by Diane Capri
“Wide selection here,” Gaspar said. “We can get our burgers with or without cheese. Or our cheese with or without burgers.”
“I didn’t take you for a vegetarian,” Kim said, and the waitress returned with the coffee. “What do you recommend, Mary? And can you leave the pot?”
Mary’s name was embroidered on her breast pocket. She seemed pleased that Kim had noticed and made the effort. She set the coffee pot down. She said, “I’d have the burger with cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Fries are good, if you like the crispy thin ones. Dill pickles.”
“Sold,” Kim said.
“Make it two,” Gaspar said.
“Be about fifteen minutes while I get it ready,” Mary told them, taking their menus and heading back to the kitchen to do the cooking.
“Low margin operation,” Gaspar said. He took the sugar jar and tipped it to pour about two ounces of sugar into the eight ounce cup. Kim wondered how he was going to get half a cup of cream in there, too. She took out her personal smart phone and saw a surprisingly strong signal, considering their location. She brought up a search engine. Typed “Major Jack Reacher” with one thumb. Waited for the search to complete.
“Figured it out yet?” Gaspar asked.
“Figured what out?”
“When exactly Black was shot.”
“Have you?”
“He’s not God. He doesn’t know everything.”
She blinked, shook her head quickly as if to clear the fog inside. “What?”
“How fast does the boss think?”
“Pretty damn fast,” Kim said.
“Exactly. Therefore Black was killed around three this morning. The boss put a plan in place and called us at four, so we’d be here when the call came in.”
“How did he delay the nine-one-one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he need us here at all?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the brains of the outfit. I thought we had established that already.”
Kim’s smart phone pinged. She looked at the screen for the results of her search. Nothing. She tried “Jack Reacher, U.S. Army,” and pressed search again.
She asked, “What else do you know?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. I know what you know. I got a call. Told to fly to Atlanta, meet you, drive to Margrave. I got encrypted files identical to the four you got, I think, but you’re welcome to read them for yourself. The last one is about you. Name, rank, and serial number. And I’m guessing your last one is the same about me. The assignment is build the Reacher file for some secret project and keep it under the radar. I’m number two, you’re number one. Interview Chief Roscoe first, get to her before eleven thirty a.m. Met you at the airport. We’ve been together ever since. That’s it.”
Her phone pinged again. Still no results. She tried one more time, “Reacher, Jack,” and the phone pinged once more. No results. Reacher was a ghost. He didn’t exist. Or her equipment was faulty. She thought about it a couple of seconds and tried a name belonging to an actual flesh and blood person she had seen with her own eyes: Beverly Roscoe.
She asked, “So is this whole Reacher thing a distraction?”
“It would be a very elaborate decoy, wouldn’t you say? Four files, and a guy we actually can’t find?”
“And the dead cop? The one with the killer-pretty wife wearing designer duds and packing pricey luggage? Is he the elaborate decoy instead?”
“He can’t be.”
“So how are they connected, Einstein?”
“I’d say ‘you tell me,’ but given the Vietnamese Inquisition here, I’m guessing you don’t know either. Right?”
She’d pushed, he shoved. Best defense is strong offense. Typical man. Good. Reactions she understood made her trust him a little more. She’d have been pissed off in his place, but she’d have concealed her anger, which was much more sensible.
Mary chose that moment to deliver two overflowing blue melamine platters. Kim felt the heat of the food rise up to her face and the mouth-watering aroma started her stomach growling again. “This looks amazing,” she said.
Mary stood by while Kim and Gaspar examined their meals. Kim pressed the bun, delighted by its freshness. Mary might have just baked it. Burgers juicy, lettuce crisp, ripe tomato as thick as a slice of bread, and a thick raw onion slice she’d remove when Mary turned her back. Plenty of calories to sustain Kim for a week.
“I added the Vidalia. You would have ordered it if you were from around here. You can take it off, but after you taste it, you won’t want to,” Mary told them, displaying obvious pride in her creation. “Try mustard on the fries. That’s the way I like ’em. Save room for pie. Lemon ice box. Made it this morning. Can I freshen your coffee?”
