Jack and Joe: Hunt for Jack Reacher Series (The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series Book 6) (12 page)

The section of highway at mile marker #224 was the most treacherous pavement for ten miles on either side of the crash site. Which just happened to be the stretch between the truck stop,
The Lucky Bar
, and the Fort Bird exit.

Everybody who drove that route regularly would have known the danger. Which would’ve included the two big rig drivers as well as Colonel Summer. One problem was that Summer had made no secret of her trip to Bird and the reason she was coming. She was investigating corruption, she’d said. Which was her normal, daily job. Tacking on the interview with me seemed like an afterthought.

“Orchestrating that crash would’ve taken the precision of a big-budget Hollywood production’s stunt team. But it’s true that only one person died. One vehicle between the two rigs. No collateral damage.” Gaspar nodded as he worked through the steps I’d already trod. “That’s a little too convenient. Finding out how it was done might lead us to the motive and the Machiavelli at the helm.”

When he’d caught up to my logic on those points, I asked my question again. “So what
do
you think about Lesley Browning?”

He glanced at me and cocked his head. “Seems like Tony Clifton definitely wanted us to talk to her. She must know something that we don’t.”

“Who doesn’t?” I shrugged. “But what does she know that’s important to us? And why does Tony Clifton want us to find out?”

CHAPTER 16

Gaspar frowned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m a cop, not a mind reader. You tell me what smiling Tony is up to with us.”

One of us needed to go into the interview with an open mind, so I didn’t answer. “Here’s our exit. We’re about ten minutes away.”

Gaspar tapped the brake to release the cruise control and floated the Crown Vic into the exit lane as it slowed. At the bottom of the ramp was the usual cluster of gas stations and fast food joints. Gaspar pulled into one of the burger places and parked. He held up his left hand, palm flat like a traffic cop. “I know you want me to be completely comfortable.”

“You bet, Chico.” A bathroom-and-coffee break seemed like a good idea to me as well. “Meet you back here in a few.”

He turned off the engine and locked the car as we walked toward the building. His limp was more pronounced until he walked it out, as always after an extended period of sitting. We peeled apart and took care of business.

I returned to the car first. He was a few minutes longer. He’d probably stopped to call Marie while I stood outside shaking in the cold, which was more than reasonable. But again, I wondered what was going on besides the new baby. Right now, we had plenty to worry about, so I let it go.

When he arrived with the keys and unlocked the Crown Vic, I noticed the Boss’s cell phones resting inside their envelopes in the back seat. Which reminded me of the flat manila envelope. I popped the trunk, hustled around back, retrieved the flat one, slammed the trunk lid, and returned to the front seat.

Gaspar raised both eyebrows. “What is that?”

“Not sure. The soldier at the Fort Bird gate yesterday handed it to me when I turned in my visitor pass on the way out.” I showed the envelope to him. “Maybe something from the Boss. Haven’t had a chance to open it.” That earned a puzzled look from him, but he let it pass.

My name had been hand printed on the front along with my title in all capital letters. The sort of generic printing you’d find on any field report. FBI SPECIAL AGENT KIM L. OTTO

I held out my left palm. “Hand me your pocket knife.”

Gaspar fished into his right front pocket and pulled out the small jackknife that lived on his key ring.

I opened the two-inch blade and used it to slit the envelope’s bottom edge, leaving the top edge undisturbed. I closed the knife and handed it back. It was a long shot, but there could’ve been DNA on the seal.

One palm on each edge, I pushed the envelope to widen it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, which might yield forensic evidence later, but probably wouldn’t.

Without pulling the sheet out—I’d wait for that until I could document the envelope and preserve potential forensics, just in case—I could see that, printed on the front side of the paper, was a color photograph of Summer’s fatal crash. The scene was recognizable despite poor print quality. I’d seen similar images at least a dozen times since yesterday, from a variety of angles and sources. My first glimpse had been news video on the big-screen TV in the lobby of the New Haven Grand Lodge, although I hadn’t known Summer was involved in the crash then. After Tony Clifton had told me about Summer, I’d downloaded several TV reports to my laptop and watched them on the plane.

The panoramic image in this photograph was distinctive, though. It had been snapped by a drone or satellite camera. The shot captured the area surrounding mile marker #224, including both big rigs, and what had once been Colonel Summer’s jaunty red sports car.

It took me several long seconds to realize that the crash had happened mere moments before the photo was taken, as Summer’s car was a mangled mess, but both tractor drivers were still seated in their cabs.

I flipped the envelope over. With more manipulation, I could see the back of the photo paper. The same block printing had been used. 19 NOVEMBER 09:53. The exact time of the crash.

I let the envelope flatten again and handed it to Gaspar.

He examined the front, back, and self-sticking seal. He frowned when he saw the image. His frown deepened when he saw the printing on the back. He had studied both sides of the photo for a good long time before he returned the envelope to me.

“There must be millions of envelopes exactly like that at Fort Bird. Government buys them by the truckload. Nothing traceable about it as far as I can see. And that handwriting is about as generic as handwriting can be.”

I popped the trunk, released the seatbelt and returned the envelope to a secure location in my bag where it would not be damaged or discovered until we had the opportunity to inspect further.

When I returned to the front seat and settled in again, Gaspar said, “That warning is the kind of thing the Boss would do. He couldn’t talk to you on a secure line because your phone was gone. He’d have wanted to send you a warning.”

