Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it?” Kim replied.

  Gaspar raised one eyebrow. “Meaning you’re willing to let him have Reacher?”

  “Meaning the whole damn thing seems too contrived, doesn’t it? Your summaries of the old files show that Deerfield handled Reacher back then. They flipped Reacher somehow, according to Lisa Harper. Who, by the way, is more disingenuous than she seems.” Kim gave him the side-eye. “Don’t let yourself get distracted when she turns that megawatt smile your way.”

  “Noted.” He grinned. “I’ve seen her photos. Brought my sunglasses.”

  “Ha, ha. So Deerfield knew Reacher’s pressure points, which he learned by trial and error on the original case. Figures out Reacher will do whatever it takes to protect Jacob, according to Harper. Now, he deploys the same strategy—using Jacob—and Reacher falls in line again?” Kim cocked her head.

  Gaspar shrugged. “That’s one theory.”

  Kim replied, “Fifty bucks says that when he had Reacher confined and as controlled as Reacher can be, he couldn’t make Reacher do what he wanted, even when he threatened Jacob.”

  Gaspar nodded slowly, following her logic, moving to the next issue. “So why repeat a failed strategy now?”

  “Exactly.” She paused. “What makes sense is that Deerfield is using Reacher as a tool. He’s after something else.”

  “Which would be what?”

  “Dunno.” Kim shook her head slowly as her mind searched for the missing piece. No luck.

  Gaspar stretched his legs out and seemed to be thinking things through.

  After a while, she grabbed another bottle of water and said, “Let’s back up. Why did Deerfield have eyes on that house to begin with? Petrosian?”

  “Yet another excellent question.” Gaspar scarfed down the last pastry and shrugged, which was his all-purpose response. “Everything about the Petrosian operation is being held pretty tight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, January 30

  1:35 p.m.

  Gowanus, New York

  Real estate agents claimed Gowanus was an up-and-coming neighborhood in transition, and it probably was. Legend was that the old Mafia families had dumped bodies in the canal, which was later filled with toxic chemicals and who knew what else. The legend was probably true. But Reed noticed signs of gentrification as he drove through in the unusual mix of old-school Brooklyn pride and active industrial areas.

  Reed parked the Toyota in one of the locations that remained heavily industrial and mostly deserted on Sunday when the facilities were closed.

  Across the street, near the infamous canal, was Donovan’s favorite after-hours club. The club sold booze around the clock, even during the hours when alcohol sales were illegal. No doubt he’d spent the night alternately drinking and sleeping it off before he began drinking again, as he’d done most nights for the past eight years.

  Reed would wait until six-year-old Lacey Arndt’s killer staggered out of the illegal club.

  Donovan was drunk the day he murdered Lacey. Donovan had been drunk almost every day since he was fourteen years old. The only difference between every day before he killed Lacey and every day after was his mode of transportation.

  After he murdered Lacey Arndt, Donovan had finally surrendered his vehicle keys. Which was all the proof of guilt Reed needed.

  Reed’s memory of the videos he’d seen haunted his days and nights. Lacey at four, at five, at six. Brunette ringlets bouncing as she laughed. Dimpled cheeks as precious as Shirley Temple’s.

  Lacey would have become an exceptional adult if she’d been given a chance. Donovan stole her childhood and her life. Reed knew it. Donovan knew it. Everyone knew it.

  Knowing was not enough.

  Lacey was dead, and Donovan wasn’t. The injustice demanded Reed’s attention.

  Lacey Arndt had begged her parents to visit New York for months. She wanted to see Disney on Ice at Rockefeller Center. Finally, the Arndts had packed up the family van and driven two days from Indiana.

  Drunk as usual on his way home from a different bar, Donovan had driven his heavy SUV off the road and onto the sidewalk, striking Lacey down and dragging her lifeless, broken body more than a hundred feet before he managed to shake her free from the chassis.

