One Shot (49 page)

We have to get him out.' 'We need medical opinions for
that,' Ann Yanni said. 'Regular doctors now, not
psychiatrists.' 'Will NBC pay?' Helen Rodin asked.

'If it's likely to work.'

'It should,' Rosemary said. 'I mean, shouldn't it?

Parkinson's is a real thing, isn't it? Either he's got it or
he hasn't.' 'It might work at trial,'

Reacher said. 'A plausible reason why James Barr
couldn't have done it, plus a plausible narrative about
someone else doing it? That's usually how you create
reasonable doubt' 'Plausible is a big word,' Franklin
said. 'And reasonable doubt is a risky concept. Better to
get Alex Rodin to drop the charges altogether. Which
means convincing Emerson first.' 'I can't talk to either
one of them,' Reacher said.

'I can,' Helen said.

'I can,' Franklin said.

'And I sure as hell can,' Ann Yanni said. 'We all can,
apart from you.'

'But you might not want to,' Reacher said.

'Why not?' Helen asked. you're not going to like this
part very much.'

Why not?' Helen asked again.

'Think,' Reacher said. 'Work backwards. The thing with
Sandy being killed, and the thing in the sports bar
Monday night, why did those two things happen?'

'To tie you up. To prevent you hurting the case.'

'Correct. Two attempts, same aim, same goal, same
perpetrator.'

'Obviously.'

'And the thing Monday night started with me being
followed from my hotel.

Sandy and Jeb Oliver and his other pals were cruising
around, standing by, waiting until someone called them
and told them where I ended up. So really it started with
me being followed to my hotel. Much earlier in the day.'

'We've been through all of this.'

'But how did the puppet master get my name? How did
he even know I was in town? How did he know there
was a guy here who was a potential problem?'

'Someone told him.'

'Who knew, early in the day on Monday?'

Helen paused a beat.

'My father,' she said. 'Since early on Monday morning.

And then Emerson, presumably. Shortly afterwards.

They'll have talked about the case. They'll have
communicated immediately if there was a danger that
the wheels were coming off.' 'Correct,' Reacher said.

'Then one of those two guys called the puppet master.

Well before lunch on Monday.' Helen said nothing.

'Unless one of those two guys is the puppet master,'

Reacher said.

'The Zee is the puppet master. You said so yourself.'

'I said he's Charlie's boss. That's all. We've got no way
of knowing whether he's actually at the top of the tree.'

You're right,' Helen said. 'I don't like this line of thinking
at all.'

'Someone communicated,' Reacher said. 'That's for
damn sure. Either your father or Emerson. My name was
on the street two hours after I got off the bus. So one of
them is bent and the other one won't help us either
because he already likes the case exactly the way it is.'

The room went quiet.

'I need to get back to work,' Ann Yanni said.

Nobody spoke.

'Call me if there's news,' Yanni said.

The room stayed quiet. Reacher said nothing. Ann
Yanni crossed the room.

Stopped next to him. 'Keys,' she said. He dug in his
pocket and handed them over. 'Thanks for the loan,' he
said. 'Nice car.'

Linsky watched the Mustang leave. It went north. Loud
engine, loud exhaust. It was audible for a whole block.

Then the street went quiet again and Linsky dialled his
phone. The television woman is out of there,' he said.

'The private detective will stay at work,' the Zee said.

'So what if the others leave together?'

'I hope they don't.'

'What if they do?'

'Take them all.'

Rosemary Barr asked, 'Is there a cure? For
Parkinson's Disease?'

'No,' Reacher said. 'No cure, no prevention. But it can
be slowed down. There are drugs for it. Physiotherapy
helps. And sleep. The symptoms disappear when a
person is asleep.' 'Maybe that's why he wanted the pills.

To escape.'

'He shouldn't try to escape too much. Social contact is
good.'

'I should go to the hospital,' Rosemary said.

'Explain to him,' Reacher said. 'Tell him what really
happened on Friday.'

Rosemary nodded. Crossed the room and went out
the door. A minute later Reacher heard her car start up
and drive away.

Franklin went out to the kitchenette to make coffee.

Reacher and Helen Rodin were left alone in the office
together. Reacher sat down in the chair that Rosemary
Barr had used. Helen stepped to the window and looked
down at the street below. She kept her back to the room.

She was dressed the same as Rosemary Barr. Black
shirt, black skirt, black patent leather shoes. But she
didn't look like a widow. She looked like something from
New York or Paris.

Her heels were higher and her legs were long and bare
and tan. 'These guys we're talking about are Russians,'

she said.

Reacher said nothing.

'My father is an American,' she said.

'An American called Aleksei Alekseivitch,' Reacher
said. 'Our family came here before World War One.

There's no possible connection. How could there be?

These people we're talking about are low-life Soviets.'

What did your father do before he was the DA?'

'He was an assistant DA.'

'Before that?'

'He always worked there.'

'Tell me about his coffee service.'

What about it?'

