Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  He didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who craved a steady nine-to-five for thirty and out. Gaspar was that guy. Deerfield wasn’t. He was more like her, looking for the top spot someday. Certainly, he’d have wanted to move up at least once in the past ten years.

  The way things worked, he must have been passed over a few times. Some organizations had a three-strike rule, up or out. The FBI didn’t. So they didn’t toss him out like last week’s fish.

  What they did was worse. They parked him in a very public place for the whole world to see. Every day. For years. Must have been a bitter pill. He might be tempted to even the score and was looking for the right chance. She would have been, under the same circumstances.

  She’d also checked those above Deerfield on the organizational chart. All were names she recognized. One, in particular, required no research because she already knew him too well.

  Charles Cooper, the Boss. He controlled everything and everyone inside the bureau along with a lot of stuff outside it. He wasn’t the Director, but he didn’t need to be. Bottom line, if the Boss wanted Deerfield promoted, he would’ve been. The opposite was also true.

  Which meant the Boss had effectively ended Deerfield’s career and held him up to ridicule for a very long time. Not surprising. The Boss called his actions principled, but it was really just plain stubbornness. She came from a long line of stubborn Germans, but she’d known the Boss to hold grudges way beyond the point when she and every member of her family would have surrendered.

  So Deerfield’s stalled advancement could have been caused by almost any actual or suspected performance failure. Three connected things told her Reacher was at the center of Deerfield’s dispute with the Boss. Jodie Jacob, the green paint copycat murder, and her own presence here.

  She’d reached the end of another corridor inside the terminal and turned to walk back. The crowd had thinned. It was well after seven o’clock. She’d been walking for more than an hour. She planned to sleep well tonight and read Gaspar’s files in the morning. Dinner and a couple of glasses of expensive wine she could add to the Boss’s tab should help.

  Standing in the Grand Central Concourse, located in the center of the terminal, she spied Cipriani Dolci in the balcony. A perfect spot for what she had in mind.

  She gave her name to the host and climbed onto a comfortable stool at the balcony bar to wait for her table. She ordered a glass of Cabernet and found her phone.

  Kim tapped a knuckle against her lips. She needed better intel on Deerfield. Insights and gossip would be helpful, too. The kind of stuff one of the local agents on the Garrison house murder should know. Subordinates always knew more about the boss than bosses knew about them. Brice was an annoying waste of time. She’d only met Poulton once and had no idea what he was about yet. For straight answers, she figured the most likely place to get them was Reggie Smithers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Saturday, January 29

  7:25 p.m.

  New York City, New York

  The bartender poured her wine while she called one of her colleagues back in Detroit. When he answered the phone, she spent less than two minutes on hold while he located Smithers’ personal cell phone.

  She dialed the number. He picked up immediately.

  “Smithers,” he said, in the best resonant bass voice since James Earl Jones. Background noise sounded like a subway train.

  “It’s Kim Otto. Are you anywhere near Forty-Second and Lexington? I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee.” She sipped the wine.

  He chuckled. “Coffee keeps me awake. Make it a good Scotch, and I can be at Grand Central in twenty minutes. I’m on my way already. Meeting the wife later for dinner.”

  Kim figured his wife must be amazing. “I’m at the balcony bar near Cipriani Dolci. How’s that?”

  “See you there,” he replied.

  While she waited, she used the browser on her phone to search Deerfield’s name to locate news stories. Some were mere mentions, and others were longer pieces. The FBI’s New York Field Office was one of the most important in the country, even before 9/11. After the World Trade Center bombing, the Assistant Director of the New York office was frequently in the spotlight’s glare.

  Deerfield’s office had handled dozens of high-profile matters since the bathtub murders ended. One of the most visible included a thwarted terrorist attack on the President during an official state visit with world dignitaries at the UN.

  No doubt about it. Deerfield had enjoyed the kind of high profile career that should have led him much further up the ladder, his reputation as a jerk notwithstanding. He had to be mad as hell. The kind of deep anger that ended one of two ways. Imploding, causing a massive stroke or heart attack and instant death. Or exploding without further provocation into deadly violence. Deerfield seemed like an exploder to her.

  If Deerfield held Reacher responsible for his career problems, would he have killed Reacher’s girlfriend and stuffed her in that bathtub in Garrison? The house that Reacher’s beloved mentor had owned and given to him? The lawman’s equivalent of a horse head in the bed for a treacherous Mafioso?

  She nodded. Men had gone off the rails for a lot less.

  An involuntary shudder ran through her. She slipped the phone into her pocket and lifted the wine glass to her lips. She glanced across the concourse where the crowd parted like a wave as Smithers moved through.

  She figured Reacher could do the same through any crowd anywhere. He wasn’t quite as big as Smithers, which probably made no difference at all.

  Smithers swiftly covered the stairs to join her at the bar. “It’s Saturday night in the city that never sleeps, Otto. Couldn’t you find a better date than me?”

  She smiled and replied, “The normal-sized guys on the list were all babysitting.”

  “My kids are at grandma’s and my wife is with her sister for another hour. So you lucked out.” He moved the stool aside, leaned onto the bar, and ordered an expensive Scotch. “How may I be of service to you this evening?”

