* * *
Another twenty minutes and twenty blocks later he was at Bryant Park, eating a hot dog from a street vendor. Twenty minutes and twenty blocks after that he was in Central Park, drinking a bottle of still water from another street vendor. Twelve more blocks north he was still in Central Park, directly opposite the Dakota, under a tree, stopped dead, face-to-face with Anne Lane, Edward Lane’s first wife.
CHAPTER 17
THE FIRST THING Anne Lane did was tell Reacher he was wrong.
“You saw Lane’s photograph of her,” she said.
He nodded.
“We were very alike,” she said.
He nodded again.
“Anne was my sister,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for staring. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” the woman said.
“Were you twins?”
“I’m six years younger,” the woman said. “Which means right now I’m the same age as Anne was in that photograph. Like a virtual twin, maybe.”
“You look exactly like her.”
“I try to,” the woman said.
“It’s uncanny.”
“I try very hard.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels like I’m keeping her alive. Because I couldn’t, back when it mattered.”
“How could you have kept her alive?”
“We should talk,” the woman said. “My name is Patti Joseph.”
“Jack Reacher.”
“Come with me,” the woman said. “We have to double back. We can’t go too near the Dakota.”
She led him south through the park, to the exit at 66th Street. Across to the far sidewalk. Then north again, and into the lobby of a building at 115 Central Park West.
“Welcome to the Majestic,” Patti Joseph said. “Best place I ever lived. And just wait until you see where my apartment is.”
Reacher saw where it was five minutes later, after a walk down a corridor, and an elevator ride, and another walk down another corridor. Patti Joseph’s apartment was on the Majestic’s seventh floor, north side. Its living room window looked out over 72nd Street, directly at the Dakota’s entrance. There was a dining chair placed in front of the sill, as if the sill was a desk. On the sill was a notebook. And a pen. And a Nikon camera with a long lens, and a pair of Leica 10x42 binoculars.
“What do you do here?” Reacher asked.
“First tell me what you do there,” Patti said.
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Do you work for Lane?”
“No, I don’t.”
Patti Joseph smiled.
“I didn’t think you did,” she said. “I told Brewer, you’re not one of them. You’re not like them. You weren’t Special Forces, were you?”
“How did you know?”
“You’re too big. You wouldn’t have made it through the endurance hazing. Big men never do.”
“I was an MP.”
“Did you know Lane in the service?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Patti Joseph smiled again.
“I thought not,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be there.”
“Who is Brewer?”
“NYPD.” She pointed at the notebook and the pen and the camera and the binoculars. A big, sweeping gesture. “I do all this for him.”
“You’re watching Lane and his guys? For the cops?”
“For myself, mostly. But I check in.”
“Why?”
“Because hope springs eternal.”
“Hope of what?”
“That he’ll slip up, and I’ll get something on him.”
Reacher stepped closer to the window and glanced at the notebook. The handwriting was neat. The last entry read: 2014 hrs. Burke returns alone, no bag, in black BMW OSC-23, enters TDA.
“TDA?” Reacher asked.
“The Dakota Apartments,” Patti said. “It’s the building’s official name.”
“You ever see Yoko?”
“All the time.”
“You know Burke by name?”
“Burke was around when Anne was there.”
The last-but-one entry read: 1859 hrs. Burke and Venti leave TDA in black BMW OSC-23, with bag, Venti concealed in rear.
“Venti?” Reacher asked.
“That’s what I’ve been calling you. Like a code name.”
“Why?”
“Venti is the largest cup that Starbucks sells. Bigger than the others.”
“I like coffee,” Reacher said.
“I could make some.”
Reacher turned away from the window. The apartment was a small one-bedroom. Plain, neat, painted. Probably worth the best part of a million bucks.
“Why are you showing me all this?” he asked.
“A recent decision,” she said. “I decided to watch for new guys, and waylay them, and warn them.”
“About what?”
“About what Lane is really like. About what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“I’ll make coffee,” Patti said.
There was no stopping her. She ducked into a small pass-through kitchen and started fiddling with a machine. Pretty soon Reacher could smell coffee. He wasn’t thirsty. He had just drunk a whole bottle of water. But he liked coffee. He figured he could stay for a cup.
Patti called out, “No cream, no sugar, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“I trust my instincts,” she said.
And I trust mine, Reacher thought, although he wasn’t entirely sure what they were telling him right then.
“I need you to get to the point,” he said.
“OK,” Patti Joseph said. “I will.” And then she said: “Anne wasn’t kidnapped five years ago. That was just a cover story. Lane murdered her.”
CHAPTER 18
PATTI JOSEPH BROUGHT Jack Reacher black coffee in a huge white Wedgwood mug. Twenty ounce. Venti. She set it on an oversized coaster and turned her back on him and sat on the dining chair at the window. Picked up the pen in her right hand and the binoculars in her left. They looked heavy. She held them the way a shot putter holds the big iron ball, balanced on her open palm, close to her neck.
