by Diane Capri
No cop wants to get himself into a position where he’d need to take the fifth amendment in response to questions on a criminal witness stand. He certainly didn’t want to find himself out of work or behind bars.
But Shaw knew a lot more about Reacher than he was telling. Too bad Gaspar wasn’t here so she could place a bet on it.
She narrowed her eyes. “What did Reacher do that no one filed a complaint about?”
“We’re a small department. We don’t have the manpower to follow every visitor to be sure they’re not provoked into fistfights with offensive offspring of prominent citizens,” he replied with a shrug as he sopped up the last of the beef stew. “Especially if no complaint is filed, there’s no witnesses who will testify, and we can’t prove it ever happened.”
Kim nodded. “So how do you handle that kind of situation?”
“How would we handle it, if we found out about it, you mean?” Shaw asked, raising his eyebrows. “We’d tell the visitor to leave town before the situation had a chance to escalate, probably.”
“I see.” Kim cocked her head. “These hypothetical visitors usually take that advice, do they?”
“One hundred percent of the time,” he replied. “We don’t want any trouble. We avoid it when we can.”
“What if they don’t leave? Then what?”
“Dunno. Rarely happens.” He shrugged again. Then he raised his head and pointed his gaze behind Kim. “Agent Smithers is on his way over. He’s walking a bit carefully, but he looks okay.”
She turned to see for herself as he approached the table. “What did the doctors say?”
“Battered, not dead,” Smithers’s deep bass mimicked super spy James Bond’s martini ordered shaken, not stirred. He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat with his legs wide and his arms resting on the back. “I could eat a horse, though. That burger any good?”
Shaw stood and patted Smithers’ shoulder. “No wait staff here, I’m afraid. Let me get you a burger. I’ll be right back.”
Smithers watched Shaw walk away before he asked, “What’s up with him?”
“He’s worried about Amos,” Kim replied. “What did the docs say about your injuries?”
“I got lucky. Nothing broken. No stitches or anything like that. I’ll be bruised and sore for a couple of weeks.” He paused. “They’re doing blood cultures and such, in case the bear had any communicable diseases I need to worry about. Results will take a few days. But the docs signed off. I’m going to San Diego.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Guess I’m flying out of Boston tomorrow. Mid-morning.”
“I’ll get us transportation to Logan,” he said just as Shaw delivered his dinner. He asked, “How’s Amos? She gonna be okay?”
“She just came out of surgery. She’s got a long recovery ahead, but she’s going to be fine,” Shaw said, as if the weight of the universe had fallen from his shoulders. He looked at both of his dinner companions and said, “Tell me what you know about the motel fire.”
Kim shook his hand. “Thanks for dinner, Shaw. Smithers can catch you up on the fire. I need to get back.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday, February 26
5:45 p.m.
Manchester, New Hampshire
The drive to Manchester was uneventful. Owen, an experienced driver, was behind the wheel. Even as the blizzard conditions increased, he maneuvered the SUV surely and without mishap, following Trevor’s directions.
They pulled into a budget chain hotel that advertised free Wi-Fi and free breakfast. Which meant no restaurant and no bar. The last thing Trevor wanted tonight was a bunch of drunks hanging around, poking into his business. Owen found a place to park away from the front entrance to avoid prying eyes.
“Get two rooms. We’ll wait here.” Trevor said. He handed Owen a new credit card and a counterfeit Tennessee driver’s license with a false name and Owen’s photo. After tonight, the false identification and the card would be destroyed.
Owen left the SUV and walked into the hotel. Oscar sat quietly in the back. Trevor located a burner phone and fired it up.
The phone’s screen showed a special icon. His investigator had forwarded an encrypted file to a covert email address on an encrypted satellite server. Trevor retrieved the file using a single-use mixed-character password.
The investigator, known to Trevor only as Sam, had located the corporate owner of the destroyed motel. Or at least, he had located the officers and directors who were responsible for the offshore corporation’s activities.
Sam reported that digging up the information had taken quite a while, partly because the corporation had been dissolved for failure to file annual reports and pay appropriate fees and taxes. Which meant the corporation was inactive and its assets had been seized by the offshore bank that held them.
Trevor scanned Sam’s list of names and did not recognize them. If Trevor’s partner had done business with these guys in the past, Trevor knew nothing about those activities. The uncertainties continued to mount, increasing the pressure to find Casper Lange as soon as possible.
Trevor read the list of names again, and this time scanned the brief biographical data included on the summary page. One name stood out because the man’s birthplace was listed as Laconia, New Hampshire.
Mark Reacher.
There was nothing unusual about the name and Trevor was certain he’d never heard it before.
But the connection to Laconia was a lead he couldn’t ignore. People often returned to their places of origin. They came for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, the reason was nothing more than simple curiosity about their heritage.
Trevor had wondered why anyone would own that run-down motel in the middle of nowhere. As a business location, that one was worse than most. Casual tourists would never find the place. Customer acquisition costs had to be through the roof on a destination like that.
