Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  Kim’s head was swimming with the implications, whipsawed between incredulity, euphoria, and suspicion.

  Reacher had been a suspect in a serial killer case handled by the FBI. He was interviewed. He was ruled out. The case wasn’t closed.

  At each step of that process, voluminous records would have been created. Multiple copies. Stored in various locations.

  Several agents and other FBI personnel would have been involved.

  A treasure trove of information about Reacher should be contained in those files.

  Files that did not exist. She knew because she’d looked. Thoroughly. More than once.

  Which meant the files had been removed. By someone with way more juice than Alan Deerfield.

  She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start. Before she had a chance to make a choice, Deerfield added even more outlandish details.

  “Because Reacher knew all the victims, and because of his background as an MP, after we ruled him out as the killer, we read him in on the case.”

  Say what? Otto’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut, hoping Deerfield and Brice hadn’t noticed.

  “Reacher worked the case with us. He was an insider. He knew everything we knew. We trusted him. He attended meetings, worked directly in the field with our teams. Learned details we didn’t release to the press or even to other agencies.” Deerfield paused. He cleared his throat. “That may also have been a mistake.”

  Had she joined Alice through the looking glass?

  Deerfield’s admission was just as startling as his revelation of Reacher’s involvement with the FBI. Assistant Directors admitting mistakes were rarer than the Star of India sapphire.

  She cleared her throat and asked the blandest thing she could come up with. “How so?”

  “The killings stopped after Reacher joined up with us.” Deerfield looked down and fingered the tablecloth as if he was embarrassed to say what must be said. “Now we’ve got another murder. Similar MO. If the victim is Jodie Jacob, and we haven’t been able to rule her out, she knew Reacher even better than the five women in the prior case.”

  Brice said, “The possibility we’re considering is that maybe he was ruled out too soon back then. Reacher could have been the guy who killed those women. He might be active again now. And he’s smart enough to change up his methods to make us believe we’ve got a copycat.”

  Kim’s mouth dried up. She sipped cold coffee to wet her vocal chords. “I’d like to see the old files. I might be able to identify something useful.”

  “Brice has already reviewed them. He’s fully briefed. He’ll work with you on this. Stay with you every step of the way,” Deerfield said. “That’ll be a lot faster. Save some time. We want this thing handled as quickly as possible.”

  The room fell silent, collectively holding its breath. Almost as if time stood still. She heard her own pulse pounding in her ears.

  “Do you understand, Otto?” Deerfield asked.

  She understood way more than he realized. But she was afraid to nod.

  She actually believed her head might explode if she moved it.

  Questions zipped through her mind faster than Usain Bolt sprinted a hundred meters.

  What wasn’t she being told? And why?

  How did Deerfield know about the SPTF background check on Reacher? The assignment was off the books and had been from the beginning. Reacher’s connection to Kim didn’t exist in any records anywhere. Never had.

  The SPTF assignment was deep black ops. Totally off the books. No eyes on the operation at all. Not even high-security clearance personnel knew.

  She and Gaspar had been running the job independently, supervised only by the Boss, who was several levels above any Assistant Director in any FBI field office, including Deerfield.

  The Boss would never have allowed Deerfield or anyone at that level into this particular operation. Not in a million years.

  Who did Deerfield get his intel from?

  What the hell was his agenda here?

  Deerfield crossed his hands on the table as if the matter were settled. “Brice will work with you. Your assignment is simply stated but won’t be easy to execute. You’ll find Reacher, and either charge him or rule him out.”

  She nodded and breathed a little easier. She’d begun to see the possibilities.

  These new ground rules could be better than fine. She could hunt for Reacher openly, using full FBI resources. Which was much better than hunting him off the books and without support.

  But these two were up to something and whatever it was wouldn’t be to her benefit.

  She was nervous about Brice and Deerfield, all the way around. She didn’t trust either of them two feet outside her range of vision. Her gut said at least eighty percent of what they’d just told her was total bullshit. The other twenty percent was disingenuous at best.

  But for weeks, she’d been chasing Reacher’s ghost on the down low using only her wits and whatever the Boss deigned to tell her. Putting her life on the line. Gaspar’s too. Which was how he’d been shot. They had nothing to show for their efforts except a bunch of open questions and a lot of confusion.

  Whatever these two were trying to do here, they’d presented an opportunity too good to refuse. Still, Deerfield didn’t care about anything but his own agenda, whatever that was. Until she had a handle on him, the last thing she wanted was for Deerfield to get to Reacher before she did.

  Which meant she needed some insurance, and there was only one place to get what she required.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday, January 29

  2:05 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Deerfield signed for the check, and they left Mostro’s at the same time. A limo collected him at the curb outside the restaurant. Kim and Brice walked to the SUV.

  “We made you a reservation at the Grand Hyatt. I’ll drop you off.” Brice said.

  The plan jarred. She rarely came to New York, and she didn’t have any particular hotel preferences. But she and Gaspar had stayed at the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central a couple of times on the Reacher SPTF assignment.