  Donovan sped away from the scene. He took the SUV to the closest car wash and destroyed the forensic evidence of his monstrous crime. No bystanders could identify his vehicle or his license plate, which had been covered with mud at the time.

  The SUV had been borrowed from a friend in Connecticut. Donovan denied that he’d been driving.

  After months of investigation, forensics, and hundreds of man-hours for witness interviews, no evidence was found that put Donovan behind the wheel when Lacey was murdered.

  No prosecutor would charge Donovan without that evidence. He walked.

  Reed was outraged.

  Reed had attempted to console Lacey’s devastated family with the certainty that Donovan would make another mistake, one that would finally give them justice, although not for Lacey’s murder.

  Lacey’s family made peace with Reed’s promises. They prayed. They offered forgiveness. The beautiful, bubbly Lacey was gone. Nothing could bring her back. The trip had been worth the sacrifices, her mom said because Lacey had never been happier. The last memories her parents had of their bubbly daughter alive were joyful ones. They were grateful for that much, they said, but Reed didn’t believe them.

  He waited for Donovan to leave the bar. On a Sunday, Donovan might stay until tomorrow. He usually did. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep in the corner. After an hour or two, he’d wake up and order another pint. Donovan had nowhere else to go.

  Reed resolved to wait as long as he could. Once again, he got lucky.

  Donovan emerged from the club. He staggered along the broken sidewalk. When he reached a deserted stretch of concrete halfway down the second block, Reed revved his engine, popped the transmission into first gear, and floored the accelerator.

  The sedan’s wheels spun in the slushy snow-covered street, faster and faster. Reed moved his foot off the brake pedal, and the vehicle leaped forward.

  He took aim for Donovan, who seemed oblivious to the charging sedan. Or maybe he was tired of living. Reed was happy to oblige.

  In mere moments, the sedan’s front bumper slammed into Donovan’s emaciated body. When 3,200 pounds of moving steel collided with softer tissues of the human body at a high rate of speed, the outcome was assured. Vehicle slams human. Human dies. As simple as that.

  Donovan went down, flat on his stomach, face smashed into the pavement. Bright red blood bloomed on the filthy snow.

  The sedan’s right front tire ran over Donovan’s body. The rear tire followed as day follows night.

  The full weight of the vehicle crushed Donovan from head to toes, but he never knew. Like Lacey, he was already dead when his head first collided with the sidewalk.

  Reed drove away, leaving Donovan like road kill. Just like Donovan had done to Lacey. No one was around to notice.

  Another one off the list. Now he could focus all his attention on Reacher.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sunday, January 30

  2:15 p.m.

  New York City, New York

  “What do we know about it so far?” Kim cocked her head, trying to fit the pieces together as Gaspar shared intel on the Petrosian situation.

  “No one mourned much when Papa Petrosian was murdered by a rival gang. He was not only a ruthless killer, but he also had a very short fuse. Flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. He was also amazingly expert with a knife.”

  “Lovely,” Kim murmured sarcastically.

  “Scary as hell, by all accounts. He was a depraved sexual deviant, too. Not something his family wanted people to know, but not exactly a secret, either. His executions involved a sexual element, and the corpses were bizarrely displayed, always naked, often mutilated. Both males and females. I’ve seen a fe
w of the pictures.” Gaspar’s lip curled with distaste. “And the three son apples didn’t fall too far from the papa tree. Samir and Tariq, particularly. Farid seems a little more civilized, but who knows?”

  Kim took a long drink of water and then replied, “The body in the tub in Garrison wasn’t mutilated. She’s naked, and I guess the display is bizarre. But from what you’re saying, this one is fairly tame compared to the old guy’s methods.”

  “It seems that way,” Gaspar agreed. “But the oldest son, in particular, learned his techniques at the knee of the master, from what I hear.”

  “Don’t show me any photos. My imagination is vivid enough.” Kim shuddered. “Farid Petrosian’s wife and kids are in witness protection, you said. I’ve placed witnesses in WITSEC. You probably have, too.”

  Gaspar nodded.

