Tripwire

by Child, Lee

  “I assume you want the money in your operating account?” he asked. “Where the other banks won’t see it?”

  Stone nodded again, in a daze.

  “That would be good,” he said.

  Hobie made a note. “It’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said. It seemed appropriate.

  “So now I’m the one who’s exposed,” Hobie said. “Six weeks, no real security. Not a nice feeling at all.”

  “There won’t be a problem,” Stone said, looking down.

  Hobie nodded.

  “I’m sure there won’t,” he said. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom in front of him. Stone heard a buzzer sounding faintly outside in the anteroom.

  “The Stone dossier, please,” Hobie said into the microphone.

  There was silence for a moment, and then the door opened. The male receptionist walked over to the desk. He was carrying a thin green file. He bent and placed it in front of Hobie. Walked back out and closed the door quietly. Hobie used his hook to push the file over to the front edge of the desk.

  “Take a look,” he said.

  Stone crouched forward and took the file. Opened it up. There were photographs in it. Several big eight-by-tens, in glossy black and white. The first photograph was of his house. Clearly taken from inside a car stopped at the end of his driveway. The second was of his wife. Marilyn. Shot with a long lens as she walked in the flower garden. The third was of Marilyn coming out of her beauty parlor in town. A grainy, long-lens image. Covert, like a surveillance photograph. The fourth picture was a close-up of the license plate of her BMW.

  The fifth photograph was also of Marilyn. Taken at night through their bedroom window. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Her hair was down, and it looked damp. Stone stared at it. To get that picture, the photographer had been standing on their back lawn. His vision blurred and his ears hummed with silence. Then he shuffled the pictures together and closed the file. Put it back on the desk, slowly. Hobie leaned forward and pressed the tip of his hook into the thick paper. He used it to pull the file back toward him. The hook rasped across the wood, loudly in the silence.

  “That’s my security, Mr. Stone,” he said. “But like you just told me, I’m sure there won’t be a problem.”

  Chester Stone said nothing. Just stood up and threaded his way by all the furniture and over to the door. Through the reception area and into the corridor and into the elevator. Down eighty-eight floors and back outside, where the bright morning sun hit him in the face like a blow.

  3

  THAT SAME SUN was on the back of Reacher’s neck as he made his way into Manhattan in the rear seat of a gypsy cab. He preferred to use unlicensed operators, given the choice. It suited his habit. No reason at all why anyone should ever want to trace his movements by checking with cabdrivers, but a cabdriver who couldn’t admit to being one was the safest kind there was. And it gave the opportunity for a little negotiation about the fare. Not much negotiating to be done with the meter in a yellow taxi.

  They came in over the Triborough Bridge and entered Manhattan on 125th Street. Drove west through traffic as far as Roosevelt Square. Reacher had the guy pull over there while he scanned around and thought for a moment. He was thinking about a cheap hotel, but he wanted one with working phones. And intact phone books. His judgment was he couldn’t meet all three requirements in that neighborhood. But he got out anyway, and paid the guy off. Wherever he was going, he’d walk the last part. A cut-out period, on his own. It suited his habit.

  THE TWO YOUNG men in the crumpled thousand-dollar suits waited until Chester Stone was well clear. Then they went into the inner office and threaded by the furniture and stood quietly in front of the desk. Hobie looked up at them and rolled open a drawer. Put the signed agreements away with the photographs and took out a new pad of yellow paper. Then he laid his hook on the desktop and turned in his chair so the dim light from the window caught the good side of his face.

  “Well?”

  “We just got back,” the first guy said.

  “You get the information I asked for?”

  The second guy nodded. Sat down on the sofa.

  “He was looking for a guy called Jack Reacher.”

  Hobie made a note of the name on the yellow pad. “Who’s he?”

  There was a short silence.

  “We don’t know,” the first guy said.

  Hobie nodded, slowly. “Who was Costello’s client?”

  Another short silence.

  “We don’t know that either,” the guy said.

  “Those are fairly basic questions,” Hobie said.

  The guy just looked at him through the silence, uneasy.

  “You didn’t think to ask those fairly basic questions?”

  The second guy nodded. “We asked them. We were asking them like crazy.”

  “But Costello wouldn’t answer?”

  “He was going to,” the first guy said.

  “But?”

  “He died on us,” the second guy said. “He just upped and died. He was old, overweight. It was maybe a heart attack, I think. I’m very sorry, sir. We both are.”

  Hobie nodded again, slowly. “Exposure?”

  “Nil,” the first guy said. “He’s unidentifiable.”

  Hobie glanced down at the fingertips of his left hand. “Where’s the knife?”

  “In the sea,” the second guy said.

  Hobie moved his arm and tapped a little rhythm on the desktop with the point of his hook. Thought hard, and nodded again, decisively.

  “OK, not your fault, I guess. Weak heart, what can you do?”

  The first guy relaxed and joined his partner on the sofa. They were off the hook, and that had a special meaning in this office.

  “We need to find the client,” Hobie said into the silence.

  The two guys nodded and waited.

  “Costello must have had a secretary, right?” Hobie said. “She’ll know who the client was. Bring her to me.”

