The Affair (14 page)

“I got the license plate off the wreck. Light blue car, from Oregon.” I recited the number from memory, and I heard him write it down.

He said, “Call me back in ten minutes. Don’t speak to a soul before that. No one, OK? Not a word.”

I ignored the letter
of the law by speaking to the waitress. I thanked her for my pie and coffee. She hung around a beat longer than she needed to. She had something on her mind. Turned out she was worried she might have gotten me in trouble by telling a stranger she had seen me. She was prepared to feel guilty about it. I got the impression Carter Crossing was the kind of place where private business stayed private. Where a small slice of the population didn’t want to be found.

I told her not to worry. By that point I was pretty sure who the mystery woman was. A process of elimination. Who else had the information and the imagination to find me?

The pie was good. Blueberries, pastry, sugar, and cream. Nothing healthy. No vegetable matter. It hit the spot. I took the full ten minutes to eat it, a little at a time. I finished my coffee. Then I walked over to the phone again and called Garber back.

He said, “We traced the car.”

I said, “And?”

“And what?”

“Whose is it?”

He said, “I can’t tell you that.”

“Really?”

“Classified information, as of five minutes ago.”

“Bravo Company, right?”

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t confirm or deny. Did you write the number down?”

“No.”

“Where’s the plate?”

“Where I found it.”

“Who have you told?”

“Nobody.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

“OK,” Garber said. “Here are your orders. Firstly, do not, repeat, do
not
give that number to local law enforcement. Not under any circumstances. Secondly, return to the wreck and destroy that plate immediately.”

Chapter

22

I obeyed the first part of Garber’s order, by not immediately
rushing around to the Sheriff’s Department and passing on the news. I disobeyed the second part, by not immediately rushing back to the debris field. I just sat in the diner and drank coffee and thought. I wasn’t even sure how to destroy a license plate. Burning it would conceal the state of origin, but not the number itself, which was embossed. In the end I figured I could fold it twice and stamp it flat and bury it.

But I didn’t go do that. I just sat there. I figured if I sat in a diner long enough, drinking coffee, my mystery woman would surely find me.

Which she did, five minutes later.

I saw her before
she saw me. I was looking out at a bright street, and she was looking in at a dim room. She was on foot. She was wearing black pants and black leather shoes, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket the color and texture of an old baseball glove. She was carrying a briefcase made of the same kind of material. She was lean and lithe and limber, and she seemed to be moving slower than the rest of the world, like fit strong people always do. Her hair was still dark, still cut short, and her face was still full of fast intelligence and rapid glances. Frances Neagley, First Sergeant, United States Army. We had worked together many times, tough cases and easy, long hauls and short. She was as close to a friend as I had, back in 1997, and I hadn’t seen her in more than a year.

She came in scanning for the waitress, ready to ask for an update. She saw me at my table and changed course immediately. No surprise in her face. Just fast assimilation of new information, and satisfaction that her method had worked. She knew the state and she knew the town, and she knew I drank a lot of coffee, and therefore a diner was where she would find me.

I used my toe and poked the facing chair out, like Deveraux had twice done for me. Neagley sat down, smooth and easy. She put her briefcase on the floor by her feet. No greeting, no salute, no handshake, no peck on the cheek. There were two things people needed to understand about Neagley. Despite her personal warmth she couldn’t bear to be physically touched, and despite her considerable talents she refused to become an officer. She had never given reasons for either thing. Some folks thought she was smart, and some folks thought she was crazy, but all agreed that with Neagley, no one would ever know for sure.

“Ghost town,” she said.

“The base is closed,” I said.

“I know. I’m up to speed. Closing the base was their first mistake. It’s as good as a confession.”

“Story is, they were worried about tension with the town.”

Neagley nodded. “Wouldn’t take much to start some, either way around. I saw the street behind this one. All those stores, lined up like a row of teeth, facing the base? Very predatory. Our people must be sick of getting laughed at and ripped off.”

“Seen anything else?”

“Everything. I’ve been here two hours.”

“How are you, anyway?”

“We have no time for social chit-chat.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s you that needs.”

“What do I need?”

“You need to get a damn clue,” she said. “This is a suicide mission, Reacher. Stan Lowrey called me. He’s worried. So I asked around. And Lowrey was right. You should have turned this whole thing down.”

“I’m in the army,” I said. “I go where I’m told.”

“I’m in the army too. But I avoid sticking my head in a noose.”

“Kelham is the noose. Munro is the one risking his neck. I’m on the sidelines here.”

“I don’t know Munro,” she said. “Never met him. Never even heard of him before. But dollars to doughnuts he’ll do what he’s told. He’ll cover it up and swear black is white. But you won’t.”

“A woman was killed. We can’t ignore that.”

“Three women were killed.”

“You know about that already?”

“I told you, I’ve been here two hours. I’m up to speed.”

“How did you find out?”

“I met the sheriff. Chief Deveraux herself.”

“When?”

“She dropped by her office. I happened to be there. I was asking for you.”

“And she told you stuff?”

“I gave her the look.”

“What look?”

Neagley blinked and composed herself and then tilted her face down a little and looked up at me, her eyes on mine, her eyes open wide and serious and frank and sympathetic and understanding and encouraging, her lips parted a fraction as if imminently ready to exhale a murmur of absolute empathy, her whole demeanor astonished and marveling at how bravely I was bearing the many heavy burdens my lot in life had brought me. She said, “This is the look. Works great with women. Kind of conspiratorial, right? Like we’re in the same boat?”

