Killing Floor

“Christ,” I said. “What about Judy?”

“Neighbor says she bailed out Tuesday night,” he said. “Right after you spoke to her. Hasn’t been back. The house was empty.”

I nodded.

“Judy’s a smart woman,” I said. “But that doesn’t put them ahead of us. We already saw the inside of the garage. If they were trying to hide something, they were too late. Nothing to hide anyway, right?”

“The initials?” he said. “The colleges? I identified the Princeton guy this morning. W.B. was Walter Bartholomew. Professor. He was killed last night, outside his house.”

“Shit,” I said. “Killed how?”

“Stabbed,” he said. “Jersey police are calling it a mugging. But we know better than that, right?”

“Any more good news?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

“Gets worse,” he said. “Bartholomew knew something. They got to him before he could talk to us. They’re ahead of us, Reacher.”

“He knew something?” I said. “What?”

“Don’t know,” Finlay said. “When I called the number, I got some research assistant guy, works for Bartholomew. Seems Bartholomew was excited about something, stayed at his office late last night, working. This assistant guy was ferrying him all kinds of old material. Bartholomew was checking it through. Late on, he packed up, e-mailed Joe’s computer and went home. He ran into the mugger, and that was that.”

“What did the e-mail say?” I asked him.

“It said stand by for a call in the morning,” he told me. “The assistant guy said it felt like Bartholomew had hit on something important.”

“Shit,” I said again. “What about the New York initials? K.K.?”

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s another professor. If they haven’t gotten to him yet.”

“OK,” I said. “I’m going to New York to find him.”

“Why the panic?” Finlay asked. “Was there a problem with the truck?”

“There was one major problem,” I said. “The truck was empty.”

There was silence in the office for a long moment.

“It was going back empty?” Finlay said.

“I got a look inside just after I called you,” I said. “It was empty. Nothing in it at all. Just fresh air.”

“Christ,” he said.

He looked upset. He couldn’t believe it. He’d admired Roscoe’s distribution theory. He’d congratulated her. Shook her hand. The menorah shape. It was a good theory. It was so good, he couldn’t believe it was wrong.

“We’ve got to be right,” he said. “It makes so much sense. Think of what Roscoe said. Think of the map. Think of Gray’s figures. It all fits together. It’s so obvious, I can just about feel it. I can just about see it. It’s a traffic flow. It can’t be anything else. I’ve been over it so many times.”

“Roscoe was right,” I agreed. “And everything you just said is right. The menorah shape is right. Margrave is the center. It’s a traffic flow. We only got one little detail wrong.”

“What detail?” he said.

“We got the direction wrong,” I said. “We got it ass-backward. The flow goes exactly the opposite direction. Same shape, but it’s flowing down here, not out of here.”

He nodded. He saw it.

“So they’re not loading up here,” he said. “They’re unloading here. They’re not dispersing a stockpile. They’re building up a stockpile. Right here in Margrave. But a stockpile of what? You’re certain they’re not printing money somewhere and bringing it down here?”

I shook my head.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Molly said there’s no printing going on in the States. Joe stopped it.”

“So what are they bringing down here?” he said.

“We need to figure that out,” I said. “But we know it adds up to about a ton a week. And we know it fits into air conditioner boxes.”

“We do?” Finlay said.

“That’s what changed last year,” I said. “Before last September, they were smuggling it out of the country. That’s what Sherman Stoller was doing. The air conditioner runs weren’t a decoy operation. They were the actual operation itself. They were exporting something boxed up in air conditioner cartons. Sherman Stoller was driving them down to Florida every day to meet a boat. That’s why he got so up-tight when he was flagged down for speeding. That’s why the fancy lawyer came ru

“But a full load of what?” Finlay said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The cops didn’t think to look. They saw a load of sealed-up air conditioner cartons, brand-new, serial numbers and everything, and they just assumed it was kosher. The air conditioner cartons were damn good cover. Very plausible product to be hauling south. Nobody would be suspicious of brand-new air conditioners heading south, right?”

“But they stopped a year ago?” he said.

“Correct,” I said. “They knew the Coast Guard thing was coming, so they got as much out as they could ahead of time. Remember the double runs in Gray’s notes? Then they stopped altogether, a year ago. Because they felt just as vulnerable smuggling outward past the Coast Guard as we figured they’d feel smuggling inward.”

Finlay nodded. Looked displeased with himself.

“We missed that,” he said.

“We missed a lot of things,” I said. “They fired Sherman Stoller because they didn’t need him anymore. They decided just to sit on the stuff and wait for the Coast Guard thing to stop. That’s why they’re vulnerable right now. That’s why they’re panicking, Finlay. It’s not the last remains of a stockpile they’ve got in there until Sunday. It’s the whole damn thing.”

FINLAY STOOD GUARD AT THE OFFICE DOOR. I SAT AT THE rosewood desk and called Columbia University in New York. The number reached the modern history department. The early part of the call was very easy. I got a helpful woman in their administrative office. I asked if they had a professor with the initials K.K. Straightaway she identified a guy called Kelvin Kelstein. Been there many years. Sounded like he was a very eminent type of a guy. Then the call got very difficult. I asked if he would come to the phone. The woman said no he wouldn’t. He was very busy and could not be disturbed again.

“Again?” I said. “Who’s been disturbing him already?”

“Two detectives from Atlanta, Georgia,” she said.

“When was this?” I asked her.

“This morning,” she said. “They came in here asking for him and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Can you describe these two men to me?” I asked her.

There was a pause as she tried to remember.

“They were Hispanic,” she said. “I don’t recall any details. The one who did the talking was very neat, very polite. Unremarkable, really, I’m afraid.”

“Have they met with him yet?” I asked her.

“They made a one o’clock appointment,” she said. “They’re taking him to lunch somewhere, I believe.”

I held the phone tighter.

“OK,” I said. “This is very important. Did they ask for him by name? Or by the initials K.K.? Like I just did?”

“They asked exactly the same question you did,” she said. “They asked if we had any faculty with those initials.”

“Listen to me,” I said. “Listen very carefully. I want you to go see Professor Kelstein. Right now. Interrupt him, whatever he’s doing. Tell him this is life or death. Tell him those Atlanta detectives are bogus. They were at Princeton last night and they murdered Professor Walter Bartholomew.”

“Are you kidding?” the woman said. Almost a scream.

“This is for real,” I said. “My name is Jack Reacher. I believe Kelstein had been in touch with my brother, Joe Reacher, from the Treasury Department. Tell him my brother was murdered also.”

The woman paused again. Swallowed. Then she came back, calm.

“What should I tell Professor Kelstein to do?” she said.

“Two things,” I said. “First, he must not, repeat, must not meet with the two Hispanic men from Atlanta. At any time. Got that?”