  Brice’s plan proved he knew that.

  Which meant he had somehow acquired too much information about her and her assignment already.

  She was way behind the curve here. She needed to catch up. Fast. But first, she had to understand exactly what she’d become caught up in.

  Brice pulled up to the valet entrance, and a doorman approached her window.

  “Checking in?” he asked.

  She nodded. She opened the door. “Could you grab my bags from the back seat?”

  “Sure thing.” He collected her bags, closed the door, and moved to the sidewalk, waiting.

  She collected her phone and her alligator clamp and slipped into her coat.

  Brice said, “I’ll pick you up in the morning. Late. I’ll call first. Get some sleep.”

  She grabbed the handhold above the door and stepped onto the running board.

  “Oh, hang on a second.” He reached into the center console and pulled out a padded manila envelope. “Smithers was supposed to give you this at the Stewart airport. It slipped my mind until now, with all that’s been going on. Sorry. And here’s your room keys.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t believe he’d forgotten anything, but she leaned in to take both items. She stepped off the running board onto the pavement and closed the door. He pulled the big SUV away from the hotel quickly and made the light at the next corner, where he turned north and kept going.

  Kim recognized the envelope. It was exactly like the others she’d received from the Boss since she’d been assigned to complete Reacher’s SPTF background check.

  The envelope began to vibrate almost before she reached the sidewalk. The cell phone inside was receiving a call from the only man who knew its number. Which meant he knew precisely where she was standing. He’d been watching her, as expected. At the moment, she found that fact both comforting and anno
ying.

  While the hotel porter was occupied with another guest, she unzipped an outside pocket of her travel bag and pulled out a new burner cell phone. She stuffed the vibrating envelope in the empty spot and zipped the pocket closed. She slipped her personal cell phone into a different pocket.

  She gave one of the key cards to the porter when he asked, along with a twenty-dollar tip. “Can you put my bags in my room, please?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll leave your extra key up there. You might need it later.”

  “Thanks.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets and walked along the sidewalk toward Fifth Avenue.

  She walked a couple of blocks before she found a Starbucks, crowded with late-nighters texting, talking on phones, and working on laptops. Many were using the free Wi-Fi, and others carried their personal connectivity everywhere with them. Multiple signals concentrated in one place meant that communications should be sufficiently muddled for her purposes for a short period of time.

  Kim stood in line. She placed her order for a grande black coffee and waited for a fresh brew. When the barista called her name, she joined a table already in use by three others.

  She set her coffee down and said she’d be right back.

  “Sure,” one guy replied. The others ignored her.

  Kim ducked into the small corridor leading to the unisex restroom but instead walked through the exit to the alley out back. A couple of smokers stood nearby, working their phones while they puffed, either too busy to notice her or too disinterested to care.

  She pulled the new burner phone from her pocket, broke it out of the blister pack and fired it up.

  She dialed the memorized number. It rang twice before he picked up.

  “It’s a bit early in the day for cloak and dagger, isn’t it?” Lamont Finlay’s deep, resonant voice traveled well across the connection, as always.

  “I need to see you about our mutual friend,” she said. “It’s important.”

  He sighed. “Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll be done here.”

  Kim disconnected the call and went inside. She exited by the front door and returned to her hotel with the coffee, which was both good and still too hot to drink.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday, January 29

  3:05 a.m.

  Center Line, New York

  The Center Line multiplex was busier than Reed expected for a late screening of The Wednesday Night Massacre, an infamous seven-year-old movie. He took it as a good sign. A crowded theater was more chaotic than a deserted one, which would work to his advantage.

  Leonard had reserved his ticket online two days ago. The timing was unfortunate because of the Garrison house situation, but Reed had always been able to pivot between tasks effectively. At this hour, traffic was light, so he’d made it here in plenty of time.

  He waited until he saw Leonard get off the bus alone and trudge toward the multiplex. Reed parked near the rear exit, turned up his collar, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and hustled around to the entrance.

  Leonard stood in line at the will call window outside. As always, he was alone. He seemed to have no friends or family at all. Served him right.

  A group who had bought tickets earlier in the day skipped the line at the box office window and went inside. Reed fell in behind them, provided his ticket to the attendant when his turn came and passed through smoothly.

  He stood behind an eight-foot poster illustrating coming attractions, waiting until Leonard handed over his ticket and entered the main lobby.

  Leonard walked past the concession stand. He entered the men’s room and a few moments later, emerged again. He glanced at the clock on the wall. The movie was scheduled to begin ten minutes ago, which meant the commercials for products had ended and the previews were running. The featured film would start in five minutes.

  Leonard picked up his pace and moved toward theater number four. Two other groups were headed in the same direction. Leonard pulled the door open and ducked inside.

  Reed watched two guys file in behind Leonard, and then he followed. He waited a moment after the door closed behind him allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sound system blared loud enough to cause floor vibrations and permanent hearing damage. Once the movie’s non-stop gunfire began, nothing short of a nuclear explosion could be heard over the theater’s surround sound.