  Kim said, “Placements take a while to organize. The whole process, plus the paperwork, is a hassle and a half. Do we know if she’s being protected from her husband or because her husband is important to the case?”

  “I’ll reach out to some colleagues and see what I can find.” Gaspar shook his head. “Lot of gaps in my research. It’s not clear who the actual target of the Petrosian investigation is. Or for that matter, who the witness is. Targets could be both brothers, Samir and Tariq. Farid may be planning to join his family in WITSEC. Or maybe he already has.”

  “Let’s see if we can nail that down. And back to my earlier question,” Kim said. She drained the water bottle and tossed it into the trash can ten feet away. “Deerfield had a team watching the Garrison house for quite a while. Had to be related to the Petrosian case, right?”

  Gaspar shrugged. “That’s as good a guess as any.”

  “When we first viewed the body in the tub, I asked Brice whether the victim was the owner’s wife. He seemed surprised by the question, but he said no. Emphatically.”

  “Understandable,” Gaspar nodded. “Evana Petrosian is a dark haired, brown-eyed beauty. Her two kids are exotically attractive, too, from the photos taken at Papa Petrosian’s funeral. Evana’s definitely not the blonde in the tub.”

  Kim nodded slowly, paced the room, thinking through the intel, the unanswered questions, trying to make sense of everything.

  “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Talk it out to me, Suzy Wong,” Gaspar said. “Maybe I can help.”

  “I’m thinking this is not all one thing. We have three things going on here. Maybe more.”

  “Which are?”

  “Thing one is something involving Reacher. I’m not sure what, exactly, but my gut says it’s not really about Jodie Jacob, although she seems to be at the center of it.” She paused. “Whatever the Reacher thing is, that’s why you and I are here.”

  “Agreed,” Gaspar replied. “Which means Cooper is worried about it.”

  “Right. Thing two is something involving that house.” Kim felt herself frowning. She used her fingers to smooth the vertical furrows between her eyes. “Deerfield authorizing that surveillance is just odd. If our New York colleagues are up in Garrison on a legitimate case, then why have an off the books operation going on at the same time? They’d be stepping all over themselves. And if the FBI surveillance team is working through channels, what evidence supports a long-term plan like that?”

  “Not to mention the budget required. I’ve tried to get surveillance budgets approved. The bean counters kill them more often than not.” Gaspar nodded. “And the third thing is Farid Petrosian?”

  “Yes. WITSEC for Evana and her kids, maybe Farid Petrosian, too. More pricey stuff. Suggests one or more of them will be testifying. About what? Against whom? Where? When?” Kim looked at Gaspar as if he should have the answers. The blank look on his face proved he didn’t. “And somehow, all of it ties back to the Garrison house. Everything begins and ends there.”

  Gaspar shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable, which he could never do even before this latest gunshot injury.

  Guilt stabbed Kim’s conscience. He hadn’t been cleared to return to desk duty in Miami until tomorrow, and here he was in the field in New York, solely because he thought she needed him.

  “Don’t look so mortified, Sunshine.” He grinned as he settled into another awkward position. “Nobody held a gun to my head. I came here of my own free will. I’m fine.”

  “Marie must want to kill me.”

  “Yeah, you probably shouldn’t show your face in Miami for a few weeks.” He ducked his head and easily avoided the daggers shooting from her eyes. He paused as if he might say something else, but then he moved on. “As long as you don’t let me get killed while I’m here, Marie will get over it. She was tired of having me hanging around, anyway. You’ve got plenty of other things to worry about. How do you figure Reacher fits into all of this?”

  Kim took a deep breath and stared at the carpet. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think about Reacher these days.”

  “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Suzy Wong.” He frowned. “Reacher’s still the same psycho he’s always been. You believe he might have saved your life in Palm Beach. First, that’s just a guess. And second, so what?”

  “Why would he do that? He knows we’ve been sticking our noses in his business. He knows Cooper’s behind everything. He had a chance to let me die, and he didn’t.”

