Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  “You should tell him,” he said.

  She shook her head and turned to face front. “We just don’t do that.”

  “Then you should get one of his staff to call him back in a hurry. Like something’s real urgent. Then he’d have to ride.”

  She shook her head again. “He’s running the transition. He sets the pace. Nothing’s urgent unless he says it is.”

  “So tell him it’s another rehearsal. A new tactic or something.”

  Froelich glanced across at him. “I guess I could do that. It’s still the pregame period. We’re entitled to rehearse with him. Maybe.”

  “Try it,” he said. “The walk back is more dangerous than the walk there. There’ll be a couple hours for somebody to find out he’s going to do it.”

  “Get in,” she said. “You look cold.”

  He walked around the Suburban’s hood and climbed in on the passenger side. Unzipped his jacket and held it open to allow the warm air from the heater to funnel up inside it. They sat and watched until Armstrong and his minders disappeared inside the Labor building. Froelich immediately called her office. Left instructions that she was to be informed before Armstrong moved again. Then she put the car in gear and took off south and west toward the East Wing of the National Gallery. She made a left and drove past the Capitol Building’s reflecting pool. Then a right onto Independence Avenue.

  “Where are we going?” Reacher asked.

  “Nowhere in particular,” she said. “I’m just killing time. And trying to decide if I should resign today or keep on beating my brains out.”

  She drove past all the museums and made a left onto Fourteenth Street. The Bureau of Engraving and Printing rose up on their right, between them and the Tidal Basin. It was a big gray building. She pulled up at the curb opposite its main entrance. Kept the engine running and her foot on the brake. Gazed up at one of the high office windows.

  “Joe spent time in there,” she said. “Back when they were designing the new hundred-dollar bill. He figured if he was going to have to protect it, he should have some input on it. A long time ago, now.”

  Her head was tilted up. Reacher could see the curve of her throat. He could see the way it met the opening of her shirt. He said nothing.

  “I used to meet him here sometimes,” she said. “Or on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial. We’d walk around the Basin, late in the evening. In spring or summer.”

  Reacher looked ahead to his right. The memorial crouched low among the bare trees and was reflected perfectly in the still water.

  “I loved him, you know,” Froelich said.

  Reacher said nothing. Just looked at her hand resting on the wheel. And her wrist. It was slim. The skin was perfect. There was a trace of a faded summer tan.

  “And you’re very like him,” she said.

  “Where did he live?”

  She glanced at him. “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t think he ever told me.”

  Silence in the idling car.

  “He had an apartment in the Watergate,” she said.

  “Rented?”

  She nodded. “It was very bare. Like it was only temporary.”

  “It would be. Reachers don’t own property. I don’t think we ever have.”

  “Your mother’s family did. They had estates in France.”

  “Did they?”

  “You don’t know that either?”

  He shrugged. “I know they were French, obviously. Not sure I ever heard about their real-estate situation.”

  Froelich eased her foot off the brake and glanced in the mirror and gunned the motor and rejoined the traffic stream.

  “You guys had a weird idea of family,” she said. “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Seemed normal at the time,” he said. “We thought every family was like that.”

  Her cell phone rang. A low electronic trill in the quiet of the car. She flipped it open. Listened for a moment and said OK and closed it up.

  “Neagley,” she said. “She’s finished with the cleaners.”

  “She get anything?”

  “Didn’t say. She’s meeting us back at the office.”

  She looped around south of the Mall and drove north on Fourteenth Street. Her phone rang again. She fumbled it open one-handed and listened as she drove. Said nothing and snapped it shut. Glanced at the traffic ahead on the street.

  “Armstrong’s ready to get back,” she said. “I’m going to go try and make him ride with me. I’ll drop you in the garage.”

  She drove down the ramp and stopped long enough for Reacher to jump out. Then she turned around in the crowded space and headed back up to the street. Reacher found the door with the wired glass porthole and walked up the stairs to the lobby with the single elevator. Rode it to the third floor and found Neagley waiting in the reception area. She was sitting upright on a leather chair.