Once she had them settled with their food to her satisfaction, Mary said, “I’m sorry to say this, but we close at three.” She pointed to a round clock above the soda machine behind the counter. It was showing 2:40. “Normally I could stay later, but I’ve got to pick up my boy this afternoon. His daddy can’t make it and I can’t leave him by himself. I don’t mean to rush you, though. Y’all let me know if you need anything else.”
“We’ll do that,” Gaspar said.
Kim watched Mary’s reflection as she retreated to her stool near the kitchen where she pulled a yellow pencil from behind her ear and returned to her newspaper puzzle.
“German inquisition,” she said.
Gaspar looked up from his food. “What?”
“I’m no more Vietnamese than you are.”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Born and raised right here in the U.S. of A. One hundred percent American.”
“Me, too. So what? I’m still Cuban. And proud of it.”
“Sure. I get that. That’s my point. I’m still German. Too bad for you. Germans are a lot more stubborn than Vietnamese. We’re more focused, too.”
“I noticed.”
She said, “Mary’s right about the Vidalia onion, though. Fair warning: I’m eating it.”
“Me, too,” he said, and shrugged, as if they were stuck with each other and might as well make the best of it. Mary came back with two slices of lemon pie, a fresh pot of coffee and a new set of issues. “I’m sorry about the rush. If I could stay, I’d do it, really I would. But I just can’t. I brought you the pie on the house to make up for being so rude. And I brought cups if you want to take the coffee to go. Here’s your check,” she said. “I wouldn’t even charge you, but I’d get fired if my boss found out. I hope y’all don’t mind.” Mary’s apology, like everything else about her, was excessive but genuine.
“No worries,” Kim said. “Really. We’ve got to get on the road, anyway.”
Gaspar pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Number Two pays and keeps the expense records. More paperwork Kim didn’t have to do. She was getting to like being Number One. Gaspar rooted around and unearthed a damp, tri-folded hundred from under the billfold flap.
He said, “I’m sorry. I thought I had something smaller, but my kids must have raided my wallet again.” He flattened the hundred, laid it on top of the check, and handed both to Mary. “It’s old, but it’s still good. I hope you have change?”
Mary stared at the Franklin as if he’d handed her a dead frog or maybe a live snake. Her face transformed from apologetic to confused to shocked. She squinted out the window checking the parking lot. Only two vehicles were there: the Traverse they’d arrived in and the green Saturn, presumably hers. Both were engulfed in the continuing monsoon.
“Something wrong?” Gaspar asked.
“I’m not supposed to make change for a hundred,” Mary said so quietly Kim could barely hear her.
“I can give you a credit card if you want, but it seems silly to do that for a twelve dollar lunch tab.” His voice trailed off when he, too, noticed Mary was close to panic.
What the hell?
Kim wiped the mustard and salt off her fingers with her napkin
, reached into her pocket, and took out a twenty she’d gotten from the ATM in Atlanta. She handed it to Mary. “Here. Use this. He can pay me back later.”
“That’s great. I’ll be right back.” Mary took the twenty, pinching both bills and the check between thumb and forefinger, and rushed off to the kitchen.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Gaspar asked.
“Maybe she closed the register already. It’s 2:58, according to their clock.” Kim drank coffee while they waited for Mary’s return with the change. Gaspar remained alert. For what, Kim couldn’t say.
Mary didn’t come back.
Gaspar said quietly, “There’s something happening here.”
Kim looked up, saw nothing new in the mirror. “Where?”
“GHP cruiser in the lot. Two guys inside, not one. Roscoe said GHP rides one to a car unless they need back up.”
Kim looked outside and watched the GHP car park between the Traverse and the diner’s door. “Maybe they don’t know the place closes at three.”