  “So what?”

  “So maybe we’ve got the wrong idea about him.” She was thinking about the stuff Lisa Harper said about Reacher. Could Harper be right?

  “Oh, for the love of God.” Gaspar’s exasperation all but exploded. He swiped a palm over his face. “Look, Kim. Don’t delude yourself here. Reacher is still who he is. And what he is. If he fished you out of the Atlantic before you drowned—and that’s a big if—he’s not some kind of misunderstood hero. He did it for reasons of his own. He never does anything he doesn’t want to do. Simple as that, and you know it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am. Because leopards don’t change their spots. Because he’s demonstrated time and time again that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Including murder.” Gaspar paused and throttled down his frustration. “Reacher’s a violent, ruthless, vigilante who does exactly whatever he pleases, regardless of the law. He’s judge, jury, and executioner. He’ll kill either one of us in a hot New York second if it serves his purposes. Don’t think he won’t. Don’t romanticize him. It’s dangerous for all of us.”

  Kim said nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sunday, January 30

  4:15 p.m.

  New York City, New York

  “Keep your eye on the ball here. If you don’t, you’ll risk not only your career but your life and mine, too.” Gaspar grinned. “And then you’ll never be able to return to Miami because Marie really will kill you.”

  Kim smiled weakly. “I know, I know. You’ve got twenty years to go and five kids to put through college.”

  “Damn straight. College is pricey.” Gaspar said, nodding forcefully. He paused again as if he might say more, but then he simply finished up with a lame, “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Okay.” She took another deep breath, unconvinced, but moved on. She already had plenty to worry about. She’d come back to whatever was going on with Gaspar later. “So now what?”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but I think there’s only one choice, Mata Hari.” The sour expression on his face suggested he’d swallowed a moldy key lime.

  “Me? An exotic double agent?” He looked so ridiculous, Kim burst out laughing, but she knew exactly what he meant.

  Gaspar didn’t like Finlay and dealing with Finlay was a necessary evil that fell to Kim. Gaspar made clear that she was consorting with the enemy, even when Finlay was the only real choice.

  Kim gave him a droll look. “Well, okay then. Lamont Finlay it is. You coming with?”

  “God, no.” He struck a pose filled with mock horror, which made her laugh. “Honestly? I’d only slow you d
own. My walking isn’t what it should be yet. I’ll find the answers we need on the Petrosian situation. Call in some favors. Maybe figure this out by the time you get back.”

  Kim was already rooting around in her pockets for the burner phone that connected her to Finlay. She found it, fired it up, and was surprised to see a voicemail icon on the screen indicating she had two messages. She punched the little envelope button on the keypad and put the phone to her ear.

  The first was from Finlay. He’d called a couple of hours ago. “Call me.” That was the whole message. Typical. He didn’t waste many words.

  The second call came from another number. One Kim didn’t recognize. She pulled the message up and played it. She felt the color drain from her face.

  The voice was definitely male. Tenor, not bass. Speech clipped. Accent sort of non-descript Midwest American. If she’d been pressed to describe it, she’d have said he sounded harmless enough. He looked dangerous, but he didn’t speak the same way. Gaspar figured the voice helped him get close to his targets.

  She’d heard his voice twice before. Once, on a tape-recorded interrogation, he’d conducted in Tampa while he was still an Army MP.

  The second time, a couple of brief phone conversations were captured by an agency wiretap listening to unrelated targets.

  This message was from Reacher. No doubt in her mind.

  There was only one reasonable way Reacher could have obtained the burner’s number. Finlay.

  Which meant that Finlay had lied about his ability to contact Reacher.

  Finlay couldn’t be trusted, and Gaspar’s opinion of Finlay was vindicated.

  Which didn’t mean he was no longer useful. Only that Finlay’s usefulness was motivated by his own agenda. No surprise there.

  Gaspar had been thumbing through his contacts, searching for a colleague’s number. He glanced up and noticed her expression. “What is it?”