“Edward Lane is a cold man,” she said. “He demands loyalty and respect and obedience. He needs those things, like a junkie needs a fix. That’s what this whole mercenary venture is about, really. He couldn’t bear losing his command position, when he left the military. So he decided to re-create it all over again. He needs to give orders and have them obeyed. Like you or I need to breathe. He’s borderline mentally ill, I think. Psychotic.”
“And?” Reacher said.
“He ignores his stepdaughter. Have you noticed that?”
Reacher said nothing. He didn’t mention Jade had been taken until later, he thought. He had her cropped out of the picture in the living room.
“My sister Anne wasn’t very obedient,” Patti said. “Nothing outrageous. Nothing unreasonable. But Edward Lane ran the marriage like a military operation. Anne couldn’t handle it. And the more she chafed, the more Lane demanded discipline. It became his fetish.”
“What did she see in him in the first place?”
“He can be charismatic. He’s strong and silent. And intelligent, in a narrow way.”
“What was she before?”
“A model.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Yes,” Patti said. “Just like the next one.”
“What happened?”
“Between them they drove the marriage on the rocks. It was inevitable, I guess. One day she told me she wanted a divorce. I was all in favor of that, of course. It was the best thing for her. But she tried to do the whole drag-out knock-down thing. Alimony, division of assets, the whole nine yards. Which was the worst possible thing she could have done. I knew it was a mistake. I told her just to get the hell out while she still could. But she had brought money to the relationship. L
ane had used it for part of his initial stake. Anne wanted her share back. But Lane couldn’t even handle the insubordination of his wife wanting out of the marriage. To be made to give her money as well was out of the question for him. And it would have been a public humiliation, because he would have had to go out and find another investor. So he went completely postal. He faked a kidnapping and had her killed.”
Silence for a moment.
“The police were involved,” Reacher said. “The FBI, too. There must have been a certain level of scrutiny.”
Patti turned around to face the room. Smiled, sadly.
“Here we go,” she said. “We’ve reached the point where the little sister is sounding a little crazy and obsessed. But obviously Lane planned it well. He made it seem very real.”
“How?”
“His men. He employs a bunch of killers. They’re all used to obeying orders. And they’re all smart. They all know how to do stuff like this. And they aren’t virgins. Every single one of them has been out on covert operations. And probably every single one of them has killed before, up close and personal.”
Reacher nodded. No question about it. Every one of them has. Many times.
“You got any particular suspects in mind?” he asked.
“None of the guys you’ve seen,” Patti said. “Nobody who’s still in the A-team. I don’t think the dynamic would permit that. Not as time went by. I don’t think it would be sustainable, psychologically. But I don’t think he would have used B-teamers. He would have needed people he could have trusted completely.”
“So who?”
“A-team guys who aren’t around anymore.”
“Who would be in that category?”
“There were two,” Patti said. “A guy called Hobart and a guy called Knight.”
“Why aren’t they around anymore? Why would two trusted A-teamers just up and leave?”
“Shortly after Anne died there was an operation overseas somewhere. Apparently it went bad. Two men didn’t come back. Those two.”
“That would be a coincidence,” Reacher said. “Wouldn’t it? The two guilty men were the two who didn’t come back?”
“I think Lane made sure they didn’t come back. He needed to tidy things up.”
Reacher said nothing.
“I know,” Patti said. “The little sister is crazy, right?”
Reacher gazed at her. She didn’t look crazy. A little spacey, maybe. In a sixties way, like her sister. She had a curtain of long blonde hair, straight, parted in the middle, just the same as Anne in the photograph. Big blue eyes, a button nose, a dusting of freckles, pale skin. She was wearing a white peasant blouse and faded blue jeans. She was barefoot and braless. You could have taken her picture and put it straight on the cover of a compilation CD. The Summer of Love. The Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company. Reacher liked music like that. He had been seven during the Summer of Love, and he wished he had been seventeen.
“How do you think it went down?” he asked.
“Knight drove Anne that day,” Patti said. “That’s an established fact. He took her shopping. Waited at the curb. But she never came out of the store. Next thing anyone knew was a phone call four hours later. The usual thing. No cops, a ransom demand.”
“Voice?”
“Disguised.”
“How?”
“Like the guy was talking through a handkerchief or something.”
“How much was the ransom?”
“A hundred grand.”
“But Lane did call the cops.”
Patti nodded. “But only to cover his ass. It was like he wanted independent witnesses. Very important to retain his credibility with the other guys that weren’t in on the scheme.”
“Then what?”
“Like you see in the movies. The FBI tapped the phones and moved in on the ransom drop. Lane’s story is that they were seen. But the whole thing was phony. They waited, nobody showed up, because nobody was ever going to show up. So they brought the money home again. It was all a performance. A charade. Lane acted it all out and came home and gave the word that he was in the clear, that the cops had bought the story, that the FBI was convinced, and then Anne was killed. I’m sure of that.”
