Get Back Jack (8 page)

“Third time’s the charm, Sunshine,” Gaspar said. “It’s the rule of threes.”

“And if it isn’t?” she asked.

“Then we’ll figure out something else.” He pushed through the revolving door into the entrance lobby of the historic office building. The layout echoed every office building in every major US city. Another information desk, less imposing than Dixon’s Manhattan building and manned not by an experienced military officer but a series of bored part-timers. This was today’s third. He didn’t look up from his crossword puzzle when they walked past him toward the elevator.

Again, they waited for the exceptionally slow elevator that would carry them to Neagley’s office on the tenth floor. Kim could easily have run up the stairs. But Gaspar would have struggled and Kim worried about depleting his energy before they confronted Neagley. When they found Neagley, he would need all he had.

Eventually, the elevator arrived on the ground floor, its doors lumbered open, and a single unremarkable passenger emerged. Gaspar limped after her into the six-by-six-foot box and pressed the button for Neagley’s floor. Eventually the doors closed. The elevator began its ascent.

What seemed like an eternity later, the doors lumbered open again and as Kim and Gaspar had done twice before, they emerged twenty feet left and across the corridor from Neagley’s highly polished mahogany double entrance door.

The polish didn’t stop there.

O’Donnell’s office had been small and functional and fit for a solo investigator with one gal Friday. Dixon’s office doubled as her home and was barely occupied.

Both had failed to prepare Kim for her first encounter with Neagley’s State Street headquarters.

The same armed guard they’d seen this morning and again in the early afternoon stood formally at his post on one side of the door. He was a large black man, dressed in a navy blue business suit, a white shirt, and red tie. The high polish of his boss’s digs extended to the blinding surfaces of the man’s shoes, and he carried himself like he’d been a member of the Secret Service in another life, which he probably had. Those guys were unmistakable.

He nodded by way of greeting, perhaps acknowledging he remembered them.

Once again, Kim was struck by the excessive quiet in the corridor. Neagley’s office must be hermetically sealed. Absolutely no audible sound escaped, which, in Kim’s experience, was an exceptional feat for any office. She refused to wonder why Neagley needed offices more fortified than Fort Knox.

Gaspar turned the doorknob and pushed into the lobby. Kim followed and the door swung closed, perfecting a sound barrier between the lobby and the hallway. Four people were already seated within. Two men and two women. Aside from being present in Neagley’s office, which meant they were in some kind of trouble, they seemed unremarkable.

Kim had lost the coin toss to decide who would ask for Neagley this time. Simply because they had to eat somewhere anyway, Kim accepted Gaspar’s steak dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse bet that she couldn’t manage it this time, either.

She approached the sliding glass window partition separating the lobby from the receptionist’s desk. The glass was heavy enough to be bulletproof. Based on what Kim had read in Neagley’s file, she figured it probably was.

The desk chair was empty. Kim glanced at her Seiko. Just after five o’clock. Perhaps the uncooperative woman had left for the day. Could Kim be that lucky? She pressed what looked like a doorbell button recessed in the wall to the left of the glass and heard nothing in response. She waited.

Kim turned away from the frosted window when the door through which she and Gaspar had just entered opened behind them and Frances L. Neagley strode into the room.

Neagley looked unchanged from her official Army personnel photo. Her hair was long and dark and shampoo-ad shiny. Her eyes were dark and more alive than her photo had made them seem. Her body reflected a serious gym routine, which had not been evident in the official photograph but was consistently reflected in her combat record.

Neagley was older than Kim by maybe a decade, taller by several inches, equally slim and lithe. She wore a white T-shirt snugged up against her body under a tailored black suit jacket. Her slacks fell perfectly creased to skim the front of stylish oxfords that would serve equally well deployed as weapons or in a foot chase.

A younger, taller man, resembling Neagley closely enough to be her twin, followed closely. He was dressed casually in jeans, leather jacket, and sneakers. He seemed hyper-focused on reaching his destination. Whatever it was. Neither slowed stride before they reached the interior entrance, next to which Kim and Gaspar stood. Neagley opened the door and stood aside to allow the young man to precede her.

Kim sensed this was her one chance to accomplish something today. “Ms. Neagley?”

