“Weird,” she said. “Isn’t it? They were right here in this room. This view was maybe the last thing they ever saw.”
“They weren’t killed here. Too difficult to get the bodies out.”
“Not literally the last view. Just the last normal thing from their old lives.”
Reacher said nothing.
“Can you feel them in here?”
Reacher said, “No.”
He tapped the wall with his knuckles and then knelt and tapped the floor. The walls felt thick and solid and the floor felt like concrete under hardwood. An apartment building was an odd place to keep people prisoner but this one felt safe enough. Terrorize your captives into silence and adjacent residents wouldn’t know much. If anything. Ever. Like Patti Joseph had said: This city is incredibly anonymous. You can go years without ever laying eyes on your neighbor.
Or his guests, Reacher thought.
“You think there are doormen here twenty-four hours?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” Pauling said. “Not this far downtown. Mine aren’t. They’re probably part-time here. Maybe until eight.”
“Then that might explain the delays. He couldn’t bring them in past a doorman. Not kicking and struggling. The first day, he would have had to wait hours. Then he kept the intervals going for consistency.”
“And to create an impression of distance.”
“That was Gregory’s guess. He was right and I was wrong. I said the Catskills.”
“It was a reasonable assumption.”
Reacher said nothing.
Pauling asked, “What next?”
“I’d like to meet with your Pentagon buddy again.”
“I’m not sure if he’ll agree to. I don’t think he likes you.”
“I’m not crazy about him, either. But this is business. Make him an offer.”
“What can we offer him?”
“Tell him we’ll take Lane’s crew off the board if he helps us out with one small piece of information. He’ll take that deal. Ten minutes with us in a coffee shop will get him more than ten years of talking at the U.N. One whole band of real live mercenaries out of action forever.”
“Can we deliver that?”
“We’ll have to anyway. Sooner or later it’s going to be them or us.”
* * *
They walked back to Pauling’s office by their previous route in reverse. Saint Luke’s Place, Seventh Avenue, Cornelia Street, West 4th. Then Reacher lounged in one of Pauling’s visitor chairs while she played phone tag around the U.N. Building, looking for her friend. She got him after about an hour of trying. He was reluctant but he agreed to meet in the same coffee shop as before, at three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Time is moving on,” Pauling said.
“It always does. Try Brewer again. We need to hear from him.”
But Brewer wasn’t back at his desk and his cell was switched off. Reacher leaned back and closed his eyes. No use fretting about what you can’t control.
* * *
At two o’clock they went out to find a cab, well ahead of time, just in case. But they got one right away and were in the Second Avenue coffee shop forty minutes early. Pauling tried Brewer again. Still no answer. She closed her phone and put it on the table and spun it like a top. It came to rest with its antenna pointing straight at Reacher’s chest.
“You’ve got a theory,” she said to him. “Haven’t you? Like a physicist. A unified theory of everything.”
“No,” Reacher said. “Not everything. Not even close. It’s only partial. I’m missing a big component. But I’ve got a name for Lane.”
“What name?”
“Let’s wait for Brewer,” Reacher said. He waved to the waitress. The same one as before. He ordered coffee. Same brown mugs, same Bunn flask. Same hot, strong, generic taste.
* * *
Pauling’s phone buzzed with thirty minutes to go before the Pentagon guy was due to show. She answered it and said her name and listened for a spell and then she gave their current location. A coffee shop, east side of Second between 44th and 45th, booth in the back. Then she hung up.
“Brewer,” she said. “Finally. He’s meeting us here. Wants to talk face-to-face.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s leaving the morgue.”
“It’s going to be crowded in here. He’s going to arrive at the same time as your guy.”
“My guy’s not going to like that. I don’t think he likes crowds.”
“If I see him balking I’ll talk to him outside.”
But Pauling’s Pentagon friend showed up a little early. Presumably to scope out the situation ahead of the rendezvous. Reacher saw him out on the sidewalk, looking in, checking the clientele one face at a time. He was patient about it. Thorough. But eventually he was satisfied and he pulled the door. Walked quickly through the room and slid into the booth. He was wearing the same blue suit. Same tie. Probably a fresh shirt, although there was no real way of telling. One white button-down Oxford looks pretty much the same as another.
“I’m concerned about your offer,” he said. “I can’t condone illegality.”
Take the poker out of your ass, Reacher thought. Be grateful for once in your miserable life. You might be a general now but you know how things are. But he said, “I understand your concern, sir. Completely. And you have my word that no cop or prosecutor anywhere in America will think twice about anything that I do.”
“I have your word?”
“As an officer.”
The guy smiled. “And as a gentleman?”
Reacher didn’t smile back. “I can’t claim that distinction.”
“No cop or prosecutor anywhere in America?”
“I guarantee it.”
“You can do that, realistically?”
“I can do that absolutely.”
The guy paused. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Get me confirmation of something so I don’t waste my time or money.”
“Confirmation of what?”
“I need you to check a passenger name against flight manifests out of this area during the last forty-eight hours.”
