by Diane Capri
Wishful thinking. The guy was a ghost. He’d slipped into and out of tighter places without any trouble, whenever he wanted to. “And?”
Roscoe took a big gulp of liquid courage. “When you mentioned the possibility that Reacher was involved with Sylvia, I’ll admit, you threw me.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“And rescuing women like Sylvia is exactly the kind of thing he might do. So I checked your theory out. And it wasn’t him.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” Roscoe said, sounding like her daughter.
“You’re clairvoyant? You have a crystal ball? Tarot cards?”
“Have you learned nothing about the man, hot shot? Reacher wouldn’t do any of it.”
“Really? You’re saying Reacher wouldn’t kill anyone? Because twelve people died when he was here fifteen years ago and I’m thinking that was no coincidence.” Kim knew she should have stopped right there even as she barreled on. “Don’t try to sell me that line of bull, Beverly. Makes you look like Bonnie to his Clyde.” Brief pause. Oh, what the hell. “Again.”
Roscoe said, “You know, Kim, even Reacher would hurt you for that remark.”
“Because it’s true?”
“Because it isn’t. You don’t know Jack. At all.”
“So enlighten me.”
“His brother Joe died because of that money. Jack would never profit from Joe’s death like that. He wouldn’t shoot a sleeping enemy instead of taking him face-on. And he’d never spend his time cleaning up like that. Not his style.”
“No?”
“Definitely not.”
“What would he have done, then?”
“If he’d killed Harry for the Kliners, which he didn’t, he’d have destroyed Harry’s place completely. He didn’t blow up the Chevy, either. So don’t even start with that idea.”
“And you know this because?”
The music changed to Chopin’s Nocturne #2 and filled the room with discordant peace.
Roscoe seemed to reach a decision. She wiped her face again. She settled her shoulders. She said, “Reacher left here bound for Chicago back then and I’ve never heard from him since. What I wanted to tell you tonight is that it wasn’t him. On the video tape. Springing Sylvia last night. The fake Marshal Wright. Not Jack Reacher. Definitely. Not. Him.”
“Evidence? Facts?” Kim asked. “And don’t tell me you just know, Beverly.”
Roscoe stood, moved to the fireside, turned her back toward the room. “Reacher’s taller. Bigger build. Boxier shoulders. Straighter posture. Longer reach. Deeper voice. Different walk.”
“Maybe he’s changed in fifteen years,” Kim said.
Roscoe paused again, and turned to face Kim from across the room. She made her next observations in a softer tone, confirming Kim’s instincts about her relationship with Reacher in every respect. She said, “Reacher’s wrists are thicker, and his hands too broad for the gloves in the video. He’s kinder to women. He wouldn’t grab Sylvia’s arm or push her into the car like that. He displays more finesse. He’s much smarter. It radiates off of him. And he’s a very cautious guy. If he had collected Sylvia Black from our jail, no evidence would ever connect him to the escape, just as there’s no evidence he was ever here fifteen years ago. Simply put, if Reacher had been here that night, we’d have no video to analyze.”
Kim was quiet for a spell. She’d made too many assumptions. The assumptions had led to false starts and wasted time. She didn’t know Jack Reacher, and the not knowing frightened her more than anything else. But Roscoe had known Jack Reacher in every conceivable way back then. That was clear. So unless he’d changed more than a man is capable of changing, Roscoe was right.
Dammit.
“So who was the guy on the tape?” Kim asked.
“You tell me.”
“I would if I could,” Kim said. Then she heard Gaspar coming down the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Margrave, Georgia
November 3
2:15 a.m.
Gaspar dropped his bags on the hallway floor and stepped into the room fully dressed, wide awake, and ready to go. “Our flight leaves Atlanta in ninety-five minutes. We’ve got to run. What’s the best route outta here, chief?”
Roscoe said, “You can’t leave. GHP wants to talk to you.”