Neagley glanced toward Kim just long enough to allow Kim and Gaspar’s approach. The three remained on the lobby side of the threshold while the young man stood a couple of feet inside the open doorway.

Kim lowered her voice and pulled out her badge.

“FBI Special Agents Otto and Gaspar,” she said.

Gaspar displayed his badge wallet as well. Neagley stalled, perhaps by momentary indecision. No one offered to shake hands.

The young man started to fidget. “Frances. Frances. Frances,” he said, uninflected, each repetition a smidge louder than the last. “Frances. Frances. Frances.”

“Okay, Paul. Okay,” Neagley said, seeming to make up her mind about something. “Agents, this way, please.”

She waved Kim and Gaspar through the doorway and closed it solidly behind them.

Neagley led them along an interior passageway. Paul walked slightly behind her, intently focused on something, but Kim wasn’t sure what. When they reached a private office, Neagley waved her left arm toward the room without stopping and said to them, “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” Neagley continued along the passageway and Paul walked away behind her.

She’d ushered them into her personal office, though it took Kim a few seconds surveying its modest, characterless contents to be sure that’s what it was. The walls were painted nondescript beige and bare of adornment. The furniture was reasonably fine in quality, but also unadorned. Her desk chair was a high-backed, black leather ergonomic design. Expensive. Sleek. Nothing remotely frivolous.

Unlike Dixon and O’Donnell, Neagley displayed no sentimental reminders of her Army days with Reacher’s unit.

Gaspar was standing before the room’s window. “What a great view of Lake Shore Drive she’s got from here. I am absolutely in the wrong business. My office has a view of one the nastiest alleys in Miami. How about yours?”

“I don’t even have a window,” Kim said, mindful that Neagley’s office was probably wired for cameras and audio inside. Probably had some sort of shield preventing inside conversations from being overheard, too.

Gaspar laughed. “Okay. You win.”

Neagley entered the room just then, stealthily, like a feral cat wearing socks. She stood behind her chair, sensibly manicured nails displayed while her hands rested on the leather.

She said, “Win what?”

“The worst office view award,” Kim said. “You might get the best view award, though. You must see some spectacular sunrises over Lake Michigan from here.”

“I’ve got more clients to see before I can wrap up and they’ve been waiting a while already. Let’s get to it, shall we? What does the FBI want today?”

She said “today” as if she routinely responded to the FBI. Maybe she did.

Kim replied, “We need information from you to complete a routine background check.”

“A background check for what?” She wasn’t hostile, exactly. More like detached.

“We’re tasked by the FBI Special Personnel Task Force when the government is preparing to recruit a civilian.”

“Why recruit civilians?”

“Although the government employs millions of people, we don’t always have the expertise we need. From time to time, we hire that expertise outside the system,” Kim replied, matching Neagley’s no-nonsense tone. “We need to be sure the candidate is qualified. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and financially, as well as through his or her expertise.”

Neagley nodded, as if the answer made sense. Maybe she was aware of the SPTF. Maybe she was just trying to get through the situation and move on with whatever her plans were for the rest of the day. She sat down and hid her hands from view, which made Kim nervous. She’d prefer to see Neagley’s hands at all times.

Neagley asked, “What’s the job?”

“That information requires a security clearance higher than ours,” Gaspar said. “Or yours, I’m afraid.”

His participation drew Neagley’s attention from Kim for a moment, allowing Kim a chance to breathe again. Neagley looked directly at him. Maybe she wasn’t testing him. But it felt like she was.

“Higher than your clearance, maybe. Not higher than mine.” Neagley stated this without inflection of any kind. She turned her steady gaze back to Kim. “Who’s the subject?”

Kim made a point of observing carefully. She’d seen a variety of reactions when she first mentioned Reacher’s name to potential witnesses. She only had one opportunity to catch their immediate response. “You served with him in the Army.”

Neagley folded her hands on the desk and continued looking steadily into Kim’s eyes. “I served with a lot of people a long time ago. What’s his name?”

Kim decided not to speak the name at all this time. Just handed over a copy of Reacher’s last formal military photo and watched carefully for Neagley’s involuntary reactions.