I nodded. It was a hell of a look. But I found myself disappointed that Deveraux had fallen for it. Some damn jarhead she was. I asked, “What else did she tell you?”

“Something about a car. She’s assuming it’s critical to the case and that it belonged to a Kelham guy.”

“She’s right. I just found the plate. Garber ran it and told me to sit on it.”

“And are you going to?”

“I don’t know. Might not be a lawful order.”

“See what I mean? You’re going to commit suicide. I knew it. I’m going to stick around and keep you out of trouble. That’s why I came.”

“Aren’t you deployed?”

“I’m in D.C. At a desk. They won’t miss me for a day or two.”

I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “I don’t need help. I know what I’m doing. I know how the game is played. I won’t sell myself cheap. But I don’t want to bring you down with me. If that’s the way it has to turn out.”

“Nothing
has
to turn out any which way, Reacher. It’s a choice.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

She made a face. “At least pick your battles.”

“I always do. And this one is as good as any.”

At that point
the waitress came out of the kitchen. She saw me, saw Neagley, recognized her from before, saw that we weren’t rolling around on the floor tearing each other’s eyes out, and her earlier guilt evaporated. She refilled my coffee mug. Neagley ordered tea, Lipton’s breakfast blend, water properly boiling. We sat in silence until the order was filled. Then the waitress went away again and Neagley said, “Chief Deveraux is a very beautiful woman.”

I said, “I agree.”

“Have you slept with her yet?”

“Certainly not.”

“Are you going to?”

“I guess I can dream. Hope dies last, right?”

“Don’t. There’s something wrong with her.”

“Like what?”

“She doesn’t care. She’s got three unsolved homicides and her pulse is as slow as a bear in winter.”

“She was a Marine MP. She’s been digging the same ditch we have, all her life. How excited do you get about three dead people?”

“I get professionally excited.”

“She thinks a Kelham guy did it. Therefore she has no jurisdiction. Therefore she has no role. Therefore she can’t get professionally excited.”

“Whatever, there’s a bad vibe there. That’s all I’m saying. Trust me.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I mentioned your name and she looked at me like you owe her money.”

“I don’t.”

“Then she’s crazy about you. I could tell.”

“You say that about every woman I meet.”

“But this time it’s true. I mean it. Her cold little heart was going pitter patter. Be warned, OK?”

“Thanks anyway,” I said. “But I don’t need a big sister on this occasion.”

“Which reminds me,” she said. “Garber is asking about your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Scuttlebutt on the sergeants’ network. Garber has put a watch on your office, for notes or calls from your brother. He wants to know if you’re in regular contact.”

“Why would he?”

“Money,” Neagley said. “That’s all I can think of. Your brother is still at Treasury, right? Maybe there’s a financial issue with Kosovo. Got to be warlords and gangsters over there. Maybe Bravo Company is bringing money home for them. You know, laundering it. Or stealing it.”

“How would that tie in with a woman named Janice May Chapman, from the armpit of Mississippi?”

“Maybe she found out. Maybe she wanted some for herself. Maybe she was a Bravo Company girlfriend.”

I didn’t reply.

“Last chance,” Neagley said. “Do I stay or do I go?”

“Go,” I said. “This is my problem, not yours. Live long and prosper.”

“Parting gift,” she said. She leaned down and opened her briefcase and came out with a slim green file folder. It was printed on the outside with the words
Carter County Sheriff’s Department
. She laid it on the table and put her hand flat on it, ready to slide it across. She said, “You’ll find this interesting.”

I asked, “What is it?”

“Photographs of the three dead women. They’ve all got something in common.”

“Deveraux gave this to you?”

“Not exactly. She left it unattended.”

“You stole it?”

“Borrowed it. You can return it when you’re done. I’m sure you’ll find a way.” She slid the file across to me, she stood up, and she walked away. No handshake, no kiss, no touch. I watched her push out through the door, watched her turn right on Main Street, and watched her disappear.

The waitress heard the
door as Neagley left. Maybe there was a repeater bell in the kitchen. She came out to check if there was a new arrival and saw that there wasn’t. She contented herself with refilling my mug for the second time, and then she went back to the kitchen. I squared the green file in front of me and opened it up.

Three women. Three victims. Three photographs, all taken in the last weeks or months of their lives. Nothing sadder. Cops ask for a recent likeness, and distraught relatives scurry to choose from what they have. Usually they come up with joy and smiles, prom pictures or studio portraits or vacation snapshots, because joy and smiles are what they want to remember. They want the long grim record to start with life and energy.

Janice May Chapman had showed plenty of both. Her photograph was a waist-up color shot taken at what looked like a party. She was half-turned toward the camera, looking directly into the lens, smiling in the first seconds of spontaneity. A well-timed click. The photographer had not caught her unawares, but neither had he made her pose too long.

Pellegrino had been wrong. He had called her real pretty, but that was like calling America fairly big. Real pretty was a serious underestimate. In life Chapman had been absolutely spectacular. It was hard to imagine a more beautiful woman. Hair, eyes, face, smile, shoulders, figure, everything. Janice May Chapman had had it all going on, that was for sure.