In short, the venture was doomed to fail. No experienced businessman would have chosen to place a startup there. Something that tied one of the corporation’s officers to Laconia might have been enough to explain why Trevor’s partner had gone there instead of some other place.
Sam’s full report included short dossiers and photos for each of the corporation’s officers and directors. Trevor flipped to the relevant section. Mark Reacher had left Laconia at least ten years before, when he’d graduated from high school. His parents died in a car crash five years later.
Reacher’s only brother, David Reacher, was also recently deceased. Cancer. Trevor shook his head and spoke aloud in the empty room, “These Reachers seem to have short lifespans, don’t they?”
In Trevor’s experience, law-abiding people with low-risk jobs and lifestyles residing in first world countries with access to health care lived to reasonable ages. But some people were simply prone to bad luck and trouble. The Reachers might be like that.
The report listed three surviving Reachers in the area who might have been related to Mark. One was an old man. The other two were Mark’s sister-in-law and nephew.
The report listed last known addresses for all three, along with photos and short background reports on each.
Trevor might have assigned another investigator to approach the three remaining Reachers in Laconia, but it would be faster and probably more productive to do the work himself. Time was short. If he didn’t find Lange soon, his problems would become insurmountable.
Trevor added the remaining Reachers to the list of things he planned to handle tomorrow.
Owen returned to the SUV with key cards for the two rooms he’d booked.
Oscar piped up from the back seat, “Any chance we can get a bite to eat before we pack it in for the night?”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll eat, then make a couple of stops before we come back here,” Trevor replied as he gave Owen new driving directions. “We need to get an early start in the morning. We’ll head out just before dawn.”
Owen rolled the SUV out of the parking lot and turned
right, as instructed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Saturday, February 26
8:15 p.m.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Jake stretched the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, realizing how tired he was from sitting behind the wheel so long. The weather had improved, and many flat surfaces were no longer covered with snow. He flipped the satellite radio off to enjoy some silence.
He hadn’t seen Julia or any other hitchhikers from the time he left Syracuse until he noticed the sign announcing Cincinnati city center only fifty miles ahead.
Along the way, he’d stopped for breakfast, to buy gas, and take a couple of toilet breaks. He was more than a bit surprised to find he’d left five states behind already. The Jeep was covering more miles at a faster clip than he’d expected.
Drive time so far had been slightly under fifteen hours. Not quite half the distance to California. If he kept going now, he’d cross the Ohio River into Kentucky.
As he’d covered the miles toward Cincinnati, he’d noticed more highway signs for local businesses. Temperatures had been steadily warming along the roads south from Buffalo, but fifty degrees was too cold to hang out on anybody’s rooftop bar, no matter how inviting it looked on the billboards.
He’d seen a sign for a lager house on the Ohio side of the river with a big cozy fireplace and some greasy bar food to go with the beer. Both of which sounded good. He’d almost decided to stop there when he saw the billboard for a sports bar he’d heard about from his fraternity brothers. It was a slightly seedy place in an even seedier part of town, but they said the burgers were the best in town.
Burgers, big, cheap, and good, were Jake’s favorite food, especially when he was famished and paying his own way.
The billboard was one of those electronic ones that changed its display every minute or two. The next place it advertised was a hotel and casino, not far from the burger place.
The casino helped him decide. He’d stay the night in Ohio. He’d have a couple of burgers, a couple of beers, and maybe play a little poker. Tomorrow, he’d drive on to the Corvette museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky.
Food. Poker. Bed. Perfect.
He punched the name of the casino into his GPS and followed the directions, keeping a lookout for a cheap hotel nearby. He didn’t have money to burn yet. Not until after the poker game.
Jake had developed a strong poker face and he had a talent for counting cards. Nothing like as good as those MIT guys who ripped off Vegas. But he was good enough to win some extra walking around money every weekend while he was at Dartmouth. Some of his winnings were financing this trip. But he’d need more money to get all the way to California.
The exit for the Last Chance Casino was well marked and the GPS routed him to the parking lot. He drove on to the brew pub, two blocks away. A low rent hotel with a flashing vacancy sign was half a block down the street.
Like a lot of casinos he’d been to, the area around this one wasn’t that great. Derelict buildings complete with homeless junkies of various kinds were bookended at the street corners by liquor stores and convenience stores sporting heavy iron bars on the windows.
He figured the hotel would fill up later, so he stopped and rented a room, which he didn’t bother to preview. No need to. He wasn’t moving to any of the better places no matter what the room was like.
Bed was solved. Food next. Then poker.
He left his Jeep in the parking lot and walked to the sports bar. He turned his collar up and pulled his gloves on, leaving his arms and hands free. Junkies and thugs looking for an easy mark wouldn’t be foolish enough to assault him. Which didn’t mean he’d give them any extra incentives, like walking around with his hands in his pockets.
The sports bar’s parking lot was full. Locals wandered in and out at a steady clip. Jake stood in a short line for a couple of minutes before he reached the entrance and followed the crowd inside.
