Get Back Jack (5 page)

Although the decor was a bit too modern and minimalist for Kim’s taste, everything in the apartment was also relatively new and barely used.

Dixon’s bedroom was larger than Kim’s entire apartment in Detroit and Dixon’s shower was large enough to accommodate Reacher’s giant body engaged in all sorts of contortions. Surprising, unless she regularly entertained such giants, since Dixon was almost as petite as Kim.

Dixon’s clothes were of the bought-this-season designer variety. Kim didn’t wear designer anything, but she recognized the costly stuff. What did a forensic accountant need those clothes for? And more importantly, how could Dixon afford them? Kim had been a double major, herself. Accounting and law. She knew the salary ranges accountants were paid. Dixon’s income level must have been well above normal because she didn’t come from a wealthy family, according to her Army personnel file.

Kim found a number of framed photographs on the walls in Dixon’s home office. She recognized a duplicate of the special investigative unit group photo she’d seen this morning on O’Donnell’s office ego wall.

Kim took still shots of the photo before she continued.

Dixon’s home office was as neat as the rest of her apartment. No computer or printer or phone. Only an open desk with no drawers. No visible papers of any kind. Kim realized she was actually standing amid the very first paperless office she’d ever seen. Until now, Kim had suspected a “paperless office” was akin to a golden unicorn. Everybody talked about such a beast, but nobody had ever laid eyes on one.

So Dixon was a neat freak of the highest order, too.

In the kitchen once more, Kim opened the big side-by-side refrigerator. The middle shelf held two cartons of Greek yogurt, two weeks out of date, a six-pack of still water and two large bottles of nice champagne. Otherwise, the refrigerator was as perfectly empty as the day it had been installed.

Quickly, Kim opened cabinet doors and closed them again. She moved through the remaining rooms opening every storage spot she found. She finished, returned the smartphone to her pocket, and joined Gaspar. Her entire apartment search lasted maybe ten minutes, max.

“No blood, no body, no sign of foul play, as they say in the old detective movies,” Kim said as she approached him. “Looks like O’Donnell’s killer failed to add Dixon to his resume.”

Gaspar continued staring out the window as if he could see answers on the enormous glass windows like words projected on a teleprompter. “Or he did the deed elsewhere.”

Kim’s stomach growled, reminding her that she’d had nothing to eat since the miniscule hotel breakfast hours ago. Gaspar must have heard, too, because he turned and said, “How about a cup of clam chowder? We’re not too far from the Oyster Bar at Grand Central. We can talk there, too.”

They let themselves out and rode the elevator to the lobby, where they found Colonel H. Silver, US Army, ret., occupied with another visitor. He barely waved when they walked past him out to the street.

“Next time, I’ll input the code to open Dixon’s front door,” Kim said.

Gaspar grinned, turned up the collar on his overcoat, and moved off the curb to hail a taxi.

Traffic was busier now and the weather was worse. Every cab that passed was occupied. Kim ducked further into her upturned collar, stuffed her hands deep into her overcoat’s pockets, moved from foot to foot to keep as warm as possible, and glanced at the surrounding buildings while she waited.

Street vendors had closed up for the day, if they’d ever opened. Parked cars lined the curbs. Pedestrians hurried along, shuffling across the slippery sidewalk, heads bent against razor-sharp sleet that slashed facial skin left unprotected for more than a brief moment.

As alert as she could be with cold wind gusting sleet into her watering eyes, Kim thought she recognized one pedestrian moving toward her.

She blinked away the ice forming on her lashes. She wasn’t sure. Could it be the same messenger who had passed them twice inside Dixon’s building?

He seemed to recognize her, too, because he turned away from Kim, hugging closely to the building, and headed back the way he’d come.

Gaspar continued attempting to flag a taxi. Kim called to him, but he’d stepped further into the street and didn’t seem to hear over the noise of afternoon traffic. The messenger was farther down the block. Soon, he’d be too far ahead. She gave up on capturing Gaspar’s attention and slid her feet along the sidewalk toward the messenger. He glanced back, saw her following, and shuffled faster. His foot slipped on the pavement. He grabbed for the building to steady himself, and kept moving. Kim slid along toward him with her hand also riding the building’s exterior for balance.