  Reed smiled in the dark. He spied his prey. He leaned against the wall to wait for his cue. Timing was always everything.

  Leonard had climbed the stairs along the side wall toward the top. He always chose the last seat at the end of the top row because he’d been sitting there on the night of what the media had dubbed “The Center Line Theater Shooting.”

  Perhaps Leonard was reliving the glory, or maybe he was simply a creature of habit. Either way, finding Leonard inside the theater was never a problem. Reed always knew where to look.

  Leonard rested his arm on top of the seat to his left to discourage anyone from sitting there. Seven years ago, on the night that changed so many lives forever, Leonard had saved the seat for his best friend. Walter Boyd and Leonard Kryl had walked into the Center Line Theater that night as a couple of nerdy nobodies, for the last time in their lives.

  Boyd arrived late, ten minutes into the movie. He climbed the stairs and sat next to Leonard. They waited until the big finale, an eight-minute stretch of nothing but deafening weapons fire producing on-screen carnage worse than any actual battle ever fought in the history of warfare.

  Boyd and Leonard pulled out their weapons and joined the firefight. Because of the film’s overwhelming violence, the theater audience didn’t immediately realize they were being attacked. When they finally accepted the unacceptable, panic and pandemonium reigned along with the bullets.

  After six minutes of real gunfire, thirty-eight people were dead, thirty-seven shot and killed by Boyd, who soon became number thirty-eight.

  Leonard Kryl, covered in blood, heart pounding with the thrill of it all, was arrested and charged with thirty-eight counts of felony murder.

  Which was when the real perversion of justice began, as far as Reed was concerned. While he waited, he reviewed the situation one last time because the outcome of his mission would be irreversible. Measure twice, cut once, as his father used to say.

  Leonard’s wealthy parents hired a good lawyer, and the jury of their peers just did not want to believe the evidence or follow the law. Friends and neighbors raged against school bullies who hounded mercilessly. They blamed teachers who failed to protect and theater operators who failed to secure. They conducted all-night vigils and cried for the victims, now redefined to include Leonard and his family. They joined gun control groups and protested in marches on Albany and all the way to Washington DC.

  Leonard’s defense was that his gun had jammed and the bullets inside, even had they fired, were blanks. He had not actually killed anyone or planned to. All the killing was done by Walter Boyd, who lost a final gun battle with police at the scene.

  Leonard claimed he didn’t know about his best friend’s plans to kill everyone in the theater that night. Even though the boys were inseparable. Even though they had planned the assault for weeks in advance. Even though Leonard brought his loaded gun to the theater.

  During the trial, relatives of some victims requested compassion for Leonard and his family, instead of vengeance for their massacred loved ones.

  Every minute of the sensationalized trial was covered by the media. Sympathy for Leonard and Boyd ran high. Law enforcement personnel were disbelieved, degraded, and ultimately, disregarded.

  In the end, the matter’s intolerable conclusion came down to one simple thing. The jury wanted to free Leonard, so they did.

  When the verdict was read, a collective gasp from law-abiding citizens everywhere was heard around the country. Grieving parents were denied justice. After a while, the Center Line Theater shooting was consigned to bits and bytes in online encyclopedias as neithe
r the first nor the worst nor the last of its kind.

  Leonard was released from jail without so much as a slap on the wrist. He finished college and now worked as a software designer. He spent his working hours developing the violent video games he craved and his off-work hours attending the even more violent films that thrilled him, almost always at the late-night show. Probably because he was less likely to be noticed or identified.

  Leonard never missed a repeated run of The Wednesday Night Massacre, which had become a cult classic. He always sat in the same seat and saved the seat next to him for Walter Boyd’s ghost to join him later.

  Reed’s mental review of the case had revealed no reason to abort the mission. As always, when the film’s final massacre sequence began, the full attention of every patron in the theater was glued to the screen.

  Reed climbed the stairs and moved across the aisle toward Leonard, unnoticed. Leonard leaned forward in his chair, immersed in the bloody battle as if he’d never seen it before, transfixed.

  Reed sat in the seat reserved for Boyd, which seemed particularly fitting tonight. Leonard didn’t move a muscle, anticipating the point in the movie when the audience cheered because the bad guy gets riddled with bullet holes. When the scene began, Leonard leaned forward, eyes front, supremely focused.

  Reed reached into his pocket and withdrew the untraceable gun. A nice, slow, soft-nose .22 with a silencer. In one, swift, practiced motion, he lifted the weapon and put two quick rounds into Leonard’s temple at the height of the blasting noise on the screen.

  Two small splintery entrance wounds and two big messy exit wounds on the other side of Leonard’s head seemed worthy of those cheers to Reed.

  Leonard’s body slumped to the wall on his right. The look on his face could only be described as blissful. Which wasn’t what Reed had hoped for. Not at all.

  Reed left the theater before the final on-screen battle ended. He left by the theater’s rear exit, found his car, and drove away. He tossed the gun into the Hudson River when he crossed the bridge.