Both officers exited the car. Burly. At least 6’3” and 250 pounds each. Either end of any decent college football team was smaller. They moved through the rain side by side like they had a purpose. Each one held a shotgun.
Gaspar said, “I’m guessing they’re not here for the Vidalia onions.”
“Probably not.”
“Less than ten seconds. Are you ready?” Gaspar asked.
She set her cup down. Wiped her hands. Put her napkin on the table. She noticed she’d never picked up her phone after the last internet search and she couldn’t remember whether she’d checked the results. No time for that now. She positioned the phone in the breast pocket of her jacket and pressed the application button to record and send video to the remote FBI server, just in case.
“I’ll lead. I’d rather not shoot anybody today,” she said, looking out the window. The twin towers seemed to glide through the rain curtain as if a moving sidewalk carried them relentlessly forward instead of their feet.
Gaspar placed both of his hands on the table top, in full view. She did the same. He asked, “Have you ever shot anybody?”
Kim didn’t answer. She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Only the trick of reflection and perspective made them seem to grow larger with each step, right?
The two men entered the diner single file out of necessity. No way two sets of those shoulders could pass through the door frame at the same time, even without the shotguns.
At the T, they peeled off. One moved toward the kitchen; the other approached, shotgun raised and ready. He stopped across the tile directly parallel to their table, set his legs shoulder width apart as if he was bracing to shoot. He stood out of reach, but left space for Kim and Gaspar to exit the booth and stand. Which they did. Slowly. Hands in the air, palms out. Before being asked.
“Officer…Leach,” Kim said, facing him because of the camera in her pocket, reading his name plate for the audio, like she’d been trained. “Do you know who we are?”
Leach said nothing, which was not normal law enforcement procedure anywhere.
“I’ve got I.D. in my pocket,” Kim said. “I’m going to pull it out and show it to you. OK?” The guy nodded. Once. Kim said, “I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t shoot me.” She kept her left hand raised, and reached slowly into her pocket with her right and pulled out her ID wallet. She showed him her badge and her photograph.
He looked. Said nothing. Kept the shotgun steady.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Otto,” Kim said. “This is my partner, FBI Special Agent Gaspar. Would you like to see his ID too?”
Leach nodded once. Gaspar repeated Kim’s actions. Leach repeated his.
“What’s this about?” Kim asked him.
He said nothing.
“You are holding a federal officer at gunpoint, sir. You realize that? What you’re doing is a federal crime. Do you understand?”
Leach kept his eyes open, his mouth shut, and his shotgun pointed.
What the hell?
Kim looked over at Gaspar and he shrugged as if to say, “Now what?”
According to the diner’s clock, four minutes had passed since Gaspar noticed the GHP unit in the lot outside. Her arms were tired. She’d never actually been ordered to raise them, so she lowered them again. Gaspar did the same thing. Leach showed no reaction. He just stood there, braced, shotgun pointed, staring, silent. Everybody waited. For what, she didn’t know.
Six minutes later, the second GHP officer emerged from the kitchen and strode down the aisle. He stopped two steps north of the first guy. His name tag said Leach, too. Brothers?
The second one did the talking.
He said, “Can I see your identification, please?”
“What is this about, Officer Leach?” Kim asked him. When he didn’t reply immediately, to make a clear audio record at the very least, she said, “We are FBI agents. Why are you holding us at gunpoint? What is going on here?”
He stood with his hand out, palm up. They handed the wallets to him. He took them, read them, refolded them. “If my dispatch says you check out, you can be on your way. It’ll take a minute, if you want to sit down.”
“What’s this about?” Kim asked, and was ignored, for the third time.
“Finish your pie. Mary makes great pie.” He took the ID wallets and returned to the cruiser. Rain settled on the brim of his hat while he opened the driver’s door, before pouring onto the ground when he ducked his mass to enter the vehicle. He left the cruiser’s door open while he used the radio.
The first Officer Leach remained in position, shotgun pointed. Looked like a Browning A-5, weighing about eight pounds. Even if he could bench press 80% of his body weight, his arms had to be getting fatigued by now. Yet the shotgun didn’t waver.