  “I’m interested in Alan Deerfield.”

  Smithers raised his eyebrows. “Why? No one else is. Except for Brice.”

  “Yeah, I thought Brice might be his son-in-law or something.”

  Smithers laughed. “You Asians are very astute.”

  “I’m no more Asian than you are. Born in Michigan, right smack in the middle of the U.S. of A.,” she replied pleasantly. “And I was joking. Brice is actually his son-in-law?”

  “I stand corrected,” Smithers replied with mock formality. “Deerfield’s daughter divorced Brice last year. Poor bastard walks around on eggshells worried about getting the ax from his ex-father-in-law. Not a good way to live.”

  “No kidding,” Kim frowned. “How long have you been working directly for Deerfield?”

  “Since never. Technically we all report to Deerfield, I guess. But that’s like saying we all report to the Director or the president. Deerfield’s in charge of the whole office and everybody in it. But I’m in the Organized Crime Unit and don’t report directly to him at all.” He paused to thank the bartender for the Scotch and raised his glass toward her. “Garrison is Brice’s operation, even if he has to get permission to go to the bathroom from Deerfield first.”

  “I’m trying to figure out Deerfield’s play here, and I just don’t know him well enough.” She raised her glass in response to Smithers’s mock toast. “Deerfield called me in, claiming he wanted me to see the body in the bathtub. But he knew I never worked the old case. There were no victims in Detroit, and Detroit is the only field office I’ve ever worked from. Which is something he could have learned in a nanosecond.”

  Smithers nodded slowly but said nothing.

  “A few hours after I arrived in New York, Deerfield left. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. I haven’t been briefed on the current case or the old ones.” She shrugged. “Nothing more has happened, and I don’t get why I’m here.”

  Smithers said, “It’s odd tha
t Deerfield didn’t tell you what he wanted you to do. He’s usually the opposite of vague. You never need to guess where you stand with the guy if you know what I mean.”

  Kim nodded. “I’ve heard he can be bombastic, demanding, and quite the bully.”

  “Among other things,” Smithers replied. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s the weekend. We’re government workers. Not much is gonna happen on a case like this until Monday. Gotta be the same in Detroit, right?”

  She nodded and sipped the wine. “What do you think will happen on Monday?”

  “I imagine we’ll get an ID on the body. Probably not much else unless you know something I don’t,” Smithers said.

  “Grassley, the NYPD detective, is conducting the investigation into the bathtub murder as far as I know. I haven’t heard anything from her or from Brice since lunch. I’m assuming no one has found Jodie Jacob.”

  Smithers cocked his head. “I guess I feel like we did find her. She’s the one in the tub, don’t you think?”

  “I hope not.” She ordered another pricey Scotch for Smithers and a second glass of wine. He nodded his appreciation. “Do you have any idea why Deerfield hasn’t moved upstairs long before now?”

  Smithers warmed the Scotch in his hands. One big paw was all he needed for the job. “He’s certainly qualified. Better than some of the guys above him, actually. It’s too bad. Rumor mill says he pissed off one of the big dudes a while back.”

  “You believe that?”

  Smithers nodded. “Seems likely to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Were you in the military, Otto?”

  She shook her head.

  He thumped his chest. “Once a Marine, always a Marine. But I’ve been FBI for a long time now, which is not so different. When guys like Deerfield stall out like he has, it’s always one of two causes. Either bureaucratic bullshit or somebody higher up with a grudge.”

  “For Deerfield, it could be mere bureaucracy, couldn’t it? He’s getting pretty old for the job. Maybe it’s that.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “You don’t think so, though.”

  “Like you said yesterday, the guy’s an asshole.” Smithers frowned. “It’s not hard to read the tea leaves.”

  “What do the tea leaves tell you?”

  “Deerfield pissed somebody off. Big time. So big, he can’t get past it.” Smithers paused as if he might not continue, so she waited. He lowered his voice. “Some of us suspect things could be changing. He’s seemed cockier than usual lately. Like he expects some really great news, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” She nodded. He’d confirmed her theory. “What kind of news you think he’d be so pleased about?”

  “Hard to say. A guy like Deerfield, it’s usually all about power.”

  “He’s got plenty of power now, doesn’t he?”

  “Does he? Think about it.” Smithers gave her a knowing look. “Guy’s well qualified. He’s got skills. Runs one of the most important law enforcement agencies in the world a long time, right?”

  She nodded.

  “He looks around and sees all of the people higher up than him with less expertise. Makes him doubt himself, maybe.” Smithers steady gaze never wavered. “So he bulks up his résumé. He gets passed over time and again. He starts to feel disrespected. Then he gets angry. What does the guy do next?”

  She shrugged.

  Smithers said, “He gets even, right?”

  “How does he do that?” she asked quietly.

  “He can’t fight Goliath with a slingshot.” Smithers grinned, but she didn’t. “Okay, there’s plenty of retaliatory options to choose from. But nothing subtle. That kind of payback calls for shock and awe, as they say.”