“Where was the other guy during all of this? Hobart?”
“Nobody knows for sure. He was off duty. He said he was in Philadelphia. But obviously he had been in the store, just waiting for Anne to show. He was the other half of the equation.”
“Did you go to the cops at the time?”
“They ignored me,” Patti said. “Remember, this all was five years ago, not long after the Twin Towers. Everyone was preoccupied. And the military was suddenly back in fashion. You know, everyone was looking for their daddy, so people like Lane were the flavor of the month. Ex–Special Forces soldiers were pretty cool back then. I was fighting an uphill battle.”
“What about this cop Brewer? Now?”
“He tolerates me. What else can he do? I’m a taxpayer. But I don’t suppose he’s doing anything about it. I’m realistic.”
“You got any evidence against Lane at all?”
“No,” Patti said. “None at all. All I’ve got is context and feeling and intuition. That’s all I can share.”
“Context?”
“Do you know what a private military corporation is really for? Fundamentally?”
“Fundamentally its purpose is to allow the Pentagon to escape Congressional oversight.”
“Exactly,” Patti said. “They’re not necessarily better fighters than people currently enlisted. Often they’re worse, and they’re certainly more expensive. They’re there to break the rules. Simple as that. If the Geneva Conventions get in the way, it doesn’t matter to them, because nobody can call them on it. The government is insulated.”
“You’ve studied hard,” Reacher said.
“So what kind of a man is Lane to participate?”
“You tell me.”
“He’s a sordid egomaniac weasel.”
“What do you wish you had done? To keep Anne alive?”
“I should have convinced her. I should have just gotten her out of there, penniless but alive.”
“Not easy,” Reacher said. “You were the kid sister.”
“But I knew.”
“When did you move here?”
“About a year after Anne died. I couldn’t let it rest.”
“Does Lane know you’re here?”
She shook her head. “I’m very careful. And this city is incredibly anonymous. You can go years without ever laying eyes on your neighbor.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Do?”
“You brought me here for a purpose. And you took a hell of a risk doing it.”
“I think it’s time for me to take risks.”
“What do you want me to do?” Reacher repeated.
“I want you to just walk away from him. For your own sake. Don’t dirty your hands with his business. No possible good can come of it.”
Silence for a moment.
“And he’s dangerous,” Patti said. “More dangerous than you can know. It’s not smart to be anywhere near him.”
“I’ll be careful,” Reacher said.
“They’re all dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful,” Reacher said again. “I always am. But I’m going back there now. I’ll walk away on my own schedule.”
Patti Joseph said nothing.
“But I’d like to meet with this guy Brewer,” Reacher said.
“Why? Because you want to trade guy jokes about the nutty little sister?”
“No,” Reacher said. “Because if he’s any kind of a cop at all he’ll have checked with the original detectives and the FBI agents. He might have a clearer picture.”
“Clearer which way?”
“Whichever way,” Reacher said. “I’d like to know.”
“He might be here later.”
“Here?
”
“He usually comes over after I phone in a report.”
“You said he wasn’t doing anything.”
“I think he just comes for the company. I think he’s lonely. He drops by, at the end of his shift, on his way home.”
“Where does he live?”
“Staten Island.”
“Where does he work?”
“Midtown.”
“So this isn’t exactly on his way home.”
Patti Joseph said nothing.
“When does his shift end?” Reacher asked.
“Midnight.”
“He visits you at midnight? Way out of his way?”
“I’m not involved with him or anything,” Patti said. “He’s lonely. I’m lonely. That’s all.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Make an excuse to get out,” Patti said. “Check my window. If Brewer’s here, the light will be on. If he isn’t, it won’t be.”
CHAPTER 19
PATTI JOSEPH WENT back to her lonely vigil at the window and Reacher let himself out and left her there. He walked clockwise around her block for caution’s sake and came up on the Dakota from the west. It was a quarter to ten in the evening. It was warm. There was music somewhere in the Park. Music and people, far away. It was a perfect late-summer night. Probably baseball up in the Bronx or out at Shea, a thousand bars and clubs just warming up, eight million people looking back on the day or looking forward to the next.
Reacher stepped inside the building.
The lobby staff called up to the apartment and let him go ahead to the elevator. He got out and turned the corner and found Gregory in the corridor, waiting for him.
“We thought you’d quit on us,” Gregory said.
“Went for a walk,” Reacher said. “Any news?”
“Too early.”
Reacher followed him into the apartment. It smelled sour. Chinese food, sweat, worry. Edward Lane was in the armchair next to the phone. He was staring up at the ceiling. His face was composed. Next to him at the end of a sofa was an empty place. A dented cushion. Recently occupied by Gregory, Reacher guessed. Then came Burke, sitting still. And Addison, and Perez, and Kowalski. Carter Groom was leaning on the wall, facing the door, vigilant. Like a sentry. I’m all business, he had said.
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