  The two guys stayed on the sofa.

  “What?”

  “This Jack Reacher,” the first guy said. “Supposed to be a big guy, three months in the Keys. Costello told us people were talking about a big guy, been there three months, worked nights in a bar. We went to see him. Big tough guy, but he said he wasn’t Jack Reacher.”

  “So?”

  “Miami airport,” the second guy said. “We took United because it was direct. But there was an earlier flight just leaving, Delta to Atlanta and New York.”

  “And?”

  “The big guy from the bar? We saw him, heading down to the gate.”

  “You sure?”

  The first guy nodded. “Ninety-nine percent certain. He was a long way ahead, but he’s a real big guy. Difficult to miss.”

  Hobie started tapping his hook on the desk again. Lost in thought.

  “OK, he’s Reacher,” he said. “Has to be, right? Costello asking around, then you guys asking on the same day, it spooks him and he runs. But where? Here?”

  The second guy nodded. “If he stayed on the plane in Atlanta, he’s here.”

  “But why?” Hobie asked. “Who the hell is he?”

  He thought for a moment and answered his own question.

  “The secretary will tell me who the client is, right?”

  Then he smiled.

  “And the client will tell me who this Reacher guy is.”

  The two guys in the smart suits nodded quietly and stood up. Threaded their way around the furniture and walked out of the office.

  REACHER WAS WALKING south through Central Park. Trying to get a grip on the size of the task he had set himself. He was confident he was in the right city. The three accents had been definitive. But there was a huge population to wade through. Seven and a half million people spread out over the five boroughs, maybe altogether 18 million in the metropolitan area. Eighteen million people close enough to focus inward when they want a specialized urban service like a fast a
nd efficient private detective. His gut assumption was Costello may have been located in Manhattan, but it was entirely possible that Mrs. Jacob was suburban. If you’re a woman living somewhere in the suburbs and you want a private detective, where do you look for one? Not next to the supermarket or the video rental. Not in the mall next to the dress shops. You pick up the Yellow Pages for the nearest major city and you start calling. You have an initial conversation and maybe the guy drives out to you, or you get on the train and come in to him. From anywhere in a big dense area that stretches hundreds of square miles.

  He had given up on hotels. He didn’t necessarily need to invest a lot of time. Could be he’d be in and out within an hour. And he could use more information than hotels had to offer. He needed phone books for all five boroughs and the suburbs. Hotels wouldn’t have all of those. And he didn’t need to pay the kind of rates hotels like to charge for phone calls. Digging swimming pools had not made him rich.

  So he was heading for the public library. Forty-second Street and Fifth. The biggest in the world? He couldn’t remember. Maybe, maybe not. But certainly big enough to have all the phone books he needed, and big, wide tables and comfortable chairs. Four miles from Roosevelt Square, an hour’s brisk walk, interrupted only by traffic on the cross streets and a quick diversion into an office-supply store to buy a notebook and a pencil.

  THE NEXT GUY into Hobie’s inner office was the receptionist. He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. Walked over and sat down on the end of the sofa nearest the desk. Looked at Hobie, long and hard, and silently.

  “What?” Hobie asked him, although he knew what.

  “You should get out,” the receptionist said. “It’s risky now.”

  Hobie made no reply. Just held his hook in his left hand and traced its wicked metal curve with his remaining fingers.

  “You planned,” the receptionist said. “You promised. No point planning and promising if you don’t do what you’re supposed to do.”

  Hobie shrugged. Said nothing.

  “We heard from Hawaii, right?” the receptionist said. “You planned to run as soon as we heard from Hawaii.”

  “Costello never went to Hawaii,” Hobie said. “We checked.”

  “So that just makes it worse. Somebody else went to Hawaii. Somebody we don’t know.”

  “Routine,” Hobie said. “Had to be. Think about it. No reason for anybody to go to Hawaii until we’ve heard from the other end. It’s a sequence, you know that. We hear from the other end, we hear from Hawaii, step one, step two, and then it’s time to go. Not before.”

  “You promised,” the guy said again.

  “Too early,” Hobie said. “It’s not logical. Think about it. You see somebody buy a gun and a box of bullets, they point the gun at you, are you scared?”

  “Sure I am.”

  “I’m not,” Hobie said. “Because they didn’t load it. Step one is buy the gun and the bullets, step two is load it. Until we hear from the other end, Hawaii is an empty gun.”

  The receptionist laid his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Hobie rolled open his drawer and pulled out the Stone dossier. Took out the signed agreement. Tilted the paper until the dim light from the window caught the bright blue ink of his twin signatures.

  “Six weeks,” he said. “Maybe less. That’s all I need.”

  The receptionist craned his head up again and squinted over.

  “Need for what?”

  “The biggest score of my life,” Hobie said.

  He squared the paper on the desk and trapped it under his hook.

  “Stone just handed me his whole company. Three generations of sweat and toil, and the stupid asshole just handed me the whole thing on a plate.”

  “No, he handed you shit on a plate. You’re out one-point-one million dollars in exchange for some worthless paper.”

  Hobie smiled.

  “Relax, let me do the thinking, OK? I’m the one who’s good at it, right?”

