One Shot (50 page)

Chenko. Or, Charlie. In his right hand, rock-steady, was
a sawn-off with a pistol grip. In his left hand was some
kind of a black thing.

'Catch,' Charlie said.

He tossed the black thing underhand. Reacher
watched it tumble and sparkle through the air straight at
him and his subconscious said: Not a grenade. So he
caught it. Two-handed. It was a shoe. A woman's patent-leather dress shoe, black, with a heel. It was still slightly
warm.

'Now toss it back,' Charlie said. 'Just like I did.'

Reacher paused. Whose shoe was it? He stared down
at it.

Low heel.

Rosemary Barr's? 'Toss it back,' Charlie called. 'Nice
and slow.'

Assess and evaluate. Reacher was unarmed. He was
holding a shoe. Not a stone, not a rock. The shoe was
lightweight and unaerodynamic. It wouldn't do anyone
any harm. It would stall and flutter in the air and Charlie
would just swat it away.

'Toss it back,' Charlie said again.

Reacher did nothing. He could tear the heel off and
throw it like a dart. Like a missile. But Charlie would
shoot him while he was drawing his arm back and
winding up. Charlie was fifteen feet away, poised,
balanced, unblinking, with the gun rock steady in his
hand. Too close to miss, too far to get to.

'Last chance,' Charlie said.

Reacher soft-tossed the shoe back. A long, looping
underhand throw. Charlie caught it one-handed and it
was like the scene had rewound right back to the
beginning.

'She's in summer school,' Charlie said. 'Think about it
like that. She's going to get acquainted with the facts of
life. She's going to work on her testimony. About how
her brother planned in advance. About how he let slip
what he was going to do. She's going to be a great
witness. She's going to make the case. You understand
that, right?' Reacher said nothing.

'So the game is over now,' Charlie said.

Reacher said nothing.

'Take two steps backwards,' Charlie said.

Reacher took two steps backwards. They put him right
on the kerb. Now Charlie was twenty feet away. He was
still holding the shoe. He was smiling. 'Turn around,' he
said.

'You going to shoot me?' Reacher asked.

'Maybe.'

'You should.'

'Why?'

'Because if you don't, I'm going to find you and I'm
going to make you sorry.'

'Big talk.'

'Not just talk.'

'So maybe I'll shoot you.'

'You should.'

'Turn around,' Charlie said.

Reacher turned around.

'Now stand still,' Charlie said.

Reacher stood still. Faced the street. He kept his eyes
open. Stared down at the blacktop. It was laid over
ancient cobblestones. It was full of small humps in a
regular pattern. He started counting them, to fill what
might be the last seconds of his life. He strained to hear
sounds behind him. Listened for the whisper of clothing
as Charlie's arm extended. Listened for the quiet
metallic click as the trigger moved through its first tenth
of an inch. Would Charlie shoot? Common sense said
no. Homicides were always investigated. But these
people were crazy. And there was a fifty per cent chance
they owned a local cop. Or that he owned them. Silence.

Reacher strained to hear sounds behind him.

But he heard nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing at
all. One minute. Two. Then a hundred yards away to the
east he heard a siren. Just two brief electronic blips
from a cop car forcing a path through traffic.

'Stand still,' Charlie said again.

Reacher stood still. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then
two

police

cruisers

turned

into

the

street

simultaneously. One from the east and one from the
west. They were both moving fast. Their engines roared.

Their tyres howled.

Their sounds beat against the brick. They jammed to a
stop. Doors opened. Cops spilled out. Reacher turned
his head. Charlie wasn't there any more.

FOURTEEN

THE ARREST WAS FAST AND EFFICIENT. IT WENT

DOWN THE USUAL way. Guns, shouting, handcuffs,
Miranda. Reacher stayed silent throughout. He knew
better than to speak. He had been a cop for thirteen
years and he knew the kind of trouble that talking can
get a guy into. And the kind of delay it can cause. Say
something, and the cops have to stop to write it down.

And Reacher couldn't afford for anyone to stop. Not
right then.

The trip to the station house was mercifully short. Not
more than four blocks.

Reacher guessed it made sense that an ex-cop like
Franklin would pick an office location in the
neighbourhood he was accustomed to. He used the
drive time to work on a strategy. He figured he would be
taken straight to Emerson, which gave him a fifty per
cent chance of being put in a room with a bad guy.

Or with a good guy.

But he ended up a hundred per cent sure he was in a
room with a bad guy because Emerson and Alex Rodin
were both there together. Reacher was hauled out of the
squad car and hustled straight to Emerson's office.

Emerson was behind the desk. Rodin was in front of it.

Can't say a word, Reacher thought. But this has got to
be real fast. Then he thought: Which one? Rodin? Or
Emerson? Rodin was wearing a suit. Blue, summer
weight, expensive, maybe the same one as on Monday.

