One Shot (18 page)

'And then?'

'Then monitor the situation,' the Zee said. 'Make
absolutely certain it doesn't turn from bad to worse.'

Reacher saw Helen Rodin into a cab and then went
upstairs to his room. He took off his shirt and put it in
the bathroom sink and left it to soak in cold water. He
didn't want bloodstains on a one-day-old shirt. Three-days-old, maybe. But not a brand new garment.

Questions. There were a lot of questions, but as
always the key would be finding the basic question. The
fundamental question. Why would someone use
violence to protect a case that was already watertight?

First question: Was the case already watertight? He
trawled through the day in his head and heard Alex
Rodin say: It's as good as it gets. The best I've ever
seen. Emerson had said: It's the best done deal I ever
saw. The mortician-like Bellantonio had said: It's the
best crime scene I ever worked. I love it all. Those guys
all had professional self interest in play, of course. And
pride, and expediency.

But Reacher himself had seen Bellantonio's work. And
had said: It's a cast-iron, solid gold slam dunk. It's Willie
Mays under a fly ball.

Was it?

Yes, it was. It was Lou Gehrig with the bases loaded. It
was as close to a certainty as human life offers.

But that wasn't the fundamental question.

He rinsed his shirt and wrung it out hard and spread it
on the room heater.

Turned the heater on high and opened the window.

There was no noise outside.

Just silence. New York City, it wasn't. It sounded like
they rolled up the sidewalks at nine o'clock. 'I went to
Indiana, but it was closed. He lay down on the bed.

Stretched out. Damp heat came off his shirt and filled
the room with the smell of wet cotton. What was the
fundamental question?

Helen Rodin's cassette tape was the fundamental
question. James Barr's voice, low, hoarse, frustrated.

His demand: Get Jack Reacher for me. Why would he
say that?

Who was Jack Reacher, in James Barr's eyes?

Fundamentally?

That was the basic question.

The best crime scene I ever worked.

The best I've ever seen.

Why did he pay to park?

Will you keep an open mind?

Get Jack Reacher for me.

Jack Reacher stared at his hotel room ceiling. Five
minutes. Ten. Twenty. Then he rolled over one way and
pulled the cocktail napkin out of his back pocket.

Rolled the other way and dialled the phone. Helen
Rodin answered after eight rings. She sounded sleepy.

He had woken her up. 'It's Reacher,' he said.

'Are you in trouble?'

'No, but I've got some questions. Is Barr awake yet?'

'No, but he's close.

Rosemary went back to the hospital. She left me a
message.' What was the weather like last Friday at five?'

'The weather? Friday? It was kind of dull.

Cloudy.' 'Is that normal?'

'No, not really. It's usually sunny. Or else raining. This
time of year it's usually one or the other. More likely
sunny.' Was it warm or cold?'

'Not cold. But not hot. It was comfortable, I guess.'

What did you wear to work?'

What is this, a dirty phone call?'

'Just tell me.'

'Same as I wore today. Pant suit.'

'No coat?'

'Didn't need one.'

'Have you got a car?'

'A car? Yes, I've got a car. But I use the bus for work.'

'Use your car tomorrow. I'll meet you at eight o'clock in
your office.'

'What's this about?'

'Tomorrow,' he said. 'Eight o'clock. Go back to sleep
now.' He hung up. Rolled off the bed and checked his
shirt. It was warm and wet. But it would be dry by
morning. He hoped it wouldn't shrink.

FIVE

REACHER WOKE AT SK. TOOK A LONG COLD

SHOWER, BECAUSE THE room was hot. But his shirt
was dry. It was as stiff as a board, and still the right size.

There was no room service. He went out for breakfast.

The roads were full of trucks, hauling gravel, hauling fill,
mixing concrete, feeding the work zones' appetites. He
dodged them and walked south towards the waterfront.

Through the gentrification frontier. He found a
workingmen's diner with a basic menu. He drank coffee
and ate eggs. He sat at a window and watched the street
for aimless doorway lurkers or men in parked cars.

Because if he had been followed the night before it was
logical to assume he would be followed again. So he
kept his eyes open. But he saw nobody.

Then he walked the length of First Street, north. The
sun was up on his right.

He used store windows as mirrors and watched his
back. Plenty of people were going his way, but none of
them was following him. He guessed whoever it was
would be waiting for him in the plaza, ready to confirm
what he expected to see: The witness went to the
lawyer's office.

The fountain was still going. The pool was nearly half
full. The tributes were still there, neatly lined up, another
day older, a little more faded, a little more wilted. He
figured they would be there for a week or so. Until after
the last of the funerals. Then they would be removed,
discreetly, maybe in the middle of the night, and the city
would move on to the next thing.

He sat for a moment on the NBC monolith, with his
back to the tower, like a guy wasting time because he
was early. Which he was. It was only seven forty-five.

