That feeling lasted about thirty minutes.
Pauling dimmed the lights and lit a candle and called out for Indian food. The clock in Reacher’s head crawled around to nine-thirty. The sky outside the window turned from navy blue to black and the city lights burned bright. Barrow Street itself was quiet but the cabs on West 4th used their horns a lot. Occasionally an ambulance would scream by a couple of blocks over, heading up to Saint Vincent’s. The room felt like part of the city but a little detached, too. A little insulated. A partial sanctuary.
“Do that thing again,” Reacher said.
“What thing?”
“The brainstorming thing. Ask me questions.”
“OK, what have we got?”
“We’ve got an impossible takedown and a guy that can’t speak.”
“And the tongue thing is culturally unrelated to Africa.”
“But the money is related to Africa, because it’s exactly half.”
Silence in the room. Nothing but a faraway siren burning past, going south on Seventh Avenue.
“Start at the very beginning,” Pauling said. “What was the very first false note? The first red flag? Anything at all, however trivial or random.”
So Reacher closed his eyes and recalled the beginning: the granular feel of the foam espresso cup in his hand, textured, temperature-neutral, neither warm nor cold. He recalled Gregory’s walk in from the curb, alert, economical. His manner while questioning the waiter, watchful, aware, like the elite veteran he was. His direct approach to the sidewalk table.
Reacher said, “Gregory asked me about the car I had seen the night before and I told him it drove away before eleven forty-five, and he said no, it must have been closer to midnight.”
“A dispute about timing?”
“Not really a dispute. Just a trivial thing, like you said.”
“What would it mean?”
“That I was wrong or he was.”
Pauling said, “You don’t wear a watch.”
“I used to. I broke it. I threw it away.”
“So he was more likely to be right.”
“Except I’m usually pretty sure what time it is.”
“Keep your eyes closed, OK?”
“OK.”
“What time is it now?”
“Nine thirty-six.”
“Not bad,” Pauling said. “My watch says nine thirty-eight.”
“Your watch is fast.”
“Are you serious?”
Reacher opened his eyes. “Absolutely.”
Pauling rooted around on her coffee table and came up with the TV remote. Turned on the Weather Channel. The time was displayed in the corner of the screen, piped in from some official meteorological source, accurate to the second. Pauling checked her watch again.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m two minutes fast.”
Reacher said nothing.
“How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it was twenty-four hours after the event that Gregory asked you about it. How precise could you have been?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What would it mean if Gregory was wrong and you were right?”
“Something,” Reacher said. “But I’m not sure what exactly.”
“What was the next thing?”
Right now more likely death than life, Gregory had said. That had been the next thing. Reacher had checked his cup again and seen less than a lukewarm eighth-inch of espresso left, all thick and scummy. He had put it down and said OK, so let’s go.
He said, “Something about getting into Gregory’s car. The blue BMW. Something rang a bell. Not right then, but afterward. In retrospect.”
“You don’t know what?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then we arrived at the Dakota and it was off to the races.” The photograph, Reacher thought. After that, everything was about the photograph.
Pauling said, “We need to take a break. We can’t force these things.”
“You got beer in the refrigerator?”
“I’ve got white wine. You want some?”
“I’m being selfish. You didn’t blow it five years ago. You did everything right. We should take a minute to celebrate that.”
Pauling was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.
“We should,” she said. “Because to be honest it feels really good.”
Reacher went with her to the kitchen and she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and he opened it with a corkscrew from a drawer. She took two glasses from a cupboard and set them side by side on the counter. He filled them. They picked them up and clinked them together.
“Living well is the best revenge,” he said.
They each took a sip and moved back to the sofa. Sat close together. He asked, “Did you quit because of Anne Lane?”
She said, “Not directly. I mean, not right away. But ultimately, yes. You know how these things are. It’s like a naval convoy where one of the battleships gets holed below the waterline. No visible damage, but it falls a little behind, and then a little more, and it drifts a little off course, and then when the next big engagement comes along it’s completely out of sight. That was me.”
He said nothing.
She said, “But maybe I was maxed out anyway. I love the city and I didn’t want to move, and head of the New York office is an Assistant Director’s job. It was always a long shot.”
She took another sip of wine and pulled her legs up under her and turned a little sideways so she could see him better. He turned a little too, until they were more or less facing each other from a foot away.
“Why did you quit?” she asked him.
He said, “Because they told me I could.”
“You were looking to get out?”
“No, I was looking to stay in. But as soon as they said that leaving was an option it kind of broke the spell. Made me realize I wasn’t personally essential to their plans. I guess they’d have been happy enough if I stayed, but clearly it wasn’t going to break their hearts if I went.”
“You need to be needed?”
