“I suppose we could set the car on fire. That would send a message.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Let’s take it one step at a time.”
“Will my car get wrecked?”
“It has federal bumpers. Should be good up to five miles an hour. Conceivable you could need another electrical tie.”
“OK,” she said.
“Remember to keep your foot on the clutch pedal. You don’t want to stall out. You want to be ready to reverse away.”
“Then what?”
“You park and go get your stuff, while I tell the guys in the car what they need to do.”
“Which is what?”
“Follow you to some dubious place east of Center. After that it’s up to them.”
She was quiet another long beat.
Then she nodded. A bob of her short dark hair. A gleam in her eye. A smile on her lips, half grim, half excited.
“OK,” she said again. “Let’s do it.”
—
At that moment Gregory’s right-hand man was laying out what little he knew. He was in the inner office, across the desk from his boss. Which was an intimidating place to be. The desk was massive, ornately carved from toffee-colored wood. The desk chair was huge, made of tufted green leather. Behind the chair was a tall heavy bookcase that matched the desk. Altogether imposing. Not a comfortable place to be, when telling a confusing story.
He said, “At six o’clock last night Aaron Shevick was a big ugly sadsack nobody paying back a loan. At eight he was a big ugly sadsack nobody taking out a new loan. But at ten he was different. He was a man about town, enjoying the band, flirting with the waitress, eating bite-size pizzas and drinking six-dollar cups of coffee. Then on the way out of the bar he was different again. He was a tough guy talking about Max Trulenko. He’s like three people in one. We have no idea who he really is.”
Gregory asked, “Who do you think he is?”
His guy didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Meanwhile we dug up his last known address. But he wasn’t there. He moved out a year ago. The new tenants are an old retired couple named Jack and Joanna Reacher. Their granddaughter was visiting. Her name is Abigail Reacher. Except it isn’t. Her name is Abigail Gibson. She’s the waitress Shevick was flirting with last night. We know all about her. She’s a troublemaker.”
“How so?”
“A year or so ago she told the police about something she saw. We straightened it out. We showed her the error of her ways. She promised to reform, which is why we let her keep working.”
Gregory bent his neck to the left, and held it, and to the right, and held it. As if it was hurting.
He said, “But now she’s flirting with Shevick, and showing up at his last known address under a phony name.”
“It gets worse,” his guy said. “Grandma Reacher was in our pawn shop this morning, but she signed her name Shevick.”
“Really?”
“Maria Shevick.”
“And then she showed up at Aaron Shevick’s last known address.”
“We have no idea who these people really are.”
“Who do you think they are?” Gregory asked again.
“We didn’t get where we are by being stupid,” his guy said. “We should consider every possibility. Start with Abigail Gibson. We’re getting a new police commissioner. Maybe he’s getting a jump on reading the files. Her name is in there. Maybe he reached out. Maybe he put the big guy in the field to work with her.”
“He’s not commissioner yet.”
“All the more reason. We think we’re still safe.”
Gregory said, “You think Shevick is a cop?”
“No,” his guy said. “We know the cops. We would have heard. Someone would have talked to us.”
“Then who is he?”
“Maybe he’s FBI. Maybe the police department asked for outside help.”
“No,” Gregory said. “A new commissioner wouldn’t do that. He would want his own people on the job. He would want all the glory for himself.”
“Then maybe he’s an ex-cop or ex-FBI and Dino hired him to mess with us.”
“No,” Gregory said again. “Same as the new commissioner. Dino wouldn’t hire outside help. He doesn’t trust anyone enough. Like we don’t.”
“Then who is he?”
“He’s a guy who borrowed money and then asked about Max. Which I agree is an odd combination.”
“What do you want to do about him?”
“Watch the house you found,” Gregory said. “If he lives there, he’ll show up sooner or later.”
—
Abby kept her seat belt on. Reacher took his off. He braced his palm against the dash. She put the gear stick in first.
“Ready?” she said.
“Walking speed,” he said. “It’s going to seem awful fast when you get there. But don’t slow down. Maybe better to close your eyes for the last bit.”
She pulled away from the curb and rolled down the street.
Chapter 20
Walking speed was customarily reckoned to be about three miles an hour, which was about two hundred seventy feet a minute, so it took the battered white Toyota twenty whole agonizing seconds to close the gap on the parked Lincoln. Abby lined it up and took a nervous breath and held it and closed her eyes. The Toyota rolled on unchecked and smacked hard into the Lincoln’s back bumper. Walking speed, but still a big noisy impact. Abby was thrown forward against her belt. Reacher used both hands on the dash. The Lincoln bucked forward a foot. The Toyota bounced backward a foot. Reacher stumbled out, one fast pace, two, three, straight ahead to the Lincoln’s rear right-hand door. He grabbed the handle.
The safety doo-dad had done its work.
The door opened. There were two guys inside. Elbow to elbow in the front, belts off, reclined, recently comfortable, now a little shaken up and bounced around. Their heads had come to rest on their seat backs, which made them waist-high to Reacher as he slid in behind them, which made them easy to grab, one in each palm, which made them easy to crash together like the guy in back of the orchestra with the cymbals. And again, after a little more bouncing around, and then ramrod straight forward, the left-hand guy into the rim of the steering wheel, and the right-hand guy into the dashboard roll above the glove box.
Then it was both hands inside their suit coats, leaning over their shoulders from the rear compartment, searching, finding leather straps, and shoulder holsters, and pistols, which he took. He found nothing more in their waistbands, and, leaning all the way forward, he found nothing more strapped around their ankles.
He sat back. The pistols were H&K P7s. German police issue. Beautifully engineered. Almost delicate. But also steely and hard edged. Therefore manly.
Reacher said, “Wake up now, guys.”
He waited. Through the window he saw Abby step through her door, into her house.
“Wake up, guys,” he said again.
And they did, soon enough. They came back groggy and blinking, looking around, trying to piece it together.
Reacher said, “Here’s the deal. There’s an incentive attached. You’re going to drive me east. Along the way I’m going to ask you questions. If you lie to me, I’ll feed you to the Albanians when we get there. If you tell me the truth, I’ll get out and walk away and let you turn around and drive home again unharmed. That’s the incentive. Take it or leave it. Are we clear?”
He saw Abby come out of her house, with a bulging bag. She heaved it across the sidewalk to her car. She dumped it in the back. She got in the front.
Inside the Lincoln the guy behind the wheel clutched his head and said, “Are you crazy? I can’t even see straight. I can’t drive you anywhere now.”
“No such word,” Reacher said. “My advice is try very hard.”
He buzzed down his window and stuck his arm out and signaled Abby to go ahead and pull around and lead the way. He watched her hesitant maneuver. The Toyota’s front fender was no longer horizontal. It was hanging down diagonally, way lower than it should have been. The passenger-side corner was about an inch away from scraping on the blacktop. Maybe two electrical ties would be required. Possibly three.