  “Stuyvesant around?” Reacher asked her.

  She shook her head. “He went next door. To the White House.”

  “I want to go look at that camera.”

  They walked together past the counter toward the rear of the floor and came out in the square area outside Stuyvesant’s office. His secretary was at her desk with her purse open. She had a tiny tortoiseshell mirror and a stick of lip gloss in her hands. The pose made her look human. Efficient, for sure, but like an amiable old soul, too. She saw them coming and put her cosmetic equipment away fast, like she was embarrassed to be caught with it. Reacher looked over her head at the surveillance camera. Neagley looked at Stuyvesant’s door. Then she glanced at the secretary.

  “Do you remember the morning the message showed up in there?” she asked.

  “Of course I do,” the secretary said.

  “Why did Mr. Stuyvesant leave his briefcase out here?”

  The secretary thought for a moment. “Because it was a Thursday.”

  “What happens on a Thursday? Does he have an early meeting?”

  “No, his wife goes to Baltimore, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “How is that connected?”

  “She volunteers at a hospital there.”

  Neagley looked straight at her. “How does that affect her husband’s briefcase?”

  “She drives,” the secretary said. “She takes their car. They only have one. No department vehicle either, because Mr. Stuyvesant isn’t operational anymore. So he has to come to work on the Metro.”

  Neagley looked blank. “The subway?”

  The secretary nodded. “He has a special briefcase for Tuesdays and Thursdays because he’s forced to place it on the floor of the subway car. He won’t do that with his regular briefcase, because he thinks it gets dirty.”

  Neagley stood still. Reacher thought back to the videotapes, Stuyvesant leaving late on Wednesday evening, returning early on Thursday morning.

  “I didn’t notice a difference,” he said. “Looked like the same case to me.”

  The secretary nodded in agreement.

  “They’re identical items,” she said. “Same make, same vintage. He doesn’t like for people to realize. But one is for his automobile and the other is for the subway car.”

  “Why?”

  “He hates dirt. I think he’s afraid of it. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he won’t take his subway-car briefcase into his office at all. He leaves it out here all day and I have to bring him things from it. If it’s been raining he leaves his shoes out here, too. Like his office was a Japanese temple.”

  Neagley glanced at Reacher. Made a face.

  “It’s a harmless eccentricity,” the secretary said. Then she lowered her voice, as if she might be overheard all the way from the White House. “And absolutely unnecessary, in my opinion. The D.C. Metro is famous for being the cleanest subway in the world.”

  “OK,” Neagley said. “But weird.”

  “It’s harmless,” the secretary said again.

  Reacher lost interest and stepped behind her and looked at the fire door. It had a brush
ed-steel push bar at waist height, like the city construction codes no doubt required it to have. He put his fingers on it and it clicked back with silky precision. He pushed a little harder and it folded up against the painted wood and the door swung back. It was a heavy fireproof item and there were three large steel hinges carrying its weight. He stepped through to a small square stairwell. There were concrete stairs, newer than the stone fabric of the building. They ran up to the higher floors and down toward street level. They had steel handrails. There were dim emergency lights behind glass in wire cages. Clearly a narrow space had been appropriated in the back of the building during the modernization and dedicated to a full-bore fire escape system.

  There was a regular knob on the back of the door that operated the same latch as the push bar. It had a keyhole, but it wasn’t locked. It turned easily. Makes sense, he thought. The building was secure as a whole. They didn’t need for every floor to be isolated as well. He let the door close behind him and waited in the gloom on the stairwell for a second. Turned the knob again and reopened the door and stepped back into the brightness of the secretarial area, one pace. Twisted and looked up at the surveillance camera. It was right there above his head, set so it would pick him up sometime during his second step. He inched forward and let the door close behind him. Checked the camera again. It would be seeing him by now. And he still had more than eight feet to go before he reached Stuyvesant’s door.