“Not really. It just broke the spell, is all. I can’t really explain it.” He stopped talking and watched her, silent. She looked great in the candlelight. Liquid eyes, soft skin. Reacher liked women as much as any guy and more than most but he was always ready to find something wrong with them. The shape of an ear, the thickness of an ankle, height, size, weight. Any random thing could ruin it for him. But there was nothing wrong with Lauren Pauling. Nothing at all. That was for sure.
“Anyway, congratulations,” he said. “Sleep well tonight.”
“Maybe I will,” she said.
Then she said, “Maybe I won’t get the chance.”
He could smell her fragrance. Subtle perfume, soap, clean skin, clean cotton. Her hair fell to her collarbones. The shoulder seams on her T-shirt stood up a little and made enticing shadowy tunnels. She was slim and toned, except where she shouldn’t be.
He said, “Won’t get the chance why?”
She said, “Maybe we’ll be working all night.”
He said, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
“You’re not a dull boy,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. Her mouth was open a little and was cool and sweet from the wine. He slid his free hand under her hair to the back of her neck. Pulled her closer and kissed her harder. She did the same thing with her free hand. They held the clinch for a whole minute, kissing, two wine glasses held approximately level in midair. Then they parted and put their glasses down on the table and Pauling asked, “What time is it?”
“Nine fifty-one.”
“How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
She held the pause for another beat and then leaned in and kissed him again. Used both her hands, one behind his head, the other behind his back. He did the sam
e thing, symmetrically. Her tongue was cool and quick. Her back was narrow. Her skin was warm. He slid his hand under her shirt. Felt her hand bunching into a tiny fist and dragging his shirt out of his waistband. Felt her nails against his skin.
“I don’t usually do this,” she said, her mouth hard against his. “Not to people I work with.”
“We’re not working,” he said. “We’re taking a break.”
“We’re celebrating.”
“That’s for sure.”
She said, “We’re celebrating the fact that we’re not Hobart, aren’t we? Or Kate Lane.”
“I’m celebrating the fact that you’re you.”
She raised her arms over her head and held the pose and he pulled her shirt off. She was wearing a tiny black bra. He raised his arms in turn and she knelt up on the sofa and hauled his shirt up over his head. Then his T-shirt. She spread her hands like small starfish on the broad slab of his chest. Ran them south to his waist. Undid his belt. He unclipped her bra. Lifted her up and laid her down flat on the sofa and kissed her breasts. By the time the clock in his head was showing five past ten they were in her bed, naked under the sheet, locked together, making love with a kind of patience and tenderness he had never experienced before.
“Older women,” she said. “We’re worth it.”
He didn’t answer. Just smiled and ducked his head and kissed her neck below her ear, where her skin was damp and tasted of salt water.
* * *
Afterward they showered together and finished their wine and went back to bed. Reacher was too tired to think and too relaxed to care. He just floated, warm, spent, happy. Pauling snuggled against him and they fell asleep like that.
* * *
Much later Reacher felt Pauling stir and woke up to find her hands over his eyes. She asked him in a whisper, “What time is it?”
“Eighteen minutes to seven,” he said. “In the morning.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s not a very useful talent. Saves me the price of a new watch, maybe.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“I stepped on it. I put it by the bed and I stood on it when I got up.”
“And that broke it?”
“I was wearing shoes.”
“In bed?”
“Saves time getting dressed.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I don’t do it all the time. It depends on the bed.”
“What would it mean if Gregory was wrong about the time and you were right?”
He took a breath and opened his mouth to say I don’t know.
But then he stopped.
Because suddenly he saw what it would mean.
“Wait,” he said.
He lay back on the pillow and stared up at the darkened ceiling.
“Do you like chocolate?” he asked.
“I guess.”
“You got a flashlight?”
“There’s a small Maglite in my purse.”
“Put it in your pocket,” he said. “Leave the purse home. And wear pants. The skirt is no good.”
CHAPTER 49
THEY WALKED, BECAUSE it was a beautiful city morning and Reacher was too restless to ride the subway or take a cab. Barrow, to Bleecker, then south on Sixth Avenue. It was already warm. They took it slow, to time it right. They turned east on Spring Street at seven-thirty exactly. Crossed Sullivan, crossed Thompson.
“We’re going to the abandoned building?” Pauling asked.
“Eventually,” Reacher said.
He stopped outside the chocolate shop. Cupped his hands against the glass and peered in. There was a light in the kitchen. He could see the owner moving about, small, dark, tired, her back to him. Sixteen-hour days, she had said. Regular as clockwork, seven days a week, small business, we never rest.
He knocked on the glass, loud, and the owner stopped and turned and looked exasperated until she recognized him. Then she shrugged and admitted defeat and walked through the front of the store to the door. Undid the locks and opened the door a crack and said, “Hello.”
Air bitter with chocolate flooded out at him.
