The Essential Jack Reacher 10-Book Bundle
Page 80
“Mrs. Kramer is dead. That isn’t a guess.”
“The rest of it is.”
“Marshall is thirty-one, never been married.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing.”
“I know,” I said. “I know. There’s no proof anywhere. Proof is a scarce commodity right now.”
Summer was quiet for a beat. “Then what happened?”
“Then Vassell and Coomer and Marshall started the hunt for the briefcase in earnest. They had an advantage over us because they knew they were looking for a man, not a woman. Marshall flew back to Germany on the second and searched Kramer’s office and his quarters. He found something that led to Carbone. Maybe a diary, or a letter, or a photograph. Or a name or a number in an address book. Whatever. He flew back on the third and they made a plan and they called Carbone. They blackmailed him. They set up a swap for the next night. The briefcase for the letter or the photograph or whatever it was. Carbone accepted the deal. He was happy to because he didn’t want exposure and anyway he had already called Brubaker with the details of the agenda. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Maybe he’d been through the process before. Maybe more than once. Poor guy had been gay in the army for sixteen years. But this time it didn’t work out for him. Because Marshall killed him during the exchange.”
“Marshall? Marshall wasn’t even there.”
“He was,” I said. “You figured it out yourself. You told me about it when we were leaving the post to go see Detective Clark about the crowbar. Remember? When Willard was chasing me on the phone? You made a suggestion.”
“What suggestion?”
“Marshall was in the trunk of the car, Summer. Coomer was driving, Vassell was in the passenger seat, and Marshall was in the trunk. That’s how they got past the gate. Then they backed in at the far end of the O Club lot. Backed in, because Coomer popped the trunk before he got out. Marshall held the lid down low, but they still needed concealment. Then Vassell and Coomer went inside and started to build their cast-iron alibis. Meanwhile Marshall waits almost two hours in the trunk, holding the lid, until it’s all quiet. Then he climbs out and he drives off. That’s why the first night patrol remembers the car and the second patrol doesn’t. The car was there, and then it wasn’t. So Marshall picks Carbone up at some prearranged spot and they drive out to the woods together. Carbone is holding the briefcase. Marshall opens the trunk and gives Carbone an envelope or something. Carbone turns away into the moonlight to check it’s what he’s been promised. Even a guy as cautious as a Delta soldier would do that. His whole career is on the line. Behind him Marshall comes out with the crowbar and hits him. Not just because of the briefcase. He’s going to get the briefcase anyway. The exchange is working. And Carbone can’t afford to talk afterward. Marshall hits him partly because he’s furious at him. He’s jealous of his time with Kramer. That’s part of why he kills him. Then he retrieves the envelope and grabs the briefcase. Throws them both in the trunk. We know the rest. He’s known all along what he was going to do and he’s come equipped for the misdirection. Then he drives back to the post buildings and ditches the crowbar on the way. He parks the car in the original slot and gets back in the trunk. Vassell and Coomer come out of the O Club and they drive away.”
“And then what?”
“They drive, and they drive. They’re excited and uptight. But they know by then what their blue-eyed boy did to Mrs. Kramer. So they’re also nervous and worried. They can’t find anyplace they can stop where they can let a man who may or may not be bloodstained out of the trunk. First really safe place they find is the rest area an hour north. They park far away from other cars again and let Marshall out. Marshall hands over the briefcase. They resume their journey. They spend sixty seconds searching the briefcase and then they sling it out the window a mile farther on.”
Summer sat quiet. She was thinking. Her lower lids were jacking upward a fraction at a time.
“It’s just a theory,” she said.
“Can you explain what we know any other way?”
She thought about it. Then she shook her head.
“What about Brubaker?” she said.
A voice came out of speakers in the ceiling and told us our flight was ready to board. We picked up our bags and shuffled into line. It was still full dark outside. I counted the other passengers. Hoped there would be some spare seats, so there would be some spare breakfasts. I was very hungry. But it didn’t look good. It was going to be a pretty full flight. I guessed LA’s pull was pretty strong, in January, when you lived in D.C. I guessed people didn’t need much of an excuse to schedule meetings out there.