Emerson was in shirtsleeves. Playing with a pen.

Bouncing it off his blotter, one end, then the other. Get
on with it, Reacher thought.

'You weren't so hard to find,' Emerson said. Reacher
said nothing. He was still handcuffed. 'Tell us about the
night the girl was killed,' Rodin said.

Reacher said nothing.

'Tell us how it felt,' Emerson said. 'When her neck
snapped.' Reacher said nothing.

'The jury's going to hate you,' Rodin said.

Reacher said, 'Phone call'

'You want to lawyer up?' Emerson said.

Reacher said nothing.

'Who's your lawyer?' Rodin asked.

'Your daughter,' Reacher said.

'Want us to call her?' Emerson asked.

'Maybe. Or maybe Rosemary Barr instead.'

He watched their eyes.

'The sister?' Rodin said.

'You want us to call the sister?' Emerson said.

One of you knows she ain't going to answer, Reacher
thought. Which one?

Nothing in their eyes.

'Call Ann Yanni,' he said.

'From the TV?' Rodin said. 'Why her?'

'I get a phone call,' Reacher said. 'I don't have to
explain anything. I say who, you dial the number.' 'She'll
be getting ready to go on the air. The local news is at six
o'clock.' 'So we'll wait,' Reacher said. 'I've got all the
time in the world.' Which one of you knows that isn't
true?

They waited, but it turned out the wait wasn't long.

Emerson placed the call to NBC and told Ann Yanni's
assistant that the police department had arrested Jack
Reacher and that Reacher was requesting Yanni's
presence, reason unknown. It was a bizarre message.

But Yanni was in Emerson's office less than thirty
minutes later. She was a journalist on the scent of a
story. She knew that network tomorrow was better than
local today.

'How can I help?' she asked.

She had presence. She was a star in her market. And
she was media. Both Emerson and Rodin looked a little
intimidated. Not by her as an individual.

But by what she represented. 'I'm sorry,' Reacher said
to her. 'I know you won't want to, and I know I said I
would never tell, but under the circumstances you're
going to have to confirm an alibi for me. No choice, I'm
afraid.' He glanced at her. Saw her following his words.

Saw confusion cross her face. She had no reaction. He
kept his eyes on hers. No reaction. Help me out here,
girl.

One second.

Two seconds.

No reaction.

Reacher held his breath. Get with the damn
programme, Yanni. One more second and it's all going
to fall apart. No reaction.

Then she nodded. She caught on. Reacher breathed
out. Good call. Professional skill. She was a person
accustomed to hearing breaking news in her earpiece
and repeating it live on air half a second later like she
had known about it all her life. 'What alibi?' Emerson
said.

Yanni glanced at him. Then at Rodin.

'I thought this was about Jack Reacher,' she said.

'It is,' Emerson said.

'But this is Joe Gordon,' she said. 'At least, that's what
he told me.' 'He told you his name was Gordon?' "When
I met him.'

'Which was when?'

'Two days ago.'

'You've been running his picture on your show.' 'That
was his picture? It looked nothing like him. The hair was
totally different. No similarity at all.' 'What alibi?'

Emerson said again.

'For when?' Yanni asked.

'The night the girl was killed. That's what we're talking
about here.' Yanni said nothing.

Rodin said, 'Ma'am, if you know something, you need
to tell us now.' 'I'd rather not,' Yanni said.

Reacher smiled to himself. The way she said it
absolutely guaranteed that Emerson and Rodin were a
minute away from begging to hear the story. She was
standing there, blushing on command all the way up to
her temples, her back straight, her blouse open three
buttons. She was a hell of an actress. Reacher figured
maybe all news anchors were. 'It's a question of
evidence,' Emerson said. 'Obviously,' Yanni said. 'But
can't you just take my word?' 'For what?'

'That he didn't do it.'

'We need details,' Rodin said.

'I have to think of my reputation,' Yanni said. 'Your
statement won't be made public if we drop the charges.'

'Can you guarantee dropping the charges?'

'Not before we hear your statement,' Emerson said. 'So
it's a catch-22,'

Yanni said.

'I'm afraid it is.'

Don't push too far, Reacher thought. We don't have
time. Yanni sighed. Looked down at the floor. Looked
up, straight into Emerson's eyes, furious, embarrassed,
magnificent. We spent that night together,' she said.

'You and Reacher?'

The and Joe Gordon.'

Emerson pointed. 'This man?'

Yanni nodded. 'That man.'

'All night?'

'Yes.'

'From when to when?'

'From about eleven forty. When the news was over.

Until I got paged the next morning when you guys
found the body.' Where were you?'

Reacher closed his eyes. Recalled the conversation
the night before in the parking garage. The car window,
open an inch and a half. Had he told her? 'The motor
court,' Yanni said. 'His room.'

'The clerk didn't say he saw you.'

'Of course the clerk didn't see me. I have to think about
things like that.'