“Who are you thinking of in particular?”
“Potentially, a guy in a different division. In the moneylending section.”
“Would that be a problem?”
“He has a photograph of me. A close-up of my face. He’ll recognize the description, and he’ll text the picture in response.”
She snuggled closer. Relaxed again.
“Doesn’t really matter,” she said. “They’re all out looking for you anyway. Your description is more than enough. A photograph of your face doesn’t add much. Not from a distance.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“The moneylending guy thinks my name is Aaron Shevick.”
“Why?”
“The Shevicks are my old couple. I did some business on their behalf. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But now the wrong name is out there. They could dig for an address. I wouldn’t want them showing up at the Shevick house, looking for me. That could lead to all kinds of unpleasantness. The Shevicks have enough on their plates already.”
“Where do they live?”
“Halfway to the eastern city limit, in an old postwar development.”
“That’s Albanian territory. It would be a very big deal for the Ukrainians to go there.”
“They already took over their moneylending bar,” Reacher said. “That was way east of Center. The battle lines seem relatively fluid right now.”
Abby nodded sleepily against his chest.
“I know,” she said. “They all agree they can’t have a war, because of the new police commissioner, but all kinds of things seem to be happening.”
Then she took a deep breath and held it and sat up and shook herself awake and said, “We should go now.”
“Where?” Reacher asked.
“We should go make sure your old couple is OK.”
—
Abby had a car. It was parked in a garage a block away. It was a small white Toyota sedan, with a stick shift and no hubcaps. Plus electrical ties holding on one of the fenders. Plus a crack in the windshield that made the view out front look like two overlapping halves. But the engine started and the wheels steered and the brakes worked. The glass in the windows was plain, not tinted, and Reacher felt his face was close to it, clearly visible to those outside, crammed as he was in a cramped interior. He watched for Town Cars, like he had crashed at the Ford dealer, and seen the night before, coming at him north and south on the street, but he saw none at all, and no pale men in dark suits either, loitering on corners, watching.
They drove the same way he had walked, past the bus depot, through the light, into the narrower streets, past the bar, and out again to the wider spaces. The gas station with the deli counter was up ahead.
“Pull in there,” Reacher said. “We should take them some food.”
“Are they OK with that?”
“Does it matter? They got to eat.”
She pulled in. The menu was the same. Chicken salad or tuna salad. He got two of each, plus chips, plus soda. Plus a can of coffee. Quitting eating was one thing. Coffee was a whole different thing entirely.
They drove into the development and worked their way around the tight right-angle turns to the cul-de-sac near its center. They parked by the picket fence, with its nudging rosebuds.
“This is it?” Abby said.
“Owned by the bank now,” Reacher said.
“Because of Max Trulenko?”
“And some well meaning mistakes.”
“Will they be able to get it back from the bank?”
“I don’t know much about that kind of stuff. But I don’t see why not. It’s all money and assets moving back and forth. Buying and selling. I don’t see why a bank would want to get in the way of a thing like that. I’m sure somehow it could find a way to turn a profit on the deal.”
They walked up the narrow concrete path. The door opened before they got to it. Aaron Shevick stood there. He had a worried look on his face.
“Maria has disappeared,” he said. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
Chapter 16
Aaron Shevick might have been a hotshot machinist in the distant past, but he was no kind of a useful witness in the present day. He said he had heard no traffic outside. He had seen no cars on the street. They had gotten up at seven o’clock in the morning and had eaten a small breakfast at eight. Then he had walked to the convenience store to buy a quart of milk, for future small breakfasts. When he got home Maria was nowhere to be seen.
“How long were you gone?” Reacher asked.
“Twenty minutes,” Shevick said. “Maybe more. I’m still walking slow.”
“And you looked all through the house?”
“I thought maybe she had fallen. But she hadn’t. Not in the yard, either. So she went out somewhere. Or someone took her.”
“Let’s start with she went out somewhere. Did she take her coat?”
“She didn’t need her coat,” Abby said. “It’s warm enough without. A better question would be, did she take her purse?”
Shevick looked in what he called all the usual places. There were four of them. A particular spot on the kitchen countertop, a particular spot on an entryway bench in the hallway area opposite the front door, a particular peg in the coat closet where they also hung their umbrellas, and lastly, a spot on the living room floor next to her armchair.
No purse.
“OK,” Reacher said. “That’s a good sign. Very persuasive. It means most likely she went out voluntarily, under her own steam, in an orderly fashion, not in any kind of panic, and not under any kind of duress.”
Shevick said, “She might have left her purse somewhere else.” He glanced all around, helpless. It was a small house, but even so it hid a hundred hiding places.
“Let’s look on the bright side,” Reacher said. “She picked up her purse, she hooked it on her elbow, and she walked away down the path.”
“Or they threw her in a car. Maybe they forced her to bring her purse. Maybe they knew how it would look to us. They’re trying to throw us off the trail.”
“I think she went to the pawn shop,” Reacher said.
Shevick was quiet a long moment. Then he raised a finger in a be-right-back kind of a way, and he limped down the corridor to the bedroom. A minute later he limped back carrying an ancient shoebox. It had faded pastel pink and white candystripes on it, and a faded black and white label pasted to the short end, with a manufacturer’s name, and a line drawing of a shoe, which was a proudly chunky woman’s lace-up, and a size, which was four, and a price, which was a penny shy of four bucks. Maybe the shoes Maria Shevick was married in.
“The family jewelry,” Shevick said.
He lifted the lid. The box was empty. No nine-carat wedding bands, no diamond engagement rings, no gold-plated watch with a crack in the crystal.
“We should go pick her up,” Abby said. “It will be a sad walk home otherwise.”
—
Organized crime’s traditional staples were usury, narcotics, prostitution, gambling, and protection rackets. Throughout their half of the city the Ukrainians ran them all with great skill and aplomb. Narcotics were doing better than ever. Weed had largely gone away, because of creeping legalization all over the place, but exploding demand for meth and oxy more than made up the difference. Profit was sky high. Pushed even higher by a percentage royalty on all the Mexican heroin sold in the city itself, from the western limit to Center Street. Every single gram. Gregory’s greatest success. He had negotiated the deal himself. The Mexican gangs were notorious barbarians, and it took a lot to impress them. But Gregory had persisted. Two of their street corner guys upside down with their guts out had finally done the trick. Before death, unhappily. At that point the Mexicans had started to fear for future recruitment. Street corner guys didn’t make much. Enough to risk getting shot, maybe, but not enough to risk getting hung upside down and slit wide open from throat to groin. While still alive. Hence the royalty. It kept everyone happy.