“Military?”
“No, commercial.”
“That’s a Homeland Security issue.”
Reacher nodded. “Which is why I need you to do it for me. I don’t know who to call. Not anymore. But I’m guessing you do.”
“Which airport? What flight?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to go fishing. I’d start with JFK. British Airways, United, or American to London, England. I’d start with late evening the day before yesterday. Failing that, try flights out of Newark. No hits, try JFK again yesterday morning.”
“Definitely transatlantic?”
“That’s my assumption right now.”
“OK,” the guy said, slowly, like he was taking mental notes. Then he asked, “Who am I looking for? One of Edward Lane’s crew?”
Reacher nodded. “A recent ex-member.”
“Name?”
Reacher said, “Taylor. Graham Taylor. He’s a U.K. citizen.”
CHAPTER 53
THE PENTAGON GUY left with a promise to liaise in due course via Lauren Pauling’s cell phone. Reacher got a coffee refill and Pauling said, “You didn’t find Taylor’s passport in his apartment.”
Reacher said, “No, I didn’t.”
“So either he’s still alive or you think someone’s impersonating him.”
Reacher said nothing.
Pauling said, “Let’s say Taylor was working with the guy with no tongue. Let’s say they fell out over something, either what they did to Kate and Jade in the end, or the money, or both. Then let’s say one of them killed the other and ran, on Taylor’s passport, with all the money.”
“If it’s the guy with no tongue, why would he use Taylor’s passport?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have one of his own. Plenty of A
mericans don’t. Or maybe he’s on a watch list. Maybe he couldn’t get through an airport with his own name.”
“Passports have photographs.”
“They’re often old and generic. Do you look like your passport photograph?”
“A little.”
Pauling said, “A little is sometimes all you need. Going out, they don’t care as much as when you’re coming in.”
Reacher nodded and looked up and saw Brewer coming in the door. Big, fast, energetic. Something in his face, maybe frustration, maybe concern, Reacher couldn’t tell. Or perhaps the guy was just tired. He had been woken up early. He hurried through the room and slid into the booth and sat in the same spot the Pentagon guy had just vacated.
He said, “The body in the river was not the guy in Patti’s photograph.”
“You sure?” Reacher asked.
“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. Patti’s guy is about five-nine and athletic and the floater was six-three and wasted. Those are fairly basic differences, wouldn’t you say?”
Reacher nodded. “Fairly basic.”
Pauling asked, “Did he have a tongue?”
“A what?” Brewer said.
“A tongue. Did the floater have a tongue?”
“Doesn’t everybody? What kind of question is that?”
“We’re looking for a guy who had his tongue cut out.”
Brewer looked straight at her. “Then the floater ain’t yours. I was just at the morgue. He’s got everything except a heartbeat.”
“You sure?”
“Medical examiners tend to notice things like that.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Not so fast,” Brewer said. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About why you’re interested in this guy.”
Something in his face.
Reacher asked, “Did you get an ID?”
Brewer nodded. “From his fingerprints. They were mushy, but we made them work. He was an NYPD snitch. Relatively valuable. I’ve got buddies uptown who are relatively unhappy.”
“What kind of a snitch?”
“Methamphetamine out of Long Island. He was due to testify.”
“Where had he been?”
“He just got out of Rikers. They swept him up along with a bunch of others to keep his cover intact. Held him a few days, then turned him loose.”
“When?”
“He just got out. The ME figures he was dead about three hours after walking through the gates.”
“Then we don’t know anything about him,” Reacher said. “He’s completely unrelated.”
This time it was Brewer who said: “You sure?”
Reacher nodded. “I promise.”
Brewer gave him a long hard look, cop to cop. Then he just shrugged and said, “OK.”
Reacher said, “Sorry we can’t help.”
“Shit happens.”
“You still got Patti’s photograph?”
“Photographs,” Brewer said. “She gave me two. Couldn’t decide which one was better.”
“You still got them?”
“In my pocket.”
“Want to leave them with me?”
Brewer smiled, man to man. “You planning on returning them personally?”
“I could,” Reacher said. “But first I want to look at them.”
They were in a standard white letter-size envelope. Brewer pulled it from his inside pocket and laid it on the table. Reacher saw the name Taylor and the words For Brewer written on the front in blue ink and neat handwriting. Then Brewer left. Just stood up and walked back out to the street with the same kind of speed and energy and hustle he had used on the way in. Reacher watched him go and then he turned the envelope facedown and squared it on the table in front of him. Looked at it hard but left it unopened.
“What have we got?” he asked.
“We’ve got the same as we always had,” Pauling said. “We’ve got Taylor and the guy who can’t talk.”
Reacher shook his head. “Taylor is the guy who can’t talk.”
CHAPTER 54
PAULING SAID, “THAT’S absurd. Lane wouldn’t employ anyone who can’t talk. Why would he? And nobody mentioned it. You asked about Taylor several times. They said he was a good soldier. They didn’t say he was a good soldier except he can’t talk. They’d have mentioned that little detail, don’t you think?”