He asked, “Can we come through to the alley again?”
“Who’s your friend this time?”
Pauling stepped forward and said her name.
The owner asked, “Are you really exterminators?”
“Investigators,” Pauling said. She had a business card ready.
“What are you investigating?”
“A woman disappeared,” Reacher said. “And her child.”
Silence for a moment.
The owner asked, “You think they’re next door?”
“No,” Reacher said. “Nobody’s next door.”
“That’s good.”
“This is just routine.”
“Would you like a chocolate?”
“Not for breakfast,” Reacher said.
“I would love one,” Pauling said.
The owner held the door wide and Pauling and Reacher stepped inside. Pauling took a moment choosing a chocolate. She settled on a raspberry fondant as big as a golf ball. Took a little bite and made a noise that sounded like appreciation. Then she followed Reacher through the kitchen and down the short tiled hallway. Out through the back door to the alley.
The rear of the abandoned building was exactly as Reacher had last seen it. The dull red door, the corroded black knob, the filthy ground floor window. He turned the knob and pushed, just in case, but the door was locked, as expected. He bent down and unlaced his shoe. Took it off and held the toe in his hand and used the heel like a two-pound hammer. Used it to break the window glass, low down and on the left, close to the door lock.
He tapped a little more and widened the hole and then put his shoe back on. Put his arm through the hole in the glass up to his shoulder and hugged the wall and groped around until he found the inside door handle. He unlocked it and withdrew his arm very carefully.
“OK,” he said.
He opened the door and stood aside to let Pauling get a good look.
“Just like you told me,” Pauling said. “Uninhabitable. No floors.”
“You up for a trip down the ladder?”
“Why me?”
“Because if I’m wrong I might just give up and stay down there forever.”
Pauling craned in and took a look at the ladder. It was right there where it had been before, propped to the right, steeply angled, leaning on the narrow piece of wall that separated the window and the door.
“I did worse at Quantico,” she said. “But that was a long time ago.”
Reacher said, “It’s only ten feet if you fall.”
“Thanks.” She turned around and backed up to the void. Reacher took her right hand in his and she sidled left and swung her left foot and left hand onto the ladder. Got steady and let Reacher’s hand go and paused a beat and climbed down into the dark. The ladder bounced and rattled a little and then he heard the crunch and rustle of trash as she hit bottom and stepped off.
“It’s filthy down here,” she called.
“Sorry,” he said.
“There could be rats.”
“Use the flashlight.”
“Will that scare them off?”
“No, but you’ll see them coming.”
“Thanks a lot.”
He leaned in over the pit and saw her flashlight beam stab the gloom. She called, “Where am I going?”
“Head for the front of the building. Directly underneath the door.”
The flashlight beam leveled out and established a direction and jerked forward. The basement walls had been whitewashed years before with some kind of lime compound and they reflected a little light. Reacher could see deep drifts of garbage everywhere. Paper, cartons, piles of unidentifiable rotted matter.
Pauling reached the front wall. The flashlight beam stabbed upward and she located the door above her. She moved left a little and lined herself up directly beneath it.
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“Look down now,” Reacher called. “What do you see?”
The beam stabbed downward. Short range, very bright.
“I see trash,” Pauling called.
Reacher called, “Look closer. They might have bounced.”
“What might have bounced?”
“Dig around and you’ll see. I hope.”
The flashlight beam traced a small random circle. Then a wider one. Then it stopped dead and held steady.
“OK,” Pauling called. “Now I see. But how the hell did you know?”
Reacher said nothing. Pauling held still for a second longer and then bent down. Stood up again with her hands held high. In her right hand was the flashlight. In her left hand were two sets of car keys, one for a Mercedes Benz and one for a BMW.
CHAPTER 50
PAULING WADED THROUGH the garbage back to the base of the ladder and tossed the keys up to Reacher. He caught them one-handed, left and then right. Both sets were on chrome split rings and both had black leather fobs decorated with enamel car badges. The three-pointed Mercedes star, the blue and white BMW propeller. Both had a single large car key and a remote clicker. He blew dust and fragments of trash off them and put them in his pocket. Then he leaned in over the void and caught Pauling’s arm and hauled her off the ladder to the safety of the alley. She brushed herself down and kicked the air hard to get trash off her shoes.
“So?” she said.
“We’re one for one,” he said.
He closed the dull red door and put his arm back through the hole in the window glass and hugged the wall again and clicked the lock from the inside. Extricated himself carefully and tested the knob. It was solid. Safe.
“This whole thing with the mail slot was a pure decoy,” he said. “Just a piece of nonsense designed to distract attention. The guy already had keys. He had spares from the file cabinet in Lane’s office. There was a whole bunch of car stuff in there. Some of the valet keys were filed away and some of them were missing.”
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