'He uses china cups and a silver tray. The county
didn't buy them for him.'

'So?'

'Tell me about his suits.'

'His suits?'

'On Monday he was wearing a thousand-dollar suit.

You don't see many public servants wearing thousand-dollar suits.' 'He's got expensive tastes.'

'How does he afford them?'

'I don't want to talk about this.'

'One more question.'

Helen said nothing.

'Did he pressure you not to take the case?'

Helen said nothing. Looked left. Looked right. Then
she turned round. 'He said losing might be winning.'

'Concern for your career?'

'I thought so. I still think so. He's an honest man.'

Reacher nodded.

'There's a fifty per cent chance you're right' Franklin
came back in with the coffee, which was a thin own-brand brew in three non-matching pottery mugs, two of
them chipped, on a cork bar tray, with an open carton of
half-and-half and a yellow box of sugar and a single
pressed steel spoon. He put the tray on the desk and
Helen Rodin stared at it, like it was making Reacher's
point for him: This is how coffee is served in an office.

'David Chapman knew your name on Monday,' she said.

'James Barr's first lawyer. He's known about you since
Saturday.'

'But he didn't know I ever showed up,' Reacher said. 'I
assume nobody told him.' 'I knew your name,' Franklin
said. 'Maybe I should be in the mix too.'

'But you knew the real reason I was here,' Reacher
said. 'You wouldn't have had me attacked. You'd have
had me subpoenaed.' Nobody spoke.

'I was wrong about Jeb Oliver,' Reacher said. 'He isn't
a dope dealer. There was nothing in his barn except an
old pickup truck.' 'I'm glad you can be wrong about
something,' Helen said.

'Jeb Oliver isn't Russian,' Franklin said.

'Apple pie,' Reacher said.

'Therefore these guys can work with Americans. That's
what I'm saying. It could be Emerson. Doesn't have to
be the DA.' 'Fifty per cent chance,'

Reacher said. 'I'm not accusing anybody yet.' 'If you're
right in the first place.'

'The bad guys were all over me very fast.'

'Doesn't sound like either Emerson or the DA to me,
and I know them both.'

'You can say his name,' Helen said. 'His name is Alex
Rodin.'

'I don't think it's either one of them,' Franklin said.

'I'm going back to work,' Helen said.

'Give me a ride?' Reacher asked. 'Let me out under the
highway?'

'No,' Helen said. 'I really don't feel like doing that.'

She picked up her purse and her briefcase and walked
out of the office alone.

Reacher sat still and listened to the sounds out on the
street. He heard a car door opening and closing. An
engine starting. A car driving away. He sipped his coffee
and said, 'I guess I upset her.' Franklin nodded. 'I guess
you did.'

'These guys have got someone on the inside. That's
clear, right? That's a fact. So we should be able to
discuss it.'

'A cop makes more sense than a DA.'

'I don't agree. A cop controls his own cases only.

Ultimately a prosecutor controls everything.'

'I'd prefer it that way. I was a cop.'

'So was I,' Reacher said.

'And I have to say, Alex Rodin kills a lot of cases.

People say it's caution, but it could be something else.'

'You should analyse what kind of cases he kills.'

'Like I don't have enough to do already.'

Reacher nodded. Put his mug down. Stood up.

'Start with Oline Archer,' he said. 'The victim. She's
what's important now.'

Then he stepped to the window and checked the
street. Saw nothing. So he nodded to Franklin and
walked down the hallway and out the door to the top of
the outside staircase.

He paused on the top step and stretched in the
warmth. Rolled his shoulders, flexed his hands, took a
deep breath of air. He was cramped from driving and
sitting all day. And oppressed by hiding out. It felt good
just to stand still and do nothing, high up and exposed.

Out in the open, in the daylight. Below him to his left the
cars were gone except for the black Suburban. The
street was quiet. He glanced to his right. There was
traffic building up on the north-south drag. To his left,
there was less. He figured he would dodge west first.

But a long way west, because the police station must be
near. He would need to loop round it. Then he would
head north. North of downtown was a warren. North of
downtown was where he felt best. He started down the
stairs.

As he stepped off onto the sidewalk at the bottom he
heard a footfall fifteen feet behind him. A side-step. Thin
soles on limestone grit. Quiet. Then the unmistakable
crunch-crunch of a pump-action shotgun racking a
round. Then a voice.

It said: 'Stop right there.'

An American accent. Quiet, but distinct. From
somewhere way north. Reacher stopped. Stood still and
stared straight ahead at a blank brick wall across the
street. The voice said: 'Step to your right.'

Reacher stepped to his right. A long sideways shuffle.

The voice said: 'Now turn around real slow.'

Reacher turned around, real slow. He kept his hands
away from his body, palms out. Saw a small figure
fifteen feet away. The same guy he had seen the night
before, from the shadows. Not more than five-four, not
more than a hundred and thirty pounds, slight, pale,
with cropped black hair that stuck up crazily.