Glancing back, Kim was glad to see that Gaspar had either heard her call or simply checked and followed. Not that he was making much progress, slide-stepping along the sidewalk with his injured leg.

Returning her attention to the messenger just in time to see him duck into a crevice between two buildings, Kim reached inside her coat, located her gun, and moved into the grim slice of alley after him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Thursday, November 11

3:35 p.m.

New York City

The sleet-slickened pavement along the dim alley was cracked and marred by potholes, giving the messenger’s feet purchase where he’d had none on the sidewalk. He’d entered the alley and put on speed. By the time Kim reached the alley, his lead had grown enough to place him almost half a block ahead. Knowledge of the gloomy terrain provided him a second advantage.

Twice she yelled, “Stop! FBI!” He didn’t hear or he ignored her and she didn’t know which and it didn’t matter. She chased him, but his longer stride and head start proved decisive. As he reached a lightless stretch in the alley ahead, he slipped out of sight and never reappeared.

Kim reached the spot a few moments later and stood searching fruitlessly for the messenger’s escape route until Gaspar caught up with her.

“What the hell were you chasing him for?” Gaspar said, both annoyed and breathless. He’d fallen on the ice at least once because the entire right side of his trousers and overcoat were covered in alley slime. He bent over and slapped at his clothes, attempting to knock some of the ruin off, but the effort was not productive.

“Why the hell was he running from me?” Kim replied, anger bubbling over. “Come on.” She turned sharply, stuffed her gun back into its holster, and stomped carefully back the way she’d come.

“Where are you going now?” Gaspar called to her back.

“To ask your buddy Silver the right questions this time,” she snapped. After a moment, she heard his careful footsteps following behind.

She retraced her path in the alley quickly enough, but when she reached the corner and stepped onto the icy sidewalk her leather-soled shoe slipped and she fell, hard, against the wall. She leaned her shoulder against the building and pressed it there as she covered the remaining distance lest her clothes end up in worse shape than Gaspar’s.

By the time they reached Dixon’s building entrance, unrelenting grey skies had turned the late afternoon to early evening. Sleet continued to pelt the few visible travelers. Pedestrians were scarce. Perhaps the usual mob of city dwellers had taken the subway or managed to hail cabs. The result was eerie, as if the city were abandoned.

Dixon’s building lobby featured dim interior lighting that cast shadows into corners, which was okay because Gaspar’s filthy overcoat would be less noticeable in the gloom. Kim pulled the heavy door’s handle and Colonel H. Silver looked up from whatever he’d been doing, probably because an electronic noise or light or some alert happened at his desk when the door opened. No one else was in the lobby and this time Silver wasn’t talking on the phone. He focused full attention on them.

Kim approached the desk, pulled out her badge wallet and showed its glinting gold. “FBI Special Agent Otto,” she said. “You’ve met my partner, Special Agent Gaspar.” She inclined her head in Gaspar’s direction.

If Silver was surprised to hear her official identification, he didn’t show it. “How can I help you, Agent Otto?”

“When we were here earlier, a messenger from
Reliable
went up to the penthouse floor. What was he doing here?”

Not many gatekeepers in Manhattan jousted with anything the FBI requested these days and Silver was no rogue. “
Reliable
comes in several times a day.”

“Do you have that particular messenger’s name and his contact number?”

Silver clicked a few keys on his keyboard. “Regular visitors register the first time they come in. I’m sure we’ve got him in the system. I need to find his first visit.”

“Who on the penthouse floor uses
Reliable
?”

Silver continued to check his computer, “Ms. Dixon, usually. Could be others.
Reliable
is one of the more common services in this area.”

“Ms. Dixon has been traveling for three weeks, you said,” Gaspar reminded him.

“Right.” Silver didn’t look up. “But she gets deliveries when she’s gone, too.”

Gaspar’s gaze met Kim’s, his right eyebrow raised. She nodded, asked, “So the messenger service enters her apartment when she’s not there?”

Silver raised his head this time, stared straight at Kim. Frowned. “That would be up to her, but yes, she could arrange to receive deliveries when she’s away.”

