The Hard Way

CHAPTER 51

PAULING AND REACHER trooped back through the chocolate shop and were back on the street before eight-thirty in the morning. They were back in Pauling’s office on West 4th before nine.

“We need Brewer now,” Reacher said. “And Patti Joseph.”

“Brewer’s still asleep,” Pauling said. “He works late.”

“Today he’s going to work early. He’s going to get his ass in gear. Because we need a definitive ID on that body from the Hudson River.”

“Taylor?”

“We need to know for certain it’s Taylor. I’m sure Patti has got a photograph of him. I bet she’s got a photograph of everyone who ever went in or out of the Dakota. If she gave a good clear shot to Brewer he could head for the morgue and make the ID for us.”

“Patti’s not our best buddy here. She wants to take Lane down, not help him.”

“We’re not helping him. You know that.”

“I’m not sure Patti sees the difference.”

“All we want is one lousy photograph. She can go that far.”

So Pauling called Patti Joseph. Patti confirmed that she had a file of photographs of all Lane’s men stretching back through the four years that she had occupied the Majestic apartment. At first she was reluctant to grant access to it. But then she saw that a positive ID of Taylor’s body would put some kind of pressure on Lane, either directly or indirectly. So she agreed to pick out the best full-frontal and put it aside for Brewer to collect. Then Pauling called Brewer and woke him up. He was bad-tempered about it but he agreed to pick up the picture. There was an element of self-interest there, too. ID on an as-yet-unexplained DOA would net him some NYPD Brownie points.

“Now what?” Pauling asked.

“Breakfast,” Reacher said.

“Do we have time? Lane is expecting a name today.”

“Today lasts until midnight.”

“What after breakfast?”

“Maybe you’ll want to take a shower.”

“I’m OK. That basement wasn’t too bad.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the basement. I figured we might take coffee and croissants back to your place. Last time we were there we both ended up taking showers.”

Pauling said, “I see.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I know a great croissant shop.”

Two hours later Reacher was drying his hair with a borrowed towel and trying to decide whether or not to back a hunch. In general he wasn’t a big fan of hunches. Too often they were just wild-assed guesses that wasted time and led nowhere. But in the absence of news from Brewer he had time to waste and nowhere to go anyway. Pauling came out of the bedroom looking spectacular. Shoes, stockings, tight skirt, silk blouse, all in black. Brushed hair, light makeup. Great eyes, open, frank, intelligent.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Eleven-thirteen,” he said. “Give or take.”

“Sometime you’re going to have to explain how you do that.”

“If I ever figure it out you’ll be the first to know.”

“Long breakfast,” she said. “But fun.”

“For me, too.”

“What next?”

“We could do lunch.”

“I’m not hungry yet.”

“We could skip the eating part.”

She smiled.

“Seriously,” she said. “We have things to do.”

“Can we go back to your office? There’s something I want to check.”

Barrow Street was quiet but West 4th was busy with the front end of the city’s lunch break envelope. The sidewalks were packed. Reacher and Pauling had to go with the flow, slower than they would have liked. But there was no alternative. Pedestrian traffic gridlocks just the same as automotive traffic. A five-minute walk took ten. The street door below Pauling’s office was already unlocked. Other tenants were open for business and had been for hours. Reacher followed Pauling up the stairs and she used her keys and they stepped into her waiting room. He walked ahead of her into the back office where the bookshelves and the computer were.

“What do you want to check?” she asked.

“The phone book first,” he said. “T for Taylor.”

She hauled the white pages off the shelf and opened it on the desk. There were plenty of Taylors listed. It was a reasonably common name.

She asked, “Initial?”

“No idea,” he said. “Work off the street addresses. Look for private individuals in the West Village.”

Pauling used an optimistic realtor’s definition of the target area and made pencil check marks in the phone book’s margins. She ended up with seven possibilities. West 8th Street, Bank, Perry, Sullivan, West 12th, Hudson, and Waverly Place.

Reacher said, “Start with Hudson Street. Check the city directory and find out what block that address is on.”

Pauling laid the directory over the phone book and slid it down until the top edge of the directory’s jacket underlined the Taylor on Hudson Street. Then she flipped pages and traced the street number to a specific location on a specific block.

She looked up.

“It’s exactly halfway between Clarkson and Leroy,” she said.

Reacher said nothing.

“What’s going on here?”

“Your best guess?”

“The guy with no tongue knew Taylor? Lived with him? Was working with him? Killed him?”

Reacher said nothing.

“Wait,” Pauling said. “Taylor was the inside man, wasn’t he? He stole the valet keys. He stopped the car outside Bloomingdale’s exactly where the other guy wanted him to. You were always worried about the initial takedown. That’s the only way it could have worked.”

Reacher said nothing.

Pauling asked, “Was it really Taylor in the river?”

“We’ll know that as soon as Brewer calls.”

“The boat basin is a long way north of downtown. And downtown is where all the action seems to be.”

“The Hudson is tidal all the way to the Tappan Zee. Technically it’s an estuary, not a river. A floater could drift north as much as south.”

“What exactly is going on here?”

“We’re sweating the details and we’re working the clues. That’s what’s going on here. We’re doing it the hard way. One step at a time. Next step, we go visit the Taylor residence.”

“Now?”

“It’s as good a time as any.”

“Will we get in?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?”

Pauling took a sheet of paper and copied G. Taylor and the address from the phone book. Said, “I wonder what the G stands for.”

“He was British, don’t forget,” Reacher said. “Could be Geoffrey with a G. Or Gerald. Or Gareth or Gly

They walked. The noon heat raised sour smells from the milk in dumped lattes in trash cans and gutters. Panel trucks and taxis jammed the streets. Drivers hit their horns in anticipation of potential fractional delays. Second-story air conditioners dripped condensation like fat raindrops. Vendors hawked fake watches and umbrellas and cell phone accessories. The city, in full tumult. Reacher liked New York more than most places. He liked the casual indifference of it all and the frantic hustle and the total anonymity.

Hudson Street between Clarkson and Leroy had buildings on the west side and James J. Walker Park on the east. Taylor’s number matched a brick cube sixteen stories high. It had a plain entrance but a decent lobby. Reacher could see one lone guy behind a long desk. No separate doorman out on the sidewalk. Which made it easier. One guy was always easier than two. No witnesses.

“Approach?” Pauling asked.

“The easy way,” Reacher said. “The direct approach.”

They pulled the street door and stepped inside. The lobby had dark burr veneers and brushed metal accents. A granite floor. Up to the minute décor, a lot of minutes ago. Reacher walked straight to the desk and the guy behind it looked up and Reacher pointed to Pauling.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “This lady will give you four hundred bucks if you let us into Mr. G. Taylor’s apartment.”