There were other people in the same situation. They
stood around, singly or in groups of two or three,
smoking last cigarettes, reading the morning news,
chilling before the daily grind. Reacher looked first at
men on their own with newspapers. That was a pretty
traditional surveillance cover.

Although in his opinion it was due for replacement
with a new exiled-smoker cover. Guys standing near
doorways and smoking were the new invisibles. Or
guys on cell phones. You could stand there with a Nokia
up to your ear for ever and nobody thought twice.

In the end he settled on a guy who was smoking and
talking on a cell phone. He was a short man of about
sixty. Maybe more. A damaged man. There was a
permanent lopsided tension in the way he held himself.

An old spinal injury, maybe. Or busted ribs that had
been badly set, years ago. Whatever it was, it made him
look uncomfortable and querulous. He wasn't the type
of guy who would happily converse at length. But there
he was, on his phone, just talking, aimlessly. He had thin
grey hair, recently barbered but not stylishly. He was in
a double breasted suit that had been expensively
tailored, but not in the United States. It was square and
boxy, too heavy for the weather. Polish, maybe. Or
Hungarian. Eastern European, certainly. His face was
pale and his eyes were dark. They didn't glance
Reacher's way, even once.

Reacher checked his watch. Seven fifty-five. He slid off
the shiny granite and walked into the tower's lobby.

Grigor Linsky stopped pretending and dialled an
actual number on his phone.

'He's here,' he said. 'He just went up.'

'Did he see you?' the Zee asked.

'Yes, I'm sure he did.'

'So make that the last time. Now you stay in the
shadows.'

Reacher found Helen Rodin already at her desk. She
looked settled in, like she had been there a long time
already. She was in the same black suit, but her shirt
was different. It was a simple scoop-neck, not tight. It
was china blue and matched her eyes exactly. Her hair
was tied back in a long pony tail. Her desk was covered
with legal books. Some were face down, some were
face up.

They were all open. She had about eight pages of
notes going, on a yellow legal pad. References, case
notes, decisions, precedents.

'James Barr is conscious,' she said. 'Rosemary called
me at five this morning.'

'Is he talking?'

'Only to the doctors. They won't let anyone else near
him yet. Not even Rosemary herself.'

'What about the cops?'

'They're waiting. But I'll need to be there first. I can't let
him talk to the cops without representation.'

What is he saying to the doctors?'

'That he doesn't know why he's there. That he doesn't
remember anything about Friday. The doctors say that's
to be expected. Amnesia is predictable with head
injuries, possibly covering several days before the
trauma. Several weeks, sometimes.'

'Where does that leave you?'

'With two big problems. First, he might be faking the
amnesia. And that's actually very hard to test, either
way. So now I'm going to have to find a specialist
opinion on that, too. And if he isn't faking, we're in a real
grey area. If he's sane now, and he was sane before, but
he's missing a week, then how can he get a fair trial? He
won't be able to participate in his own defence. Not if he
hasn't got the slightest idea what anyone is talking
about.

And the state put him in that position. They let him get
hurt. It was their jail. They can't do that and then go
ahead and try him.'

What's your father going to think?'

'He's going to fight it tooth and nail. Obviously. No
prosecutor can afford to admit the possibility that
amnesia might screw up a trial. Otherwise everyone
would jump right on it. Everyone would be looking to
get beat up in pretrial detention. Suddenly nobody
would be able to remember anything.' 'It must have
happened before.'

Helen nodded. 'It has.'

'So what do the law books say?'

'I'm reading them now. As you can see. Dusky versus
the United States, Wilson versus the United States.'

'And?'

'There are lots of ifs and buts.'

Reacher said nothing. Helen looked straight at him.

'It's spinning out of control,' she said. 'Now there'll be
a trial about a trial. It's something that might need to go
all the way to the Supreme Court.

I'm not equipped for that. And I don't want that. I don't
want to be the lawyer who gets people off on weird
technicalities. That's not who I am and it's a label I can't
afford right now.' 'So plead him guilty and the hell with
it.'

'When you called me last night I thought you were
going to walk in here this morning and tell me he's
innocent.' 'Dream on,' Reacher said.

She looked away.

'But,' he said.

She looked back. 'There's a but?'

He nodded. 'Unfortunately.'

'What's the but?'

'He's not quite as guilty as I thought he was.'

'How?'

'Get your car and I'll show you.'

They rode down together to a tenants-only
underground parking garage. There were NBC

broadcast trucks in there and cars and pickups and
SUVs of various makes and vintages. There was a new
blue Mustang convertible with an NBC sticker in the
windshield. Ann Yanni's, probably, Reacher thought. It
was right for her. She would drive top-down on her days
off and top-up during the working week, to keep her hair
OK for the cameras. Or maybe she used a lot of spray.