“You said she accepts visitors when she’s not here, too, right?”

“Those are her orders. But you’re only the second visitors she’s had this time.”

Gaspar’s eyes met hers. She nodded.

“Was the first visitor an exceptionally big man?” Gaspar asked. Kim held her breath. Reacher could have been here, she knew. But she’d been hoping he hadn’t.

Silver wagged his head back and forth. “Not that I saw. I’m only here on the day shift, but I remember a man and a woman. Maybe a week ago? I can search for their names if you want.”

When neither Gaspar nor Kim replied, he turned his attention to the keyboard once again. “Don’t ask me why visitor names aren’t recorded in a searchable database. I’ve gone back two weeks and haven’t found the
Reliable
guy yet. But the other two were here on November sixth. Mr. & Mrs. Edwards.”

“Any chance you’ve got surveillance photos of all three of these visitors?” Kim asked. “And any others looking for Ms. Dixon during her absence?”

“I can get that for you, but it’ll take me a couple of hours to pull it together.”

Kim tried not to groan. She’d planned to be out of New York before nightfall. Best laid plans.

“Tenants don’t provide you with specific dates when they’re planning a long-term absence?” Gaspar asked.

“Optional. Ms. Dixon usually doesn’t. We don’t do any security monitoring on the residence floors.” A moment later, he glanced up, clearly pleased with his efforts. “Okay. Here we go. The messenger’s name is Downing and I’ve got a cell number for him as well as for the Reliable office he works from, but no street address.”

Gaspar took both numbers and the name and placed the calls while Silver continued looking for the names of the other couple.

“No answer,” Gaspar said.

“Why am I not surprised,” Kim deadpanned. She pulled out her business card and handed it to Silver. “Give me a call when you have those photos. Or if the messenger comes back.” She turned her gaze out into the darkness. Streetlights glistened off the steadily falling sleet. “And can you call us a cab?”

“I’ll start on the photos as soon as my replacement gets here at six so I can leave the desk. Shouldn’t take too long. I’ll probably have them by seven or so. I can e-mail or text them to you at this number?”

Kim nodded.

Silver said, “But you’ll never get a cab out there tonight in this weather. We’ve got a car service. Can we drop you somewhere?”

“Grand Central Station,” Kim said. “We should be able to get out of the city from there after we have a bite to eat.”

Silver wagged his head again. “You’d be better off staying the night. Flights have been delayed all day and the storm has been getting worse. Temperatures are falling, too. They’ll probably close the airports in an hour if they haven’t already.”

Great, Kim thought. That’s just perfect.

CHAPTER SIX

Thursday, November 11

5:45 p.m.

New York City

Kim’s toes had finally begun to thaw. Settled at a back table inside The Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station, she and Gaspar were on their third cups of hot coffee and working their way through bowls of steaming clam chowder.

She was tempted to book rooms upstairs at the Grand Hyatt, buy new clothes, and figure out the rest tomorrow, but they’d optimistically booked a flight back to DC at 9:45 p.m. instead. Storm gods willing, they’d actually be asleep in a somewhat familiar DC hotel before midnight and have clean clothes tomorrow. She’d collect her laptop and have access to secure files as well. For now, she wanted to eat and figure out what the hell to do next while they waited for Colonel Silver to send the photos he’d promised and for the storm to release them.

Gaspar looked more exhausted than she felt. The alley grime on his clothes had dried and begun to smell.

“Where are we?” Kim asked.

“Same place we were this morning. Nowhere.”

Kim might have argued if Gaspar wasn’t so obviously correct. She applied her attention to the chowder and considered what she knew, what she’d guessed, and what she still needed to find out.

Reacher’s behavior had become her fixation since she’d received her assignment. Kim had spent years studying human behavior. She knew what was reasonable and what wasn’t. Sometimes, she could tell what criminals would do before they did it. And she could analyze their activities exceptionally well afterwards, which was not as good, but still helpful. She wasn’t a profiler by training, but what she had was an odd, savant-like talent based on instinct and experience. She’d honed the talent over the years to something akin to a fine art form. She couldn’t explain it or defend it, but she relied on the ability as she relied on ever-present oxygen.