Beyond the barriers, a Barnum and Bailey scrum of cameras, mikes, booms, and journalists was expressing its discontent at being denied access to the hotel.
Figuring the sharks were sniffing the blood of some politician caught banging his intern, or a starlet not A-list enough to be at the Ritz, and that their driver hadn’t a chance of reaching them, Brennan and Reacher decided to head downhill on foot.
“That’s her!” As they approached the barrier. “That’s Brennan.”
Word spread through the scrum. Cameras popped onto shoulders. Lights ignited. Booms shot toward their mouths.
“Dr. Brennan. Ted Sanders, CNN.”
“Would you care to make a statement?”
“Did you kill him?”
“Did you go along with the fake suicide? Or did you just blow it?”
“Are you about to be arrested?”
Brennan stopped short, face saying she’d shoot if she had a gun. Reacher took her arm and steered her back up the drive. Though bristling, she let him. Questions hammered their retreat.
“We’ll wait thirty minutes, then go out through the kitchen,” Reacher said when they were in the lobby.
“Bastards,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s all bullshit,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I expected calls from the press, but this—” Arm arcing toward the door. “This is insane.”
“Yeow was a journalist,” Reacher said.
“They have the sensitivity of lice.”
“Lice don’t avenge their own.”
“That must be it,” she agreed.
They were both very wrong.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1345 EST
FOR DECADES THE WASHINGTON POST loomed like a giant gray hive at the corner of Fifteenth and L. Its new address was 1301 K Street. Or One Franklin Square. The paper and the postal service were still hashing that out.
Yeow’s editor was a guy named Albert Thorsten. A directory told them Thorsten’s office was seven floors above the lobby with its zillion-inch screen. Brennan and Reacher ascended in a noiseless elevator and proceeded down a corridor flanking a newsroom the length of the U.S.-Canada border.
Five yards, then they saw Thorsten through an expanse of glass, seated at a desk that matched everything else in the building. The door was open. Brennan and Reacher entered. Both did their habitual scan.
The room wasn’t big, wasn’t small, wasn’t drab, wasn’t bright. Despite the fish tank wall, an overabundance of papers, printouts, files, and books made the unexceptional space feel tight and claustrophobic. A warehouse print hung behind Thorsten’s head—a wooden pier, gulls, and a boat. It blended well with the blah.
Thorsten looked about fifty going on heart failure. Gray hair, saggy eyes, saggy gut. He raised skeptical brows on seeing Brennan. Apparently Luong had mentioned only her paralegal. Or maybe it was Reacher’s size. Or gender.
“The lady of the hour,” Thorsten guessed. Or knew, from press photos. Then the questioning eyes slid to Reacher.
“I’m the paralegal.”
“Sure you are.” Thorsten pointed at the two chairs facing him. They looked like the desk, except they were chairs.
Reacher sat. Brennan sat. Thorsten directed his next comment to her.
“Word is you burned one of my reporters.” Voice dry and flat as the Kalahari.
“Word’s wrong.”
“And I’m blessed with your presence because?”
“I intend to find the bastard who did.”
Thorsten thought about that. Then, “Yeow learned some interesting facts about you.”
“Such as?”
“Beats me.”
“He didn’t brief you on his investigation?”
“Yeow was a veteran. We operated on a need-to-know basis.”
“I need to know.”
Another tense silence as they stared in two directions across the desk. Thorsten’s gaze was impersonal. Brennan figured years had passed since empathy last wormed into it.
“You’re aiding Luong with the doc’s defense?” Thorsten asked Reacher.
“I am.”
“Paralegally.”
“Yes. It would help to have the names of people Yeow was interviewing.”
Thorsten laughed, as Brennan and Reacher both knew he would. “Please. I can’t reveal sources.” Realizing his mistake. “If I knew them.”
“Yeow never told you what they said?” Brennan asked.
Thorsten shook his head slowly.
“He never showed you his notes? Asked for authorization? Requested travel money? Inducement money? Lunch money?”
The head kept wagging.
“What can you reveal, Mr. Thorsten?” Reacher, the diplomat.
“Yeow promised me one hell of a piece.”
“Guess you’re out of luck on that.” Distaste coated Brennan’s tone.
“Or the story’s become much better.”
“Be very careful, Mr. Thorsten.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Journalists often pretend they know more than they do.”
Thorsten shrugged. Whatever.
Brennan glanced at Reacher. He dipped his chin. They both stood.
“I didn’t kill Jonathan Yeow,” Brennan said, looking down at the editor. “And I didn’t make an error or take a bribe in the Calder Massee case. When I prove those two facts, and find Yeow’s killer, my first call will be to the New York Times.”
Brennan drew a card from her shoulder bag and winged it onto the desk. Then she and Reacher turned and left. Along the corridor overlooking the very long newsroom. Down the quiet elevator. Through the lobby out onto K street. Which wasn’t quiet.
They decided to take the Metro. Were waiting on the platform when Brennan’s cell phone rang. Caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number. She answered anyway.
“You didn’t hear this from me.” The Kalahari voice was muffled, as though Thorsten’s mouth was cupped with one hand.
“Hear what?”
“Ian Massee.”
“Calder’s youngest brother.”
“Ian thinks the suicide was a DOD-ordered execution.”
“So do a lot of people.”
“The guy’s a lunatic.”
“You’ve spoken to him?” Locking eyes with Reacher, who was listening to her end of the conversation.
“Many times. Until I stopped taking his calls.”
“Do you think he could be violent?”
“He loathes the government.”
“So do a lot of people.”
“In my opinion, Ian Massee’s the next Sandy Hook waiting to happen.”
“Why would he kill Yeow? Yeow was going to prove him right.”
“Follow the money,” said the Kalahari voice, muffled, like a dust storm.
Then the call clicked off.
Reacher said, “Our Mr. Thorsten is a versatile character. One minute Mr. Cautious Corporate Editor, and the next minute Mr. Watergate Deep Throat.”
Brennan said, “I don’t want to have to talk to Ian Massee.”
“Maybe we won’t have to. Why would Thorsten change his tune like that?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe he dreams of the old days.”
“Or?”
“He dreams of the money. He runs a newspaper. He’s got a great story that just got better. He could sell a lot of extra copies. He could get all kinds of syndication deals. Maybe a movie. Except he doesn’t know what the story is. Not yet. He knows the sources. But he doesn’t know what they said. He’s trying to get us to do the interviews all over again. To keep the dream alive.”
“Doesn’t work,” Brennan said. “Thorsten wouldn’t benefit. I’m sure Ian Massee sold the movie rights years ago. It’s his project. And Watergate is ancient history. Journalists are different now. They know better. A hack like Yeow would sign up with Massee’s people ahead of time, and in his own name. He’d cut Thorsten out. He’d want all the profit, not just a percentage.”