The noise was deafening. Bodies three deep were pushed together at the bar and people were leaning against the walls. The tables were all full. Three waitresses were walking around taking orders, collecting cash, and delivering beer in pint glasses and long-necked bottles.
Jake noticed an opening against the north wall and slid in behind the man who vacated it. One of the waitresses came by and leaned close enough to hear his answer when she shouted, “What’ll you have?”
She was slender but sturdy. Dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a blue striped shirt, she was plain but pretty enough for any bar rat in the place. Jake guessed she was about five-six. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a bright blue streak running its full length.
He asked for a pint of stout and a table. He gave her a twenty dollar bill for the beer, which covered a nice tip and his reservation when a table opened up. The ploy worked. When she came back with his beer, she gestured toward the center of the crowded room to a two-top vacated moments before.
He ordered two burgers and fries and another stout before she could rush away. Then he savored the first beer while he studied the crowd and waited for his food.
The bar’s patrons were mostly sports fans. He could tell because they were cheering the Cincinnati Reds against the Pittsburgh Pirates while their attention was glued to blaring television screens mounted at the ceiling’s corners.
Jake liked baseball at least as well as the next guy, but he had no interest in watching a mediocre game replayed from last season. Only a serious Reds fan would do that, even if the game had been a record breaking blowout. Pirate fans wouldn’t be interested since their team lost. And cheering for the Pirates here could be enough to start a nasty fight, which he didn’t have the time for.
About a dozen of the patrons were men of a certain age with short haircuts who carried themselves distinctively. Posture perfectly straight. Fully occupying the space around them with extreme confidence. Casual clothes were carefully chosen to help them blend, and failed.
Everything about them screamed off-duty military.
No question in Jake’s mind. He knew a lot about military men. He recognized the signs.
The waitress brought his food and his second beer. One of the loudmouth drunks grabbed her forearm and swung her around.
“Where’s my beer, Lucy?” he shouted in her face. The guy was tall and lanky, wiry and almost frail. He looked like he didn’t eat much. Any man in the place could have doubled him over with a solid gut punch.
Jake stood up and laid a heavy hand on the drunk’s shoulder.
The guy shrugged from Jake’s grip and gave him a heavy scowl. “Piss off, pal. I’m talkin’ to my girl.”
He tugged the waitress’s arm and she winced. Jake put his big paw on the guy’s shoulder again, gripped it hard enough to leave bruises, and leaned close to be heard.
“It only takes the right pressure in the right place for me to snap your collarbone, dude. One quick strike will do the job. Ever had that happen? Let me tell you, it hurts like a sonofabitch. Takes a while to heal, too.” Jake gave the guy’s collarbone a harder squeeze to make his point.
The guy’s eyes went wild. He dropped the waitress’s arm and stepped away from Jake as if he’d seen a rabid animal. Perhaps he had. Jake continued to glare at him until he backed away and blended into the crowd.
Lucy rubbed her sore arm. “I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got a kid. I need the money. All it takes is the right spark in here and we’ll have a brawl. Cops will shut us down.”
“No problem.” He gave her a fifty to cover his bill.
“Thanks,” she said, but her voice was drowned out by the cheers when the Reds hit another grand slam. Not too surprising since the Reds hitters delivered plenty of grand slams last season but still managed to have one of the worst records in baseball.
When the cheers died down, Lucy had moved to take drink orders from guys standing along the wall again. The scrawny guy was long gone or hiding out in the men’s room or something.
Jake finished his bur
gers, drained his second beer, and left the pub during the next round of ear-splitting cheers by the Reds fans. He pushed his way past people clogging the doorway to get inside. When he crossed the threshold, the relative silence of Saturday evening traffic was a palpable thing.
Outside, a couple of drunks were arguing over an empty parking space. Two others had slipped and landed on the snow, unable or unwilling to get back up again. The combination of soldiers, beer, and sports was likely to generate conflict every time. He’d engaged in it himself enough to know. Some damage might be done. The cops could show up. Maybe a couple of Muhammad Ali wannabes would end up with stitches and black eyes. But mostly, the soldiers were blowing off steam before they headed back to the base.
Darkness had fallen while Jake was inside the bar. Most of the dingy streetlights were operational, casting cones of yellow bright enough to locate the sidewalks.
Jake dodged the drunks and ambled toward the casino in search of a good poker game. Meaning a game he could win with stakes high enough to make the win worthwhile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Saturday, February 26
5:35 p.m.
Siesta Beach, California
Patty Sandstrom looked left and right along the beach as she finished with her new windsurfing student and they returned the equipment to the racks behind the shop. The student seemed to have natural ability for the sport and had scheduled another lesson next week. She’d be a source of revenue for a few weeks, at least. But Patty’s attention had been distracted by this morning’s visitor.
Knowing he was watching, she’d felt oddly both more and less secure while she’d left Shorty in charge of the shop for the past two hours.