“What about Brubaker?” Summer said again.
We shuffled down the aisle and found our seats. We had a window and a middle. The aisle was already occupied by a nun. She was old. I hoped her hearing was shot. I didn’t want her eavesdropping. She moved and let us in. I made Summer sit next to her. I sat by the window. Buckled my belt. Kept quiet for a moment. Watched the airport scene outside. Busy guys were doing things under floodlights. Then we pushed back from the gate and started taxiing. There was no takeoff queue. We were in the air within two minutes.
“I’m not sure about Brubaker,” I said. “How did he get in the picture? Did they call him or did he call them? He knew about the agenda thirty minutes into New Year’s Day. A proactive guy like that, maybe he tried a little pressure of his own. Or maybe Vassell and Coomer were just assuming a worst-case scenario. They might have figured a senior NCO like Carbone would have called his boss. So I’m not sure who called who first. Maybe they all called each other at the same time. Maybe there were mutual threats or maybe Vassell and Coomer suggested they could all work together to find a way where everybody benefits.”
“Would that be likely?”
“Who knows?” I said. “These integrated units are going to be weird. Brubaker was certainly going to be popular, because he’s already into weird warfare. So maybe Vassell and Coomer conned him into thinking they were looking for a strategic alliance. Whatever, they all set up a rendezvous for late on the fourth. Brubaker must have specified the location. He must have driven past that spot plenty of times, back and forth from Bird to his golf place. And he must have been feeling confident. He wouldn’t have let Marshall sit behind him if he was worried.”
“How do you know it was Marshall behind him?”
“Protocol,” I said. “He’s a colonel talking to a general and another colonel. He’ll have put Vassell in the front seat and Coomer in the backseat on the passenger’s side so he could turn and see them both. Marshall could be out of sight and out of mind. He was only a major. Who needs him?”
“Did they intend to kill him? Or did it just happen?”
“They intended to, for sure. They had a plan ready. A remote place to dump the body, heroin that Marshall picked up on his overnight in Germany, a loaded gun. So we were right, after all, but purely by accident. The same people that killed Carbone drove straight out the main gate and killed Brubaker. Hardly touched the brakes.”
“Double misdirection,” Summer said. “The heroin thing, and dumping him to the south, not the north.”
“Amateur hour,” I said. “The Columbia medics must have spotted the lividity thing and the muffler burns immediately. Pure dumb luck for Vassell and Coomer that the medics didn’t tell us immediately. Plus, they left Brubaker’s car up north. That was serious brain fade.”
“They must have been tired. Stress, tension, all that driving. They came down from Arlington Cemetery, went back up to Smithfield, came back down to Columbia, went back up to Dulles. Maybe eighteen hours straight. No wonder they made an occasional mistake. But they’d have gotten away with it if you hadn’t ignored Willard.”
I nodded. Said nothing.
“It’s a very weak case,” Summer said. “In fact it’s incredibly weak. It isn’t even circumstantial. It’s just pure speculation.”
“Tell me about it. That’s why we need confessions.”
I heard activity behind me and the stewardess came into view with the breakfasts. She handed one to the nun, and one to Summer, and one to me. It was a pitiful meal. There was cold juice and a hot ham and cheese sandwich. That was all. Coffee later, I assumed. I hoped. I finished everything in about thirty seconds. Summer took about thirty-one. But the nun didn’t touch her tray. She just left it right there in front of her. I nudged Summer in the ribs.
“Ask her if she’s going to eat that,” I said.
“I can’t,” she said.
“She’s got a charitable obligation,” I said. “It’s what being a nun is all about.”
“I can’t,” she said again.
“You can.”
She sighed. “OK, in a minute.”
But she blew it. She waited too long. The nun opened the foil and started to eat the sandwich.
