There’s something out there.
Reacher looked away, and looked around the room. And saw the guy he had seen the night before. In the convenience store. In the dark suit and the necktie. He was at the table under the window, looking out.
Detective Gloria Nakamura repeated her routine from the previous day. Up before dawn, showered, dressed, breakfasted, and out the door a whole hour early. To work, but not yet. She parked where she had before, and turned in on Scorpio’s street, and felt the guy at the laundromat door watching her all the way. She walked to the breakfast place and went in.
Her table was taken. Again. By the same guy as the day before. Bramall, Terrence, private investigator, Chicago. The same dark suit, a fresh shirt, a different tie.
And standing in the middle of the room was Bigfoot.
No doubt about it. The guy was huge. Not quite seven feet, but close. Almost to the ceiling. And he was wide. From shoulder to shoulder he looked like four basketballs in a rack in her high school gym. He had fists like Thanksgiving turkeys. He was wearing canvas work pants and a huge black T-shirt. His forearms were battered and sculpted. His hair was a mess. Like he had towelled it dry but not combed it. Like he didn’t even own a comb. He hadn’t shaved in days. His face was all bone and stubble. His eyes were pale blue, like her car, and he was looking straight at her.
Reacher saw a petite Asian woman, wearing a black skirt suit like a uniform. Five feet nothing, maybe 95 pounds soaking wet. Maybe thirty years old. Long black hair, big dark eyes, cute as a button. But no smile. A severe expression instead, as if she was in charge of something important. As if looking severe was the only way to stay in charge of it. Which was possibly true, when you were starting out from five feet nothing and 95 pounds. But whatever, she certainly wasn’t shy. She was looking straight back at him, openly, examining him, top to bottom and side to side. With some kind of dawning recognition in her eyes. Which he didn’t understand. Not at first. He was pretty sure he had never seen her before. He felt he would remember. Then he figured Jimmy Rat would have included a description. In the cover-your-ass phone call he must have made. A big guy in a black T-shirt is coming. Maybe the Asian woman worked for Arthur Scorpio. Maybe she had been briefed about the emergency.
Or maybe she was just an office worker, grumpy about her early start.
He looked away.
The guy in the necktie was still staring out the window. His expression was patient and contained. And equable. He looked like the type of guy who would give a polite answer to a reasonable question. But maybe only as a professional veneer. As if he held a place in a hierarchy where old-fashioned courtesy oiled the wheels. He reminded Reacher of army colonels he had known. Squared away, buttoned up, a little grey and dusty, but driven by some kind of quiet internal vigour and confidence.
Reacher took a table against the wall, at a distance, where he could see out the window over the other guy’s head. Nothing was happening out there. The sentry was still leaning on the laundromat wall. Not moving. The lights were on inside. There were no customers yet.
A waitress came by and Reacher ordered his go-to breakfast, which was coffee plus a short stack of pancakes with eggs, bacon and maple syrup. The coffee arrived first. Black, fresh, hot and strong. Pretty good.
The Asian woman sat down at his table.
She took a small vinyl wallet from her purse. She opened it up and held it out for inspection. On the left was a gold-coloured shield. On the right was a photo ID behind a plastic window. It said Nakamura, Gloria, Detective, Rapid City Police Department. It had a picture of her face. Dark eyes, a severe expression.
She said, ‘Were you in Wisconsin yesterday?’
Which told Reacher that Jimmy Rat had indeed made a phone call. And that the Rapid City PD was tapping Scorpio’s line. Which meant there was an active and ongoing investigation. Probably the typed transcript of Jimmy Rat’s call was already the new top sheet in the three-inch file.
But out loud he said, ‘Are you entitled to ask that question, even as a cop? I have the right to privacy, and the right to go where I want. It’s a First Amendment thing. And a Fourth.’
‘Are you declining to answer my question?’
‘No choice, I’m afraid. I was in the army. I swore an oath to uphold the Constitution. Can’t stop now.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Reacher. First name Jack. No middle initial.’
‘What did you do in the army, Mr Reacher?’
‘I was a military cop. A detective, just like you.’
‘And now you’re a private investigator?’
She glanced at the guy in the necktie as she said it.
Reacher asked her, ‘Is that guy a private investigator?’
She said, ‘I decline to answer your question.’
He smiled.
He said, ‘I’m not a private investigator. Just a private citizen. What did you hear from Wisconsin?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
‘Cop to cop. Because that’s what we are.’
‘Are we?’
‘If you want to be.’
She put her ID wallet back in her purse and took out her phone. She swiped through to a section with audio recordings. She chose one and touched an on-screen symbol. Reacher heard a plastic and distorted version of bar-room noise, and then Jimmy Rat’s voice. He recognized it right away. It sounded fast and nervous. It said, ‘Arthur, this is Jimmy. I just had a guy enquiring about an item I got from you. He seems set on working his way along the chain of supply. I didn’t tell him anything, but he already found me somehow, so what I’m thinking is maybe he’ll somehow find you too.’
Nakamura touched the pause symbol.
Reacher said, ‘Why would that be me?’
She pressed play again.
Jimmy Rat said, ‘If he does, take him seriously. That’s my advice. This guy is like Bigfoot come out of the forest. Heads up, OK?’
Nakamura pressed stop.
‘Bigfoot?’ Reacher said. ‘That’s not very nice.’
She said, ‘What item?’
‘Does it matter? All I want to do is ask Scorpio a question. Then I’ll be gone.’
‘Suppose he doesn’t answer?’
‘Jimmy in Wisconsin did.’
‘Scorpio has protection.’
‘So did Jimmy in Wisconsin.’
‘What item?’ Nakamura said again.
Reacher dug in his pocket and came out with the ring. West Point 2005. The gold filigree, the black stone, the tiny size. He put it on the table. Nakamura picked it up. She tried it on. Third finger, right hand. It fit easily. Even loosely. But then, she was five feet nothing and weighed 95 pounds. Her fingers were about as thin as pencils.
She took the ring off again. She weighed it in her palm. She looked at the inside, at the engraving. She asked, ‘Who is S.R.S.?’
‘I don’t know,’ Reacher said.