“They can send me an e-mail. Or kiss my ass. My badge is shinier than theirs.” He moved into the kitchen, located the coffee pot, loaded grounds and water. He pulled out mugs and rooted around for sugar and milk as if he was competing for speed records. Way too much energy. Kim closed her eyes.
“Hey there, Sunshine,” he called. “You might want to put some clothes on. It’s a little chilly out there for pajamas.”
When she didn’t move, he said, “Get in the shower. Wake up. I’ll pop a coffee in for you when it’s finished. Come on. Shake and bake. Hubba hubba. Got to move it.” Talking a mile a minute. Maybe he had located more amphetamines.
He said, “Before we leave, Chief Roscoe, I need you to answer a couple of questions about bringing down the Kliner Foundation. I read the transcripts. Several times. Couple open issues in my head.”
“Such as?”
“Your testimony covered the highlights. I need to know the things you left out. Reacher was the heavy lifter, but how, exactly, did he do it? Forewarned and forearmed and all that. And tell me what happened after. Especially after old man Teale died. The mayor now is what? His kid?”
Kim believed in preparation. It had saved her life more than once. She tried to concentrate.
Roscoe said, “We answered everything relevant back then. Testimony took weeks. Every state and federal agency you can imagine got involved, and even a couple of foreign governments.”
Kim didn’t believe she’d answered everything; Gaspar wouldn’t either.
“And afterward?” Gaspar asked.
“Nothing afterward. By the time the whole mess was sorted out, Reacher was long gone. I ran for mayor and lost to Junior Teale. He never forgave me. We all went back to the way we’d lived before.” She shrugged. “The human condition, I guess. Hard to break the bonds of inertia.”
“Not everybody went back, obviously,” Gaspar said. “Otherwise, Harry Black couldn’t have accumulated those Kliners.”
The coffee was done. He poured a big mug of strong black energy sufficient to run a small train and carried it across the room. Waved it under Kim’s nose like smelling salts. She reached up; he pulled away like pulling a puppet string.
Enticed to her feet, he rewarded her with the mug, pointed her toward the guest bath and lightly shoved between her shoulder blades. “Get going. You don’t want me to come in there with you, but I will if that’s what it takes.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and moved slowly out of reach. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Batista. Just try it. See what happens.”
He grinned, nodded. “That’s the spirit. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. If you’re not ready, I’ll come in there and get you.”
“You and what army?”
As if she’d dashed away at his request, he simply picked up with Roscoe where he’d left off while he mixed coffee for himself “Lotta cops killed during the Kliner fiasco, too. Nobody prosecuted. No way to make that happen unless deals were made, even if Reacher was long gone.”
Roscoe said, “Above my pay grade.”
Liar, Kim figured as she walked away. Roscoe was too far down the chain of command to have been involved, but she’d have known what happened. Everybody would.
Gaspar let it go. “Was Harry working with Margrave PD during the Kliner days? Could he have been on the inside, gotten hold of the fakes back then?”
Roscoe said, “He was a cadet over in Calhoon county.”
“But?” Kim called from the hallway.
Roscoe’s thoughts seemed years away. “Reacher said at the time, the only safe thing is to assume everybody is involved.”
Gaspar had said almost the sa
me words to Kim a few hours ago. About Roscoe. And Finlay. And the boss, too. She suddenly understood she had a secret weapon. Which was Gaspar. Reacher thinks just like Gaspar. Men. Cops. Veterans. Same foundation. Same training. Same experience. Same prism.
Instantly Kim knew why she’d been chosen. And understood how she would win.
Simple yet profoundly easy: Reacher doesn’t think like me.
Kim turned to face the kitchen.
Gaspar had poured a mound of sugar and a river of milk into his mug, then added a dash of coffee, took a swig, smacked his lips, carried his mug over and settled into the seat Kim had just vacated.
Roscoe said, “I thought I knew Harry and Sylvia. Clearly, I didn’t. I went to school with Harry. Sylvia worked for me. I’d have sworn they were both as honest as the day is long.”
Kim was still in the hallway.
Gaspar looked up and said, “Ten minutes. And I’m not kidding.”
