Trulenko pointed. He said, “The first two are social media. A constant stream of made-up stories. Which also go to the bullshit websites, all of which are dumb enough to believe every word. They also go to the TV networks, only some of which are dumb enough. The third is identity theft. The fourth is miscellaneous.”
“What’s the fifth?”
“The money.”
“Where’s the porn?”
“Number four,” Trulenko said. “Miscellaneous. It’s a sideline.”
“Go for it,” Reacher said. “Task number one.”
The others crowded around. In truth their knowledge was rudimentary. From the consumer end only. But Trulenko didn’t know that. Their scrutiny seemed to keep him on the straight and narrow. He typed long streams of code. He answered yes, yes, and yes, to all kinds of are-you-sure questions. Text marched across the screen. Eventually it stopped.
Trulenko stood back.
“It’s gone,” he said. “The content is a hundred percent securely deleted, and the domain names are back for sale.”
No one objected.
“OK,” Reacher said. “Now get on five. Show us the money.”
“Which money?”
“All the liquid assets.”
“So that’s what you’re here for.”
“Makes the world go round.”
Trulenko took a step to his right.
“Wait,” Reacher said. “Stay on four for a moment. Show us your own bank account.”
“Not relevant, man. I got nothing to do with these guys. They’re entirely separate from me. I came here from San Francisco.”
“Show us anyway. Apply the impeccable logic.”
Trulenko was quiet a beat.
Then he said, “My business was a limited liability corporation.”
“You mean everyone else took a bath, except you.”
“My personal assets were protected. That’s the point of the corporate structure. It encourages entrepreneurship. It encourages risk taking. That’s where the glory is.”
“Show us your personal assets,” Reacher said.
Trulenko paused another beat. Then he arrived at the inevitable conclusion. He seemed to be a pretty quick and decisive thinker. Possibly influenced by his long association with computers. He stepped up again and typed and clicked. Soon the screen redrew. A soothing color. A list of numbers. Maxim Trulenko, checking account, balance four million dollars.
Maria Shevick had pawned her mother’s rings for eighty bucks.
“Leave that screen open,” Reacher said. “Shuffle along to number five. Show us what Gregory had.”
Trulenko shuffled along. He typed and clicked. The screen redrew. He said, “This is the only liquid account. Petty cash, in and out.”
“How much is in there at the moment?”
Trulenko looked.
He said, “Right now twenty-nine million dollars.”
“Add your money to it,” Reacher said. “Send Gregory a wire.”
“What?”
“You heard. Empty out your bank account and move the money to Gregory’s.”
Trulenko didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He was thinking. Fast, like he could. Within seconds he was at the acceptance stage. Reacher could see it in his face. Better to walk out broke than not walk out at all. Could be worse. He was quickly at home with the notion. Like one broken leg was better than both.
He stepped back to four and typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes to the are-you-sure questions. Then he stepped back. The balance on four pinged down to zero. On five it bumped up to thirty-three million.
“Now type in these numbers,” Reacher said. He recited Aaron Shevick’s bank account details from memory. Learned days before, ahead of the trip to the bar. The man with the prison tattoo thinks you’re Aaron Shevick. You have to go get our money for us. Eighteen thousand nine hundred dollars, on that occasion.
I’m pretty much a round-figures guy.
Trulenko read the numbers back.
All good.
Reacher said, “Now wire the money.”
“How much?
“All of it.”
“What?”
“You heard. Empty out Gregory’s bank account and move the money to the account I just gave you.”
Trulenko paused again. The point of no return. His personal assets were about to disappear out from under his control. But one broken leg was better than both. He typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes. He stood back. The balance on the screen pinged down to zero. Thirty-three million dollars set out on a journey.
Reacher looked at the others. He said, “You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch you by the elevator.”
They all nodded. He thought only Abby knew why. They filed out. Past the dead guy. Vantresca was last. He looked back. Then he went.
Reacher stepped up next to Trulenko.
He said, “Something I need to tell you.”
Trulenko said, “What?”
“The part about you walking out of here.”
“What about it?”
“It was fake news.”
Reacher shot him in the forehead, and left him where he fell.
Chapter 51
They spent the night at Abby’s place. In the living room, with its muted colors, and its worn and comfortable furniture, and its cozy textures. In the kitchen, with its coffee machine, and its white china mugs, and its tiny table in the window. But mostly in the bedroom. First they took long hot showers, obviously and overtly symbolic, but also warming and comforting and necessary and practical. They got out smelling clean and fresh and fragrant. Innocent. Like flowers. So far Reacher hadn’t said either way, not for sure, but Abby seemed to take it as their last night together. She seemed to have no regrets. I guess not forever. She was bold. She was funny. She was lithe, and experimental, and artful. Between times she snuggled, but she sought no security. Instead from time to time she stretched out like a cat. She smiled, wide and unabashed. A great feeling. You’re alive, and they ain’t.
In the morning they were woken early by a phone call from the Shevicks. Abby put it on speaker. First Maria came on and said the scan showed total success. The improvement was remarkable. Their little girl was getting better. The doctors were dancing a jig. Then Aaron came on and said he was shocked by the wire. Nearly had a heart attack. Reacher told him what he had told him before. Give the rest away. To people in the same condition. Some to the lawyers. After buying back the house from the bank. Maybe Meg could move in, while she recovered. Maybe they could get a new TV. Maybe a new car also. Or an old car. Something interesting. Something fun. Maybe a Jaguar. A satisfying machine. Reacher said he had it on good authority.
Then he left. He tracked around the downtown blocks, and he crossed Center Street, and he kept a polite distance from the high-rent districts. Half a mile later he arrived at the bus depot. He went in the door. He checked the board and bought a ticket. He still had five grand in his pocket. From the pawn shop. He was glad of it. He liked the heft, and the deadness. It would pay his way. Two or three weeks, at least. Maybe more, if he was careful.
Ten days later he was drifting north with the summer. By chance on a bus he found a copy of The Washington Post. There was a long feature story inside. It said organized crime had been cleaned out of a certain notorious city. A longstanding problem, finally solved. Two rival gangs, both gone. No more extortion. Drugs gone, vice gone. No more random violence. No more reign of terror. The new police commissioner was taking all the credit. He called himself a new broom, with new ideas, and new energy. There was talk he might run for office one day. Mayor possibly, or maybe even governor. No reason why not. So far his record was sparkling.
For Jane and Ruth
My tribe
By Lee Child
Killing Floor
Die Trying