No one sat. No one ate pie. They waited. About ten minutes later, the second Officer Leach returned. He handed their ID wallets back.
“It’s OK,” he said to his partner. “You can put the gun down.”
The first Officer Leach lowered the shotgun.
“Will you tell us what’s going on now?” Kim asked again.
The second Officer Leach’s manner was professional and matter-of-fact. “Everything checks out with you two. GHP is aware of you now. We’ve got your rental in the system. We’ll be able to find you, wherever you are. You understand?”
“Mary needs to close up,” Leach continued. “She’s already late for her boy. She’ll feel better if we wait for her. So you two run along now.”
“Sure, no problem,” Gaspar said, hostility apparent. He gestured for Kim to precede him. They exited the diner, made it to the Traverse through the ceaseless rain. Gaspar unlocked the doors and settled behind the wheel and started the ignition. Kim bent inside the vehicle, reached into her bag and pulled out her camera. She ignored the deluge to snap pictures of the GHP cruiser, its plate, and both Officer Leaches. The burly brothers were braced side by side, facing the parking lot, watching through the windows. Mary stood dwarfed between them.
Before Kim entered the Traverse, she opened the hatch and pulled out her laptop case. She stowed it on the front floor, then climbed into the navigator’s seat.
“What the hell do you suppose all of that was about?” Gaspar spoke first, after he flipped on the heat, and pointed the Traverse’s nose toward the exit.
“You’re asking me?” she said, teeth chattering with cold and receding adrenaline. “I’m thinking this entire day is a crazy nightmare caused by too much schnapps.”
“Yeah, well, easy for you to say. You’re not out a hundred bucks.”
“Plus the eight dollars change from my twenty, that’s the best tip Mary’s had this week, I’m sure.”
He scowled at her. At the driveway’s exit, he asked, “Which way, Ace? Margrave or Atlanta?”
“I’m pretty tired of Margrave right at the moment. How about you?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He turned the Traverse north and headed for the Inte
rstate. Their wet clothes coupled with the Traverse’s blasting heat put fog on every inside window. Gaspar reached over to flip on the defroster. Cold air blew hard across the windshield and Kim started to shiver again.
“You could have asked for your hundred back, you know,” she told him, huddled into her wet jacket as far away from the blasting defroster as she could move.
“Oh, I’ll get my hundred back. Don’t you worry. Cubans are not as harmless as we look.”
#
“Drugs,” Gaspar said, after they’d put ten minutes of pavement behind them. “Meth, most likely. Black must have been dealing, at least. Maybe cooking, too.”
Kim took her phone out to check she’d terminated the recording application, and remembered her aborted internet search.
Gaspar said, “They’ve had a couple of big drug busts around here. I told you I’d been to Margrave before. I was on two busts that took down some Mexican cartel cocaine. Meth is a big problem in rural areas, too. More likely to be Meth.”
“Makes sense.” Kim pulled out her laptop. She didn’t need a secure connection now. Just normal service would do it. She opened a search engine, typed in “Beverly Roscoe,” and waited.
“Am I boring you?”
“Germans can do two things at once, Agent Gaspar,” she said. He laughed and some of the tension in her shoulders melted. “Drugs; meth; cooking; dealing. See? I was listening.”
“The place was too empty. Roscoe said Black had lived there twenty-five years. Even the most diligent minimalist would accumulate more stuff than that place had in it over that length of time.”
“You’re thinking someone ripped him off? Took everything out of the house before we got there?” The signal was weak and intermittent at first. She lost the connection a couple of times before one caught and held.
Gaspar continued, almost as if he was thinking aloud. “The guy who beat the crap out of that mailbox was having some fit of rage. Could have been a meth head. Hard to work up that level of frenzy otherwise.”
“True.” The search engine returned a surprisingly long list of articles containing Roscoe’s name. Several pages. Each page had to load individually, and the loading was slow.