“Damn,” I said.
“Sorry,” Summer said.
I looked at her. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“No, before that. The last thing you said.”
“I said I can’t just ask her.”
I shook my head. “No, before the breakfasts came.”
“I said it’s a very weak case.”
“Before that.”
I saw her rewind the tape in her head. “I said Vassell and Coomer would have gotten away with it if you hadn’t ignored Willard.”
I nodded. Thought about that fact for a minute. Then I closed my eyes.
I opened them again in Los Angeles. The plane touched down and the thump and screech of tires on tarmac woke me up. Then the reverse thrust screamed and the brakes jerked me forward against my belt. It was first light outside. The dawn looked brown, like it often did there. A voice on the PA told us it was seven o’clock in the morning in California. We had been heading west for two solid days and each twenty-four-hour period was averaging more like twenty-eight. I had slept for a while and I didn’t feel tired. But I still felt hungry.
We shuffled off the plane and walked down to the baggage claim. That was where drivers met people. I scanned around. Saw that Calvin Franz hadn’t sent anyone. He had come himself instead. I was happy about that. He was a welcome sight. I felt like we were going to be in good hands.
“I’ve got news for you,” he said.
I introduced him to Summer. He shook her hand and took her bag and carried it. I guessed it was partly a courtly gesture and partly his way of hustling us out to his Humvee a little bit faster. It was parked there in the no-waiting zone. But the cops were staying well away from it. Camouflaged black-and-green Humvees tend to have that effect. We all piled in. I let Summer ride in front. Partly a courtly gesture of my own, and partly because I wanted to sprawl in the back. I was cramped from the plane.
“They found the Grand Marquis,” Franz said.
He gunned the big turbodiesel and moved off the curb. Irwin was just north of Barstow, which was about thirty miles away across the breadth of the city. I figured it would take him about an hour to get us there through the morning traffic. I saw Summer watching how he drove. Professional appraisal in her eyes. It would probably have taken her about thirty-five minutes.
“It was at Andrews,” Franz said. “Dumped there on the fifth.”
“When Marshall was recalled to Germany,” I said.
Franz nodded at the wheel. “That’s what their gate log says. Parked by Marshall with a Transportation Corps reference on the docket. Our guys trailered it to the FBI. Faster that way. They had to call in a few favors. The Bureau worked on it all night. Reluctantly at first, but then they got interested in a big hurry. It seems to be tied in with a case they’re working.”
“Brubaker,” I said.
He nodded again. “The trunk mat had parts of Brubaker on it. Blood and brain matter, to be specific. It had been scrubbed with a paper towel, but not well enough.”
“Anything else?” I said.
“Lots of things. There was blood from a different source, just trace evidence of a transfer smear, maybe from a jacket sleeve or a knife blade.”
“Carbone’s,” I said. “From when Marshall was riding in the trunk afterward. Did they find a knife?”
“No,” Franz said. “But Marshall’s prints are all over the inside of the trunk.”
“They would be,” I said. “He spent several hours in there.”
“There was a single dog tag under the mat,” Franz said. “Like the chain had been broken and one of them had slipped off and gotten away.”
“Carbone’s?” I said.
“None other.”
“Amateur hour,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Mostly normal stuff. It was an untidy car. Lots of hair and fiber, fast-food wrappers, soda cans, stuff like that.”
“Any yogurt pots?”
“One,” Franz said. “In the trunk.”
“Strawberry or raspberry?”
“Strawberry. Marshall’s prints on the foil tab. Seems like he had a snack.”
“He opened it,” I said. “But he didn’t eat it.”
“There was an empty envelope,” Franz said. “Addressed to Kramer at XII Corps in Germany. Airmail, postmarked a year ago. No return address. Like a photo mailer, but it didn’t have anything in it.”
I said nothing. He was looking at me in the mirror.
“Is any of this good news?” he said.
I smiled. “It just moved us up from speculative to circumstantial.”