  “The cleaners put the message there,” the secretary said. “There’s no other possible explanation.”

  Then her phone rang and she excused herself politely and answered it. Reacher and Neagley walked back through the maze of corridors and found Froelich’s office. It was quiet and dark and empty. Neagley flicked the halogen lights on and sat down at the desk. There was no other chair, so Reacher sat on the floor with his legs straight out and his back propped against the side of a file cabinet.

  “Tell me about the cleaners,” he said.

  Neagley drummed a rhythm on the desk with her fingers. The click of her nails alternated with little papery thumps from the pads of her fingers.

  “They’re all lawyered up,” she said. “The department sent them attorneys, one each. They’re all Mirandized, too. Their human rights are fully protected. Wonderful, isn’t it? The civilian world?”

  “Terrific. What did they say?”

  “Nothing much. They clammed up tight. Stubborn as hell. But worried as hell, too. They’re looking at a rock and a hard place. Obviously very frightened about revealing who told them to put the paper there, and equally frightened about losing their jobs and maybe going to jail. They can’t win. It wasn’t attractive.”

  “You mention Stuyvesant’s name?”

  “Loud and clear. They know his name, obviously, but I’m not sure they know who he is, specifically. They’re night workers. All they see is a bunch of offices. They don’t see people. They didn’t react to his name at all. They didn’t really react to anything. Just sat there, scared to death, looking at their lawyers, saying nothing.”

  “You’re slipping. People used to eat out of your hand, the way I recall it.”

  She nodded. “I told you, I’m getting old. I couldn’t get a handle on them anywhere. The lawyers wouldn’t let me, really. The civilian justice system is very off-putting. I never felt so disconnected.”

  Reacher said nothing. Checked his watch. “So what now?” Neagley asked.

  “We wait,” he said.

  The wait went slowly. Froelich came back after an hour and a half and reported that Armstrong was safely back in his own office. She had persuaded him to come with her in the car. She told him she understood that he preferred to walk, but she made the point that her team needed operational fine-tuning and there was no better time to do it than right now. She pushed it to the point where a refusal would have seemed like a prima-donna pain in the ass, and Armstrong wasn’t like that, so he climbed into the Suburban quite happily. The transfer through the tent at the Senate Offices had worked without incident.

  “Now make some calls,” Reacher said. “See if anything’s happened that we need to know about.”

  She checked with the D.C. cops first. There was the usual list of urban crimes and misdemeanors, but it would have been a stretch to categorize any of them as a demonstration of Armstrong’s vulnerability. She transferred to the precinct holding the crazy guy and took a long verbal report on his status. Hung up and shook her head.

  “Not connected,” she said. “They know him. IQ below eighty, alcoholic, sleeps on the street, barely literate, and his prints don’t match. He’s got a record a yard long for jumping on anybody he’s ever seen in the newspapers he sleeps under. Some kind of a bipolar problem. I suggest we forget all about him.”

  “OK,” Reacher said.

  Then she opened up the National Crime Information Center database and looked at recent entries. They were flooding in from all over the country at a rate faster than one every second. Faster than she could read them.

  “Hopeless,” she said. “We’ll have to wait until midnight.”

  “Or one o’clock,” Neagley said. “It might happen on Central time, out there in Bismarck. They might shoot up his house. Or throw a rock through the window.”

  So Froelich called the cops in Bismarck and asked for immediate notification of anything that could be even remotely connected to an interest in Armstrong. Then she made the same request to the North Dakota State Police and the FBI nationwide.

  “Maybe it won’t happen,” she said.

  Reacher looked away. You better hope it does, he thought.

  Around seven o’clock in the evening the office complex began to quiet down. Most of the people visible in the corridors were drifting one way only, toward the front exit. They were wearing raincoats and carrying bags and briefcases.

  “Did you check out of the hotel?” Froelich asked.

