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Next up were the two guys sharing the third spot in the hierarchy. The first of them was called Le
The second was the guy in the raincoat. His name was Parker. Forty-two years old, ex-LAPD, tall, slim, a pale hard face disfigured by a broken nose.
“They’re all ex-LAPD,” Neagley said. “According to the data, they all quit around the same time.”
“After a scandal?”
“There are always scandals. It’s statistically difficult to quit the LAPD any other way.”
“Could your guy in Chicago get their histories?”
Neagley shrugged. “We might be able to get into their computer. And we know some people. We might get some word of mouth.”
“What was on Berenson’s office floor?”
“A new Oriental rug. Persian style, but almost certainly a copy from Pakistan.”
Reacher nodded. “Swan’s place, too. They must have done the whole executive floor.”
Neagley dialed her cell for the call to her Chicago guy’s voice mail and Reacher put Parker’s details on one side and checked the photographs of the four remaining foot soldiers. Then he closed their files and butted them together into a neat stack and piled it on top of Parker’s jacket, like a category.
“I saw these five tonight,” he said.
“What were they like?” O’Do
“Lousy. Really slow and stupid.”
“Where were the other two?”
“Highland Park, presumably. That’s where the good stuff is.”
O’Do
“I don’t know,” Reacher said.
65
Eventually, as he knew he would, Reacher opened Tony Swan’s New Age perso
“What next?” Dixon asked, in the silence. Reacher knew it wasn’t a genuine inquiry. She was just trying to stop him reading. Trying to spare his feelings. He closed the file. Dropped it on the bed well away from the other files, in a category all its own. Swan deserved better than to be associated with his recent colleagues, even on paper.
“Who knew, and who flew,” Reacher said. “That’s what we need. Anyone else can live a little longer.”
“When will we know?”
“Later today. You and Dave can go scope out Highland Park. Neagley and I are going back to East LA. In an hour. So take a nap, and make it count.”
Reacher and Neagley left the motel at five in the morning, in separate Hondas, driving one-handed and talking to each other on the phone like commuters everywhere. Reacher said he guessed that when the alarm call came in, Lamaison and Le
Neagley agreed with his analysis. And she grasped the next part of the plan without having to ask, which was one of the reasons why Reacher liked her so much.
They parked a hundred yards apart on different streets, hiding in plain sight. The sun was over the horizon and the dawn was gray. Reacher was fifty yards from New Age’s building and could see his car reflected in the mirror glass, tiny and distant and anonymous, one of hundreds dumped all around. There was a flatbed truck backed up to the wrecked reception area. A steel cable snaked inside into the gloom. The guy called Parker was still there in his raincoat. He was directing operations. He had one foot soldier with him. Reacher guessed the other three had been sent up to Highland Park to relieve Lamaison and Le
The flatbed’s cable jerked and tightened and started hauling. The blue Chrysler came out of the lobby backward, a lot slower than it had gone in. It had scars on the paint and some front-end damage. The windshield was starred and a little concave. But overall the car was in excellent shape. As subtle as a hammer, as vulnerable as a hammer. It came to rest on the flatbed and the driver strapped the wheels down and drove it away. As soon as it was out of the lot its undamaged twin drove in. Another blue 300C, fast and confident. It stopped just inside and Allen Lamaison climbed out to inspect the smashed gate.
Reacher recognized him instantly from his file photograph. In the flesh he was about six feet tall and could have been two hundred and forty pounds. Big shoulders, small hips, thin legs. He looked fast and agile. He was dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt and a red necktie. He was holding the necktie flat against his chest with one hand, even though the weather wasn’t windy. He took a brief look at the gate and climbed back in his car and drove on through the lot. He got out again just short of the shattered doors and Parker came over in his raincoat and they started talking.
Just to be sure, Reacher took out the phone he had brought back from Vegas and redialed. Fifty yards away Lamaison’s hand went straight to his pocket and came out with a phone. He glanced at the caller ID on the screen and froze.
Got you, Reacher thought.
He wasn’t expecting an answer. But Lamaison picked up. He flicked the phone open and brought it up to his face and said, “What?”
“How’s your day going?” Reacher asked.
“It only just started,” Lamaison said.
“How was your night?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Plenty of folks have tried,” Reacher said. “I’m still here. They aren’t.”
“Where are you?”
“We got out of town. Safer that way. But we’ll be back. Maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe next year. You better get used to looking over your shoulder. That’s something you’re going to be doing a lot of.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Reacher said, and clicked off. He saw Lamaison stare at his phone, and then dial a number. Not a call back. Reacher waited, but his phone stayed silent, and Lamaison started talking, evidently to someone else.
Ten minutes later Le