  “OK, so how?” the guy asked.

  “You know what he owns? Big factory out on Long Island and a big mansion up in Pound Ridge. Five hundred houses all clustered around the factory. Must be three thousand acres all told, prime Long Island real estate, near the shore, crying out for development.”

  “The houses aren’t his,” the guy objected.

  Hobie nodded. “No, they’re mostly mortgaged to some little bank in Brooklyn.”

  “OK, so how?” the guy asked again.

  “Just think about it,” Hobie said. “Suppose I put this stock in the market?”

  “You’ll get shit for it,” the guy said back. “It’s totally worthless.”

  “Exactly, it’s totally worthless. But his bankers don’t really know that yet. He’s lied to them. He’s kept his problems away from them. Why else would he come to me? So his bankers will have it rammed under their noses exactly how worthless their security is. A valuation, straight from the Exchange. They’ll be told: This stock is worth exactly less than shit. Then what?”

  “They panic,” the guy said.

  “Correct,” Hobie said. “They panic. They’re exposed, with worthless security. They shit themselves until Hook Hobie comes along and offers them twenty cents on the dollar for Stone’s debt.”

  “They’d take that? Twenty cents on the dollar?”

  Hobie smiled. His scar tissue wrinkled.

  “They’ll take it,” he said. “They’ll bite my other hand off to get it. And they’ll include all the stock they hold, part of the deal.”

  “OK, then what? What about the houses?”

  “Same thing,” Hobie said. “I own the stock, I own the factory out there, I close it down. No jobs, five hundred defaulted mortgages. The Brooklyn bank will get real shaky over that. I’ll buy those mortgages for ten cents on the dollar, foreclose everybody and sling them out. Hire a couple of bulldozers, and I’ve got three thousand acres of prime Long Island real estate, right near the shore. Plus a big mansion up in Pound Ridge. Total cost to me, somewhere around eight-point-one million dollars. The mansion alone is worth two. That leaves me down six-point-one for a package I can market for a hundred million, if I pitch it right.”

  The receptionist was staring at him.

  “That’s why I need six weeks,” Hobie said.

  Then the receptionist was shaking his head.

  “It won’t work,” he said. “It’s an old family business. Stone still holds most of the stock himself. It’s not all traded. His bank’s only got some of it. You’d only be a minority partner. He wouldn’t let you do all that stuff.”

  Hobie shook his head in turn.

  “He’ll sell out to me. All of it. The whole nine yards.”

  “He won’t.”

  “He will.”

  THERE WAS GOOD news and bad news at the public library. Plenty of people called Jacob listed in the phone books for Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, Long Island, Westchester, the Jersey shore, Connecticut. Reacher gave it an hour’s radius from the city. People an hour away turn instinctively to the city when they need something. Farther out than that, maybe they don’t. He made marks with his pencil in his notebook and counted 129 potential candidates for the anxious Mrs. Jacob.

  But the Yellow Pages showed no private investigators called Costello. Plenty of private Costellos in the white pages, but no professional listings under that name. Reacher sighed. He was disappointed, but not surprised. It would have been too good to be true to open up the book and see Costello Investigations—We Specialize in Finding Ex-MPs Down in the Keys.

  Plenty of the agencies had generic names, a lot of them competing for the head of the alphabetical listings with a capital A as their first letter. Ace, Acme, A-One, AA Investigators. Others had plain geographical connotations, like Manhattan or the Bronx. Some were heading upmarket by using the words Paralegal Services. One was claiming the heritage trade by calling itself Gumshoe. Two wer
e staffed only by women, working only for women.

  He pulled the White Pages back and turned the page in his notebook and copied fifteen numbers for the NYPD. Sat for a while, weighing his options. Then he walked outside, past the giant crouching lions and over to a pay phone on the sidewalk. He propped his notebook on top of the phone with all the quarters he had in his pocket and started down his list of precinct houses. Each one, he asked for administration. He figured he would get some grizzled old desk sergeant who would know everything worth knowing.

  He got the hit on his fourth call. The first three precincts were unable to help, without sounding any too regretful about it. The fourth call started the same way, a ring tone, a quick transfer, a long pause, then a wheezing acknowledgment as the phone was answered deep in the bowels of some grimy file room.

  “I’m looking for a guy called Costello,” he said. “Retired from the job and set up private, maybe on his own, maybe for somebody else. Probably about sixty.”

  “Yeah, who are you?” a voice replied. Identical accent. Could have been Costello himself on the line.

  “Name’s Carter,” Reacher said. “Like the president.”

  “So what you want with Costello, Mr. Carter?”

  “I got something for him, but I lost his card,” Reacher said. “Can’t find his number in the book.”

  “That’s because Costello ain’t in the book. He only works for lawyers. He don’t work for the general public.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Know him? Of course I know him. He worked detective out of this building fifteen years. Not surprising I would know him.”

  “You know where his office is?”

  “Down in the Village someplace,” the voice said, and stopped.

  Reacher sighed away from the phone. Like pulling teeth.

  “You know where in the Village?”

  “Greenwich Avenue, if I recall.”

  “You got a street number?”

  “No.”