  “Yes,” Reacher said.

  “No,” Neagley said. “I make a terrible houseguest.”

  Froelich paused a beat, a little taken aback. But Reacher wasn’t surprised. Neagley was a very solitary person. Always had been. She kept herself to herself. He didn’t know why.

  “OK,” Froelich said. “But we should take some time out. Rest up and regroup later. I’ll drop you guys off and then go try to get Armstrong home safely.”

  They rode together down to the garage and Froelich fired up her Suburban and drove Neagley to the hotel. Reacher walked with her as far as the bell captain’s stand and reclaimed his Atlantic City clothes. They were packed with his old shoes and his toothbrush and his razor, folded up inside a black garbage bag he had taken from a maid’s cart. It didn’t impress the bellboy. But he carried it out to the Suburban anyway and Reacher took it from him and gave him a dollar. Then he climbed back in alongside Froelich and she drove on. It was cold and dark and damp and the traffic was bad. There was congestion everywhere. Long lines of red brake lights streamed ahead of them, long lines of bright white headlights streamed toward them. They drove south across the Eleventh Street Bridge and fought through a maze of streets to Froelich’s house. She double-parked with the motor running and fiddled behind the steering wheel and took her door key off its ring. Handed it to him.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

  He took his bag and got out and watched her drive off. She made a right to loop back north over a different bridge and disappeared from sight. He crossed the sidewalk and unlocked her front door. The house was dark and warm. It had her perfume in it. He closed the door behind him and fumbled for a light switch. A low-wattage bulb came on inside a yellow shade on a lamp on a small chest of drawers. It gave a soft, muted light. He put the key down next to it and dropped his bag at the foot of the stairs and stepped into the living room. Switched on the light. Walked on into the kitchen. Looked around.

  There were basement stairs behind a door. He stood still for a second with his ritual curiosity nagging at him. I
t was an ingrained reflex, like breathing. But was it polite to search your host’s house? Just out of habit? Of course not. But he couldn’t resist. He walked down the stairs, switching lights on as he went. The basement itself was a dark space walled with smooth old concrete. It had a furnace and a water softener in it. A washing machine and an electric dryer. Shelving units. Old suitcases. Plenty of miscellaneous junk stacked all around, but nothing of any great significance. He walked back up. Turned off the lights. Opposite the head of the stairs was an enclosed space right next to the kitchen. It was larger than a closet, smaller than a room. Maybe a pantry, originally. It had been fitted out as a tiny home office. There was a rolling chair and a desk and shelves, all of them a few years old. They looked like chain-store versions of real office furniture, with plenty of wear and tear on them. Maybe they were secondhand. There was a computer, fairly old. An inkjet printer connected to it with a fat cable. He moved back into the kitchen.

  He looked at all the usual places women hide things in kitchens and found five hundred dollars in mixed bills inside an earthenware casserole on a high shelf inside a cupboard. Emergency cash. Maybe an old Y2K precaution that she decided to stick with afterward. He found an M9 Beretta nine-millimeter sidearm in a drawer, carefully hidden under a stack of place mats. It was old and scratched and stained with dried oil in random patches. Probably Army surplus, redistributed to another government department. Last-generation Secret Service issue, without a doubt. It was unloaded. The magazine was missing. He opened the next drawer to the left and put his hand on four spares laid out in a line under an oven glove. They were all loaded with standard jacketed cartridges. Good news and bad news. The layout was smart. Pick up the gun with your right hand, access the magazines with your left. Sound ergonomics. But storing magazines full of bullets was a bad idea. Leave them long enough, the spring in the magazine learns its compressed shape and won’t function right. More jams are caused by tired magazine springs than any other single reason. Better to keep the gun with a single shell locked in the chamber and all the other bullets loose. You can fire once right-handed while you thumb loose shells into an empty magazine with your left. Slower than the ideal, but a lot better than pulling the trigger and hearing nothing at all except a dull click.