“All right, already, I’m going.” From inside the guest bathroom, she couldn’t hear the remainder of their conversation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Margrave, Georgia
November 3
2:40 a.m.
A huge harvest moon showed Kim the buildings growing smaller in the side mirror along the county road through Margrave, the post office, the police station, and finally Eno’s diner. She watched them slide behind her without regret.
Roscoe had advised them to travel through the peanut farms, to stay away from the highway cloverleaf, which would still be lousy with government agents from many different jurisdictions. The advice suited Kim just fine.
Gaspar turned west on a wandering road that led toward some place called Warburton. It took them through miles of arable land. They passed bumpy side tracks that looped around and led back to the road again, suitable for dropping farm equipment and workers. Otherwise, nothing but uninterrupted middle-of-nowhere.
Then seven or eight miles from town, on the right, Gaspar pointed out a stand of trees. A little oval copse. The only visible cover amid acres and acres of plowed red dirt. He said, “Finlay testified three bodies tied to Kliner were found hidden behind those trees in a burned out Buick. Stuffed into the trunk. About a week old, he figured. Males. Two shot with the same gun. Different weapon on the first.”
They hadn’t seen a single moving vehicle since they left Roscoe’s place. Therefore Kim understood how the bodies could have lain there for days without being discovered. But didn’t anyone miss them? Come asking? She shivered. Gaspar misunderstood. He turned up the heat.
“Who killed them?” she asked.
“Never proved, but you know who my money’s on.”
“Reacher?”
“Pretty convenient scapegoat, seems to me,” he said.
“Meaning what?”
“You’re always demanding evidence. Except for Roscoe’s kid, where’s the proof Jack Reacher was ever here at all? Nada. But Joe died here. We know that for sure. The kid could be Joe’s. The brothers looked alike, they say. Did you consider that?”
She might have argued, but his theories were as plausible as hers. Maybe more so. What would Reacher think? She shrugged, communicating with him in his own silent language.
The Warburton Road continued west, but Roscoe had directed them to turn before Warburton itself, head north, and then enter the freeway about twenty-five miles from Margrave. Gaspar watched for ice patches deposited by frosty dew. Sunshine or traffic would warm the roads to melting point later. For now, in the moonlight, black treachery remained invisible.
At the highway the Crown Vic merged with light traffic northbound and settled into a droning cruise. Several times, Kim saw Gaspar move in his seat, seeking a comfort zone she knew he would never find. Still forty-five miles from Hartsfield. Their schedule was too tight. Again. Her stomach was already churning. Dwelling on the upcoming flight wouldn’t help.
She said, “You know, this would be a good time to tell me why we’re going to DC.”
He knew she needed distraction. He said, “I wish I could tell you. But no. I spent about three hours on background data while you and Roscoe were dealing with the malcriada and didn’t get to a conclusion.”
“The what?”
“The malcriada? The badly raised female brat. My sister would have been sent back to Cuba for that behavior. Yiyiyiyiyi.” He shook his hand rapidly, loose wristed, like Ricky Ricardo.
“You have a sister?” Kim asked.
He didn’t answer. He said, “All indicators point to DC. It’s our best lead.”
“Or worst. Perhaps you noticed somebody’s very good at misdirecting us in this case?”
He took one hand off the wheel and used his fingers to enumerate his points. “Sylvia said she came from DC when she applied for the Margrave job. The Chevy guy claimed to be a DC lawyer. Finlay’s been headquartered in New York for the past two years, but before that, especially when he was allegedly providing Sylvia a reference, he was a DC resident. Could be an elaborate head fake, but it’s hard to get that many stories lined up over a five year time frame. Amateurs would try to broom all that out. Impossible. DC’s a big town, people coming and going all the time. Much smarter to work with true stuff in place.”
He glanced over. She said nothing, thinking things through. Maybe sensing he hadn’t persuaded her, he offered new facts. “I received one individual tax return for Sylvia. Same social security number as the joint returns sent to you and the same maiden name. I spent a while chasing those down. All DC all the time.”
