat in a jail cell instead.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “This is the first memorial service I’ve ever been able to attend for my slain family. You call that nothing? I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Not unreasonable of Reacher, though,” Otto said, detached, cool. “Most people are murdered by someone close to them. Anybody who watches television knows that. Reacher wasn’t out of line when he considered you a prime suspect.”

  Weston’s chest heaved. He shifted his slight weight and leaned closer to Otto, towering unsteadily over her. She didn’t flinch. She remained the polar opposite of cowed. Gaspar figured Weston wasn’t used to having any woman stand her ground with him, much less one nearly half his size.

  Weston lowered his voice to a mighty pianissimo and still Otto didn’t budge eve
n half an inch. “When Reacher found out he was wrong about me? What did he do?”

  Otto lifted her shoulders and opened her palms, unimpressed. “I give up.”

  Otto’s behavior enraged Weston a bit more. He leaned in and all but engulfed her like a vulture’s shadow. She didn’t move and said nothing.

  Then, as if he’d flipped some sort of internal switch, he released the stranglehold on his fists and relaxed his posture. Regular breathing resumed. Sweat beads on his forehead and above his upper lip glistened in the sunlight. A breeze had kicked up, carrying floral scents from the tropical plants in and around the base. A breeze that any good sniper could easily accommodate.

  When Weston spoke again, he sounded almost civil, as if Otto had asked him about nothing more personal than last night’s dinner menu.

  The guy was a sociopath, Gaspar thought. Clearly. Total nut-job. All the signs were there. He’d seen it too many times before.

  “It’s unfortunate that Reacher’s still alive. If I see him before you do, he won’t be. Please tell him that for me.” His tone reflected the controlled calm Gaspar recognized as subdued rage. A hallmark of stone cold killers, crazy or not.

  Gaspar asked, “Why did Reacher think you killed your family? We haven’t seen the whole file. Was there some evidence against you?”

  “Ask him next time you see him.” Weston folded his hands in front of his scrawny abdomen, miming that he had all the patience in the world to do nothing but humor them.

  “Right now I’m asking you.”

  Attendees had been filing in steadily as they talked and now filled the chairs in the audience as well as on the stage. Again, Gaspar noticed a significant number of disabled men and women. Many of them were young. Too young.

  Not much time left.

  Weston’s satisfied smirk turned up a notch. “You work for Cooper, don’t you?”

  Hearing him utter the Boss’s name was a sharp jab, but Gaspar recognized a classic deflection and refused the bait. Whatever happened after Reacher left the Army, he’d been a good cop. After twenty minutes with Weston, Gaspar was ready to believe anything Reacher reported about Weston on Reacher’s word alone.

  “Why did Reacher think you’d killed your own family?” Gaspar asked again.

  Weston said nothing.

  Otto stepped in. “Have you communicated with Reacher since you left the army, Colonel?”

  “I’ve been living abroad.”

  Otto said, “The globe is a lot smaller than it used to be. People travel.”

  “Too bad Reacher hasn’t been to Iraq.” And like that, Weston’s control again seemed to snap. “I’d happily kill the bastard. Cooper, too, given the chance.”

  “What’s your beef with the Boss?” Gaspar asked. The guy was crazy, but whatever he thought about the Boss, it was better to find out than get caught napping.

  “We all wore the green back then. We were brothers in arms. We were supposed to be taking care of each other. The Army’s family, man,” Weston said. “You served, didn’t you? You’ve got the bearing. I can smell the green on you. You’ve gotta know what I mean.”

  Gaspar did know. He was tempted to make a sarcastic remark about simply surviving being a better outcome than what had happened to Weston’s real family. Not to mention the dead and disabled who served under Weston’s command. But instead Gaspar said, “Right.”

  Weston stopped a second to wipe the spittle from the corner of his mouth, to gather himself. When he spoke again, the switch had again been tripped. The controlled calm had returned. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” Otto asked.

  “You can’t be that stupid.” Weston’s lip curled up. The kind of smirk that made Gaspar want to break his face. “Cooper’s the biggest snake alive. Always has been. Turn your back and he’ll bite you in the ass. Reacher was Cooper’s go-to guy. The two of them were behind everything that happened to me.”

  Gaspar shook his head exaggeratedly, like he’d heard better tales from the Brothers Grimm. “You think Reacher killed your family? On Cooper’s orders? Then blamed you?”

  “I’ve had a lot of years to think this through. Cooper and Reacher had a vendetta going against me. It had to be them.” He paused, smiling like a demented circus clown. “That’s the only possible answer.”

  Otto intervened. “The hit man said you hired him. He testified you wanted your family killed.”

  Once again, Weston’s agitation resurfaced. The man was like a carnival ride. His face reddened. His eyes narrowed. His lips pressed hard together and he stuck out his chin. “Lies!” he shouted, loud enough for members of the crowd filtering in nearby to hear and turn to stare.

