The door opened on the chain. Reacher saw a third of a face, a green eye, the sweep of dark blond hair. Not tiny, not tall.
He liked what he saw.
He said, “Are you Temperance Brennan?”
The woman said, “Yes.”
“Great name.”
“Who are you?”
Reacher said, “I’m here to help.”
“How?”
“Any way I can, which is what you’re going to need, because this is the Massee family we’re talking about here.”
“Do you know them?”
“From a distance.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jack Reacher.”
“And?”
“I was in the army in March 1987. Serving in Germany, as a matter of fact.”
Brennan was quiet for most of a minute.
Then she said, “You better come in.”
BRENNAN’S ROOM WAS A STANDARD rectangle all gussied up with brass and wallpaper, so it could be priced as deluxe or executive. It had two club chairs under the window, either side of a small round table. Reacher sat down in one of them. Less threatening.
Brennan said, “What do you know?”
“I can’t tell you,” Reacher said.
“Then why are you here?”
“In case a rock meets a hard place. Which it might not. But you shouldn’t underestimate the trouble you’re in.”
“I wasn’t bribed and I didn’t make a mistake. Massee shot himself.”
“You know that scientifically.”
“Yes, scientifically. Jonathan Yeow was wrong. Why would I be scared of him?”
Reacher said, “I’ll stay the night in this hotel. My advice would be to call Ms. Luong and have her contact me first thing in the morning.”
“What are you going to tell her that you won’t tell me?”
“Nothing. This is all just in case.”
“Of rocks and hard places?”
“Yeow is a dead journalist, which will drive all the other journalists batshit crazy. He’s one of them. He’s their hero now. It will become a question of stamina. Sooner or later the DOD will throw you under the bus just to shut them up.”
“Who are you?”
“Just a guy passing through.”
“What kind?”
“I was a military cop.”
“They say Yeow was suffocated with a plastic bag.”
“Uncommon method.”
“They say my prints are on the bag.”
“But they haven’t arrested you.”
“I don’t think they buy it physically,” Brennan said. “Yeow must have struggled. He was bigger than me. Almost certainly stronger.”
“And because you’re a major player.”
“I suppose.”
“How did your prints get on the bag?”
“I don’t know.”
Reacher got up and walked out of the room. He nodded to the old man in the fold-up chair and headed to the elevators, where he rode down to the lobby and hiked across an acre of marble to the reception desk. He bought a room for the night, using his passport for ID, and his ATM card for money. The room was on the third floor. Neither deluxe nor executive. No brass, no wallpaper. But it had a telephone, which rang within forty-two minutes.
A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Reacher?”
Bright, intelligent, possibly lethal.
Reacher said, “Yes.”
“This is Veronica Luong, Dr. Temperance Brennan’s attorney. I assume you have classified information that proves the suicide case. I further assume your sense of duty makes you very reluctant to reveal it, but your sense of conscience makes you equally reluctant to see an innocent woman falsely convicted.”
Definitely lethal.
Reacher said, “Something like that.”
“You’re a paralegal.”
“I only said that to get in the door. Actually I’m unemployed.”
“No, I mean you’re a paralegal. As of now. With my firm. Officially employed.”
“Is this an attorney-client thing?”
“I want you where I can see you,” Luong said. “Starting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, at the precinct house on Indiana Avenue, Northwest.”
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 0837 EST
SAME WINDOWLESS CELL. SAME AV gear, wall phone, table and chairs. Brennan was seated in one. Luong was beside her.
They’d been there forty minutes when Dupreau entered and tossed down a file. It landed with a tic and puff of stale air.
Dupreau stared at Brennan, skin sallow beneath the humming fluorescents. Brennan stared back, telegraphing the anger trip-wiring in her brain.
A few beats, then, “Thank you for coming.”
“I had a choice?” Controlled, calm.
Dupreau pulled out a chair and sat. Opened the file. Slowly sorted and organized the contents. Neither Luong nor Brennan was impressed. Both were familiar with the old trick.
Dupreau checked that the AV equipment was on and working.
“This interview will be recorded. For your protection and mine. Do you have any objection to that?”
“And if I did?” Brennan glared at the mirror, certain Szewczk was on the far side.
Dupreau hit a button. “Present at this interrogation are Special Agent Pierre Dupreau, Federal Bureau of investigation, Internal Security Unit, Dr. Temperance Brennan, and legal counsel, Veronica Luong.”
Dupreau provided the date and time, then drew a sheet from one of his stacks and pretended to read.
Brennan knew what he was doing. And why he’d left them cooling their heels. But the ploy wouldn’t work. She hadn’t become anxious or vulnerable as some suspects might. She’d grown furious. For Brennan, that translated into laser focus.
Dupreau laid down the paper.
Some interviewers like to put their subjects at ease, gain their trust, then take advantage. Knowing that wouldn’t work, Dupreau went straight for the kill.
“Calder Massee was a bird colonel in the United States Air Force, a career officer with access to highly classified information. Many believe he was executed for a crime he didn’t commit. He was wrongly suspected of being a traitor. They said he was actively engaged in spying for foreign governments. But he wasn’t. The suicide story was a government-backed cover-up for the mistake.”
“Many believe aliens landed at Roswell.”
“In 2012, you oversaw the exhumation and reanalysis of Massee’s remains.”
“I’m impressed. You can read.”
“This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of Massee’s death. Jonathan Yeow was about to go public with proof of your involvement in the whitewashing of his murder. We believe you killed him to prevent that happening.”
“Very creative.”
“Incompetence, complicity, greed. Doesn’t matter the reason. Exposure would ruin you.”
“Seriously. You should write a pilot, shop it to Hollywood.”
A long humming moment.
“According to the ME, Yeow died between midnight and seven Tuesday morning. Where were you during those hours?”
“Asleep in my room at the Marriott.”
“Can anyone verify?”
“That’s a rather personal question.” Icy.
“Murder is a rather personal crime.”
“I was alone.”
“Your prints were on the plastic bag used to asphyxiate Yeow. That bag came from a CVS pharmacy. You were caught on surveillance video at four fifteen Monday afternoon at a CVS pharmacy on Connecticut Avenue.”
“It’s illegal to buy toothpaste?”
“Did you retain the bag that held your”—Dupreau hooked quotation marks—‘toothpaste’?”
“I keep all my trash. Don’t you?”
“Can you explain how your prints came to be on that bag?”
“I cannot.”
“Dig deep.”
“Kiss my—”