Kim’s training in human lie detection was extensive and well internalized. She’d discovered an instinct for separating the liars from the rest of the herd that had saved her ass many times. The subject’s body language was the most important indicator of truthfulness in response to surprise or threat, though it was easily missed.

Neagley displayed nothing. No physical reactions at all. Nor did she speak. There was no question on the floor. She waited until they supplied one. She was abnormally cold. Frigid, actually. Easily the coldest potential witness they’d pressed on the subject of Reacher thus far.

“When did you last see Reacher?” Gaspar asked.

Neagley said, “Years ago.”

“Where did you see him?”

“California.”

“How did that happen?”

“I was having lunch and he walked into the diner.”

“Was he working at that time?”

“I didn’t ask.” Not exactly an answer.

“Do you have a current address for him?”

“He gets a pension, doesn’t he? The Army would know where they send it. So would the IRS. Ask them. You federal types are supposed to cooperate with each other these days. So cooperate.”

This was the longest answer Neagley had provided and wasn’t even close to straight up. Kim wondered why.

Gaspar asked, “How about a last known address?”

Neagley grinned. The effect was not reassuring. “You can’t find him. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She took a breath that Kim hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Don’t waste your time, Agent Gaspar. You won’t find Reacher unless he wants you to find him.”

Kim replied, “We’re not looking for Reacher at the moment. Whether we will be looking for him or not depends on what we learn during our background check. We’re only interested in him if he’s qualified, as we said.”

Neagley’s eyes narrowed and she looked at them as if she could see directly into their souls and divine absolutely everything about them through sheer force of will. Maybe she could.

After a couple of moments, she reached some sort of decision. She stood and folded her hands in front of her taught stomach. Her tone was friendlier than anything she’d used thus far.

“I haven’t seen Reacher in years. I don’t have any knowledge about his present qualifications. He’s a pretty straightforward guy. Just find him and ask him whatever you want to know. He’ll tell you or he won’t. If he doesn’t, then he’s not qualified for the job. Problem solved.” She stepped to the side of her desk and gestured toward the door. “Meanwhile, as I said, I’ve got clients waiting. Then I need to get my brother home and as you no doubt noticed, he’s not very flexible in his routines. So if there’s nothing else?”

Neither Kim nor Gaspar rose from their chairs. Neagley didn’t seem at all flustered or bothered by their recalcitrance. She simply turned and moved to depart. Kim thought she’d leave them sitting in the office until they gave up and left.

Kim waited until the last possible moment before she said, “You know Dave O’Donnell was murdered in his office last week, don’t you? Executed, in fact. Shot with a single bullet to the head and left to bleed out.”

Neagley stopped. She turned her gaze toward Kim. Offered no response.

Kim watched Neagley carefully. “And do you also know that Karla Dixon is missing, probably also dead?”

Still, Neagley said nothing.

Kim lowered her voice, the better to hold Neagley’s attention. “You probably know that Reacher was there. In DC. At the time O’Donnell was murdered. And in New York when Dixon disappeared. You knew that, didn’t you?”

Neagley remained standing, but she didn’t leave the room. Nor did she respond to Kim’s questions.

Gaspar said, “No good cop believes in that kind of coincidence, Neagley. You know that, too.”

“Is Reacher in Chicago?” Kim asked. “Has he been here? Or are you worried that he’s on his way?”

Neagley glanced down at her watch and made some sort of assessment of the situation and the two agents. She returned to her desk, flipped through a neat stack of flat manila folders, pulled two and handed them to Gaspar, who was sitting closest to her. No wasted movement. No wasted words, either.

She remained standing. “Yes, I knew about O’Donnell and Dixon. The detective in charge of O’Donnell’s case contacted me the day they found his body. I flew out to DC and evaluated the situation. I’m satisfied that they’re doing a proper job.”

“You don’t seem very concerned about it,” Kim said.

“O’Donnell handled private investigations for high profile politicians and their enemies, Agent Otto. His case files are full of potential suspects. It’s likely there are more who haven’t been identified yet. Seven days since he died. We all know the chances of solving the case diminish with time and it’s unlikely that his killer will be found now. Fact is, O’Donnell lived a dangerous life and he’d survived more than his share of murder attempts. Everybody has to die sometime. Last Friday was his day.”