“A giant leap for mankind,” he said.
Then I stopped smiling and looked away. I started thinking about Carbone, and Brubaker, and Mrs. Kramer. And Mrs. Reacher. All over the world people were dying, in the early part of January 1990.
In the end it took us more than an hour to get to Irwin. I guessed it was true what people said about LA highways. The post looked the same as it usually did. As busy as always. It occupied a huge acreage of the Mojave Desert. One or the other of the armored cavalry regiments lived there on a rotating basis and acted as the home team when other units came in to exercise. There was a real spring-training atmosphere. The weather was always good, people always had fun in the sunshine playing with the big expensive toys.
“You want to take care of business right away?” Franz asked.
“Are you keeping an eye on them?”
He nodded. “Discreetly.”
“So let’s have breakfast first.”
A U.S. Army O Club was the perfect destination for people half-starved on airline food. The buffet was a mile long. Same menu as in Germany, but the orange juice and the fruit platters looked more authentic in California. I ate as much as an average rifle company and Summer ate more. Franz had already eaten. I fueled up on as much coffee as I could take. Then I pushed back from the table. Took a deep breath.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s go do it.”
We went back to Franz’s office and he made a call to his guys. They told him Marshall was already out on the range, but Vassell and Coomer were sitting tight in a VOQ rec room. Franz drove us there in his Humvee. We got out on the sidewalk. The sun was bright. The air was warm and dusty. I could smell all the prickly little desert plants that were growing as far as the eye could see.
Irwin’s VOQ looked like it had been built by the same motel contractor that had gotten the XII Corps contract in Germany. There were rows of identical rooms around a sandy courtyard. On one side was a shared facility. TV rooms, table tennis, lounges. Franz led us in through a door and stepped to one side and we found Vassell and Coomer sitting knee to knee in a pair of leather armchairs. I realized I had seen them only once before, when they came to my office at Bird. That seemed disproportionate, considering how much time I had spent thinking about them.
They were both wearing crisp new BDUs in the revised desert camouflage, the pattern people were calling chocolate
chip. They both looked just as fake as they had in their woodland greens. They still looked like Rotary Club members. Vassell was still bald and Coomer was still wearing eyeglasses.
They both looked up at me.
I took a breath.
Senior officers.
Harassment.
It could be you that goes to jail.
“General Vassell,” I said. “And Colonel Coomer. You are under arrest on a charge of violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice in that you conspired together and with other persons to commit homicide.”
I held my breath.
But neither one of them had a reaction. Neither one of them spoke. They just gave it up. They just looked resigned. Like the other shoe had finally dropped and the inevitable had finally happened. Like they had been expecting this moment from the start. Like they had known for sure it was coming all along. I breathed out. There were supposed to be all kinds of stages in a person’s reaction to bad news. Grief, anger, denial. But these guys were already through all of that. That was clear. They were right there at the end of the process, butted hard up against acceptance.
I cued Summer to complete the formalities. There were all kinds of things from the Uniform Code that you had to spell out. All kinds of advisements and warnings. Summer ran through them better than I would have. Her voice was clear and her manner was professional. Neither Vassell nor Coomer responded at all. No bluster, no pleading, no angry protestations of innocence. They just nodded obediently in all the right places. Got up out of their chairs at the end without even being told.
“Handcuffs?” Summer asked me.
I nodded.
“For sure,” I said. “And walk them to the brig. All the way. Don’t put them in the truck. Let everybody see them. They’re a disgrace.”
I got directions from a cavalry guy and took Franz’s Humvee to go get Marshall. He was supposed to be camped out in a hut near a disused range target, observing. The disused target was described to me as an obsolete Sheridan tank. It was supposed to be fairly beat-up. The hut was supposed to be in better shape and close to the old tank. I was told to stick to the established tracks to avoid unexploded ordnance and desert tortoises. If I ran over the ordnance, I would be killed. If I ran over the tortoises, I would be reprimanded by the Department of the Interior.