“OK,” she said. “You win. DC is not only the best lead we have, it’s the only lead. Is that what you’re saying? When all roads point to Rome?”
He nodded. “One more thing. The social on her tax returns is a real number, and it was issued from DC.”
“Well, duh,” she said, without rancor.
“Touchy.”
Maybe he didn’t know? “I meant it’s obvious where the number was issued because it begins with 579. Means DC.”
“I’m aware,” he said.
She explained the logic. “Matching numbers is what computers do best. If Sylvia and Harry didn’t list easy numbers the same way on every return and match stuff already in the system, the computers would have spit everything out, see?”
“I phoned a friend. Asked for a closer look,” he said.
She bristled. “You called the boss?”
He shrugged. “The birth certificate used to support the number actually belonged to a woman four years younger.”
“Let me guess. You found her and she’s living in DC?”
“Not exactly. She died in a car wreck in DC. A year or so before Sylvia showed up in Margrave.”
Kim said, “Wow.” Then: “So we weren’t too far off with our guesses about Sylvia.” Witness protection programs created new identities; stealing existing identities was the more common criminal custom. “Pretty ballsy to use a stolen identity working in a cop shop.”
Unless Roscoe knew.
“Sylvia is nothing if not ballsy,” Gaspar said. “It gets even better, though. The dead woman’s prior address is a Crystal City post office box. But no criminal records before or since her date of death in any of the FBI databases for Sylvia Kent in DC or anywhere else. Not a Government employee. Not a veteran. No death certificate, even.” He glanced over. “And don’t ask me how I know all that. You won’t like the answer.”
Kim compared what he said and what she already knew. Identity thieves she’d investigated were unconcerned about the crime itself. The usual problem with stolen identities as a free ticket to a new life was that something was wrong on the front end: A mistake in the paperwork gets kicked by some computer; unscrupulous seller repeatedly retails the same identity; belongs to a criminal; owners turn up and make trouble. A thousand things can go wrong, and you never see the bullet that gets you. Kim had arrested thieves in all these circumstances, many times. Living five years undiscovered on a stolen identity was a remarkable achievemen
t.
Perhaps impossible.
Unless everybody was in on it.
“So she knew Sylvia Kent intimately enough to impersonate her,” Kim said.
He nodded. “Only the one glitch.”
She ran through the logic line again. Sylvia Black’s prints wouldn’t match the dead Sylvia Kent. Fingerprints are unique even among identical twins. Sylvia Black’s prints were submitted and confirmed in databases when Roscoe hired her. When a fingerprint record is created, it lasts forever. When a match request comes in, there’s only one way the prints are gone.
Somebody pulled them.
There had to be an insider somewhere very high up. And a very subtle one. A suggestion had been floated that a new identity had been created for Sylvia. Inquiring agencies would inevitably assume she was in witness protection. Which was the province of the U.S. Marshal Service. Which explained liberating Sylvia by impersonating a Marshal.
“Marshals are in DC, too, by the way,” Gaspar said, reading her mind.
She said, “The boss controls all those resources, one way or another.”
“You think he’s known Sylvia’s real identity all along? That he’s been using us? Setting us up for something?”
“Don’t you?”
Gaspar shrugged.
An eighteen wheeler howled past in the left lane, followed by a second and a third, displacing enough air to push the Crown Vic toward the shoulder. Ribbed noisemakers imbedded in the pavement assaulted the tires. Gaspar hung on to the wheel at ten-and-two.
Kim asked, “What did Roscoe tell you while I was in the shower?”
“She said the Kliners were the Superdollars of their day. Better than the real thing, almost. Nobody could spot them as fakes.”
“No tells, even if you knew what you were looking at?”
“None.”
“What else?”
He said, “I asked her about Finlay. She’s a fan. Called him brilliant. Especially over the Kliner mess. Stood up to the Teales, which made him Sir Galahad in her world. Claimed Joe Reacher was a genius about all of that, too. Both Reachers, apparently, were admirable performers.”