  “Close enough for government work,” Otto replied without flinching. “You’d been threatened by the gang you tried to rip off. You were told what would happen to your family. You failed to deliver their money. Reacher had nothing to do with any of that.”

  She didn’t mention the Boss had reached out by sending them here today and probably by sending Reacher back then, too. Gaspar wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  Weston rocked closer and loomed over Otto again. “Little girl, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d have stopped believing Cooper’s fairy tales long ago.” He lifted balled fists and unclenched his hands, reaching toward her. He looked like he wanted to shake her by her slender neck until she stopped breathing.

  Gaspar hoped he’d try. Otto would knock Weston on his ass the second he touched her. But all this talk about Reacher had heightened his tension, too. On the way through security, Gaspar had been concerned. Now, he felt wired tight, ready to snap.

  Before Weston had a chance to complete his move, Samantha Weston appeared by her husband’s side like a defending Valkyrie from nowhere.

  When Weston didn’t back down, his wife placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Tom, darling. It’s time.”

  Otto had yet to move so much as an eyelash. She said in her normal voice, “We’ll finish our questions after the service, Colonel.”

  Weston didn’t flinch for another full second. Then he shook off his wife’s hand, turned, marched toward the stage, climbed the steps and stood, waiting for Samantha to catch up.

  Gaspar and Otto watched in silence until both Westons reached their positions on the stage with the other honorees of the day’s service, and then continued to watch them.

  The breeze had whipped up to gusty bursts. Unpredictable. Which would make a sniper’s job harder. Not impossible. Some would consider the wind a worthy challenge. Reacher was probably one of them.

  Eyes still forward, Gaspar said, “I’m okay with staying a while. We’ve got a few hours before our flight. But what do you think he’ll say later that he wouldn’t say now?”

  “Weston’s the first person we’ve met who is willing to tell us anything at all about Reacher. I’m not leaving until I hear every last word I can wring out of him.” After a full second or so, she asked, “You think the Boss sent us here to see if Weston could actually pin anything on him and Reacher?”

  “I gave up trying to guess the Boss’s motives years ago.” Gaspar nodded in the direction of the entrance, where two males dressed in FBI-normal stood to one side. “More importantly, what are you planning to tell those guys when they ask who we are and what the hell we’re doing here?”

  “You’ll think of something,” she replied, focused now on the tableau playing out on the stage. “Who is that reporter talking to Weston?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The reporter wore a press pass on a chain around her neck, a video camera slung over her back and a recorder of some sort raised to capture a conversation Gaspar couldn’t hear. Weston and his wife spoke with her briefly before the lawyer stepped in and stopped the inquiry. A short verbal exchange between the reporter and Lane, the lawyer, ended when Lane herded the Westons to their seats.

  Gaspar wondered again where he had seen that lawyer before. He couldn’t place her, but he knew her. H
e was sure of it.

  The reporter raised her camera and snapped a few photos of the entire scene before she walked down the four steps from the stage and onto the path directly toward Otto and Gaspar. When she was close enough, he read her press pass.

  Jess Kimball, Taboo Magazine.

  Odd that Taboo would be covering Weston. Taboo was in the vein of Vanity Fair, its only real competitor. Gaspar had seen both magazines around the house because his wife subscribed. Both covered popular culture, fashion, and current affairs. Taboo was newer, a bit edgier, maybe, but covered the same beat. Retired military officers were neither of the national glossies’ usual subject or audience. Which made Gaspar more curious instead of less.

  Gaspar stepped in front of the reporter before she walked past. “Ms. Kimball, a moment of your time?”

  Her eyes, when she focused on his, were piercingly blue. Nostrils flared. “Yes?”

  “Why is Taboo Magazine interested in Colonel Weston?”

  “And you are?” Kimball held the last word in a long, hostile invitation to reply.

  “Carlos Gaspar. FBI. This is my partner, Kim Otto.”

  Kimball considered something for a moment before she answered. “Sorry to say, I’m no threat to Weston.”

  “What’s your interest?” Gaspar asked again.

  “My mission is to make sure victims get justice. Especially children.”

  “What does that mean?” Otto asked.

  “Ever heard of Dominick Dunne?”

  “The Vanity Fair reporter who covered all those infamous trials after his daughter was murdered,” Otto replied.

  “I covered Weston’s case a while ago when the gunman who killed Weston’s family was executed by the State of Florida. Weston was living in Iraq at the time. No chance to wrap up with him until now without traveling to a war zone.”

  Otto asked, “Why did you say ‘the gunman’?”

  “He pulled the trigger. But he wasn’t the reason those kids and their mom were murdered. We’ve got Colonel Weston to thank for that,” Kimball said, in the same way she’d have thanked Typhoid Mary for robust health.