  “Within the confines of the FBI, the options are limited, though. He wants to move up, not get himself killed or sent to prison,” she replied.

  “True. But trust me. You don’t want to be in the line of fire when he does whatever he plans to do. Neither do I.” Smithers looked across the concourse and drained the rest of his Scotch in one gulp. “Sorry. Gotta go. That’s my brother-in-law down there. We’re meeting our wives over on Broadway for dinner after the play.”

  “Have a great evening. My table’s ready, too.” She handed the bartender her credit card and said, “Thanks for coming.”

  He waved on his way down the stairs and hurried toward another man she couldn’t see well from this distance. She watched as they headed toward the exit, wondering about Deerfield’s attitude change and what might have caused it.

  Because she was watching Smithers, she didn’t notice the big man walking across the concourse at first. When he snagged her attention, she only saw him from behind. Work boots. Jeans. Leather jacket. Fair hair cut close. No hat. Hands as big as frozen turkeys.

  Reacher? She slid off the bar stool and dashed down the stairs. She lost sight of him when he rounded the corner toward one of the subways. She picked up the pace.

  There he was, up ahead, standing alone on the outside of the group of waiting passengers. The train was pulling into the station. She hurried to catch up.

  The train stopped, the doors slid open, and passengers piled out. She ran the last few feet and touched his arm as travelers were starting to board.

  “Reacher?” she said.

  He turned his body halfway to face her. A smile lit his features when he looked down at her hand on his arm. “Can I help you?”

  She released her hold and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Who did you want me to be?” he said, with a broad Southern accent. “Tell me, and I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Sorry. You’d better catch your train.”

  He shrugged and climbed aboard. The doors closed, and the train pulled away while she watched. Then she turned and walked back to collect her credit card from the bartender.

  Her phone vibrated with an incoming text message on the way to her table. “Better luck next time. R.”

  She shook her head and dropped the phone into her pocket.

  Through her solitary dinner, she considered what Deerfield might be planning to do. And what the Boss would do in response. And where the hell Reacher had been watching her from and for how long. And more importantly, why?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday, January 30

  9:30 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Kim had slept well, awakened without a barrage of phone calls and been to the gym for a three-mile run. She’d ordered coffee after her shower and was dressed when she heard the heavy knock on the door. “Room service,” he called out.

  She unlocked the door and, without checking through the peephole, opened it and simultaneously stepped aside. Gaspar, leaning on a cane, limped across the threshold and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the fellow standing behind him. “Brought your breakfast, Sunshine.”

  “Excellent.” She grinned. “Nice to see you vertical, Zorro.”

  “You’re not surprised, are you?”

  “Not at all.”

  Gaspar looked good. Better than good. For a while there, he’d been in critical condition at the hospital in West Palm Beach. But he was a determined patient, as stubborn about his health as he was everything else. Intractability was one of his most infuriating qualities. He’d been released after a few days and had been recuperating at home.

  “Why are you here?” she asked him after the waiter left and the door closed behind him.

  “The Boss is worried. He says Deerfield is dangerous and he doesn’t trust Brice or their whole team. He didn’t want you here on your own. Especially after your clandestine trip to Finlay’s place.” He grinned, although she saw the strain of travel etched into the lines on his face. “I told him I could babysit and keep you out of oncoming traffic.”

  “You’re too kind.” She wrinkled her nose and gave him a glare. But she was glad to see him, and he knew it.

  “Are
you staying here?” she asked.

  He replied by tilting his head toward the room next door before he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Even with the Boss smoothing his way, the travel had exhausted him.

  “Why don’t you grab some rest while I download and read the files. I’ll catch you up afterward. We’ll be on the same page a lot faster that way.” The plan made sense, but she expected objections. He never admitted he needed to rest.

  Instead of his usual bristle, he nodded. “Call when you’re ready.”

  Kim spent twenty minutes dealing with the surveillance equipment in her room. She located the cameras and microphones and set up looping feeds to keep them occupied. For more sophisticated watchers, she deployed the jamming devices she always brought along.

  Not perfect, but nothing was. Determined snoops couldn’t be stopped in any surveillance nation.

  Next, she poured coffee and downloaded the voluminous files from the secure satellite, which took a while. A glowing coal of anger, kindled by the sheer volume of data relating to Reacher that had been withheld from her smoldered in her gut and burned hotter with every new file she extracted.

  Before she could begin to read anything, she jumped up and paced the room, talking herself down, before anger grew to all-consuming rage.

  Everything about the SPTF background investigation on Reacher had felt wrong from the start. Why hadn’t she trusted her instincts? Because the assignment came directly from the Boss, that’s why. She’d trusted him.

  What a fool. She kicked the bed, hard enough to hurt her foot. She yelped and glared at the bed, which was undamaged. That thought made her laugh. But it didn’t douse the smoldering heat within her.

  The very first Jack Reacher file the Boss gave her was too stale and too thin to be credible. No human could be as invisible as Reacher appeared to be, whether he was currently above the ground or under it. There was always a camera and a microphone somewhere. Always.

  Even then. She knew, dammit.

  Knew the file the Boss supplied had been sanitized.