“Two words,” Reacher said. “All we need to do is add two words and the whole thing makes perfect sense.”
“What two words?”
“We’ve been saying the guy can’t talk. Truth is, he can’t afford to talk.”
Pauling paused a long moment.
Then she said: “Because of his accent.”
Reacher nodded. “Exactly. All along we’ve been saying nobody was missing, but by definition Taylor was missing from the start. And Taylor was behind this whole damn thing. He planned it, and he set it up, and he executed it. He rented the apartment and he bought the chair. He probably did other stuff we didn’t catch up with yet. And everywhere he went, he couldn’t risk opening his mouth. Not even once. Because he’s English. Because of his accent. He was realistic. He knew he had to be leaving a trail. And if whoever was tracking him came along later and heard all about an average-looking forty-year-old man with an English accent, they would have made him in a second. It would have been a total no-brainer. Who else would anyone have thought of? Because he was the last one to see Kate and Jade alive.”
“He did the same thing as Knight, five years ago. That’s how the takedown worked.”
“Exactly,” Reacher said again. “It’s the only way to explain it. Possibly he drove them to Bloomingdale’s but certainly he didn’t stop there. He just pulled a gun and kept on going. Maybe threatened to shoot Kate in front of the kid. That would have kept her quiet. Then he just dropped off the radar and started relying on a kind of double alibi he had created for himself. First, he was presumed dead. And second, all anyone would ever remember of him was a guy that couldn’t speak. A guy with no tongue. It was a perfect piece of misdirection. Weird, exotic, absolutely guaranteed to get us chasing off in the wrong direction.”
Pauling nodded. “Brilliant, in a way.”
“It was all anyone remembered,” Reacher said. “Like that old Chinese man? All he really recalled was the way the guy gulped like a fish. And the super on Sixth Avenue? We said, tell us about the guy, and he said he keeps his mouth tight shut all the time because he’s embarrassed that he can’t talk. That was the beginning and the end of his description. The obvious thing and the only thing. Everything else was trivial by comparison.”
“Open the envelope,” Pauling said. “Confirm it.”
So Reacher lifted the envelope’s flap and slid the two photographs out, facedown. He tapped the back of the top picture like a cardsharp looking for luck.
Then he flipped it over.
It was the guy he had seen twice before.
No question about it.
Taylor.
White, a little sunburned, lean, chiseled, clean-shaven, jaw clamped, not smiling, maybe forty years old. Blue jeans, blue shirt, blue ball cap, white sneakers. All the clothing worn and comfortable. It was clearly a very recent shot. Patti Joseph had caught him coming out of the Dakota one late-summer morning. It looked like he had paused on the sidewalk and lifted his gaze to check the weather. By doing so he had met the angle of Patti’s long Nikon lens perfectly.
“No doubt about it,” Reacher said. “That’s the guy I saw getting into the Mercedes and the Jaguar.”
He turned the second picture over. It was a closer shot. Maximum zoom, and therefore not quite as clear. There was a little camera shake. The focus wasn’t perfect. But it was a viable photograph. Same location, same angle, different day. Same guy. But this time his mouth was open. His lips were drawn back. He wasn’t smiling. Maybe he was just grimacing against the sudden glare of the sun after stepping out of the
dark Dakota lobby. He had terrible teeth. Some were missing. The rest were gappy and uneven.
“There you go,” Reacher said. “There’s another reason. No wonder everyone told us he kept his mouth clamped shut all the time. He’s not dumb. He was concealing two pieces of evidence at the same time, not just one. His English accent, and his British dentistry. Because that’s really a no-brainer. Someone from Lane’s crew hears about a Brit with bad teeth? It would have been like wearing a nametag around his neck.”
“Where is he now? England?”
“That’s my guess. He flew home, where he feels safe.”
“With the money?”
“Checked luggage. Three bags.”
“Could he do that? With all the X-rays?”
“I don’t see why not. I once had a lesson about paper money from an expert. Right here in New York City, as a matter of fact. At Columbia University. The paper isn’t really paper, as such. It’s mostly linen and cotton fibers. More in common with the shirt on your back than a newspaper. I think it would show up like clothing on an X-ray machine.”
Pauling slid the photographs across the table and butted them together side by side in front of her. Looked at one, looked at the other. Reacher sensed her running through an explanation in her head. An analysis. A narrative.
“He’s tan from the Hamptons,” she said. “He was there all summer with the family. And then he was worried about someone checking his apartment from the street, afterward. That’s why he took the lightbulb out of the guest room and covered the window. The place had to look empty, if anyone ever checked.”
“He was very thorough.”
“And very unsentimental. He walked away from that great apartment.”
“He can rent ten apartments now.”
“That’s for sure.”
“It’s a shame,” Reacher said. “I liked him when I thought he was dead. Everyone spoke well of him.”
“I wouldn’t take recommendations from those guys.”
“I guess not. But I usually like Brits. Gregory seems OK.”
Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16] Page 401