“Maybe.” The Boss’s motives were never that pure. He had a hidden agenda. We were all involved in a high-stakes chess match in which he was the king and we were pawns. He’d made it abundantly clear that he intended to win and he was willing to sacrifice both Gaspar and me to do it. “How do you feel about Tony Clifton now?”

“He could have managed to deliver that envelope, sure.” Gaspar nodded slowly. “If he did, it means he’d have known Summer was already dead the whole time. When he was talking to you, in his office and all the way through lunch. And he never said anything.”

“That would make him a pretty cold bastard, don’t you think?” The hair on the back of my neck was tingling, but I’d felt nothing of the kind when he was alone with me in my hotel room. At least, I didn’t remember feeling the least bit apprehensive. “Chatting with me, flirting with female officers, laughing with his colleagues. Offering to help. Telling me stories about Joe Reacher teaching him chess.”

I stopped for breath and considered the idea. “And all the time, he knew Summer was dead?”

“Every soldier is a trained killer, Sunshine. Most of us get in, do the job, and get out. But trust me when I tell you that it takes a certain kind of emotional detachment to excel at that particular skillset for a couple of decades.” Gaspar had started the Crown Vic and flipped the heat on, but the transmission was still firmly in Park. His full attention was on the subject. “These days, the Army’s a lot smaller. More and better candidates for fewer officer slots.”

I nodded. Modern warfare was long on technology and shorter on human hands. And about to get even shorter. A big argument was going on in Washington right now about budget cuts and forced reductions again. The politicians were adamant about defense spending cuts and the Pentagon objected to being forced to do more with less. The battle seemed endless.

Gaspar rolled his shoulders and stretched his right leg again. “Which means these days that only two kinds of soldiers get promoted as far up the ladder as Matt and Tony Clifton. The really good ones, and the ones that are very well connected.”

“Or both really good
and
well connected.” I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking through the exact sequence of events from the time I got the order to interview Summer from the Boss though my exit from Fort Bird. “Threatening a guy well-connected and very skilled like that could be a quick way to an early grave.”

“We’re late. We’ve got to go.” Gaspar moved the big tank’s transmission into drive and rolled slowly toward Pine Street. He turned right, following the GPS directions to Woodland Estates, while we both sat with our own vibes, as my mother would say.

CHAPTER 17

Lesley Browning’s bio said she lived here with her husband and two high school-aged kids. She’d been married only once after Joe Reacher. The second marriage had produced the kids.

Twin girls, aged fifteen. Based on photos, they were the image of what their mother must have looked like back when Joe knew her. Which is to say cute, freckled, friendly. Not sexy or beautiful in any conventional way. More like wholesome, trustworthy, and reliable.

Which told me more about young Joe Reacher than a complete set of encyclopedia-length background checks. But Joe Reacher was dead and not our assignment.

Was there anything to be gleaned from Lesley Browning about Joe’s brother Jack?

Some brothers were as different as night and day. They looked different, pursued divergent careers, even communicated like strangers sometimes. The Reacher brothers might have been like that.

Based on their Army headshots, though, Joe and Jack Reacher were like my own three brothers. Which is to say they could have been clones. And DNA is destiny. But a tiny variance in one of those genes could make a whale of a difference.

Both Reachers were big and fair with blue eyes and broad shoulders. They were Army brats. Born on the other side of the world and raised on bases around the globe.

They could have been glued together or wedged apart by those experiences. Joe was older and entered West Point first, and Jack, like younger brothers everywhere, followed. Similarities could have ended there. Or not.

Maybe we’d get lucky with Lesley Browning. This interview could be the break we needed to finally make some progress. I hoped.

Woodland Estates was a well-established neighborhood. The homes were enormous by my Detroit area standards. Brick construction, multiple rooflines, four-car garages, wide lots with plenty of grass. Perfect asphalt pavement curved through the neighborhood abutted by unblemished cement curbs. Flat sidewalks beribboned the lush green lawns and what was left of the flowering annuals.

Either Lesley Browning and her family were well beyond upwardly mobile, dwelling within firmly settled one-percenters, or the cost of living in suburban Nashville was significantly below the national median. Given the strong economy here, I’d bet my government salary on the former.

Gaspar parked the Crown Vic in the circular driveway of the mini-mansion because there were no cars parked on the streets. The last thing we needed today was to be towed. We left the car and approached the double oak doors in the center of the main façade. Gaspar leaned over and rang the bell.

I expected a butler or maid or something to be standing on the other side, but the door was opened by one of the twins. She smiled wide, revealing a mouth full of multi-colored braces.

Putting a friendly tone in my voice, I said, “I’m Kim Otto and this is Carlos Gaspar. Is your mom around?”

She shook hands with me and her smile never faltered for a second. I detected no wariness at all. “Come in. It’s really cold out there.” She stepped back into the foyer and pulled the door open wide.

“That would be great.” I stepped into the dimly lit interior and Gaspar followed me, closing the door behind him. “We’ll wait here.”

For the first time, her composure faltered slightly. Perhaps she was realizing now that if we were really friends of her mother’s, we would have continued the chatter and followed her into the house.

“I-I’ll be right back,” she said before she turned and slipped toward the back of the house. My stomach growled in response to the aroma of baking desserts wafting to my nose. It was the time of year when baked goods and party foods abounded. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. Attendance at the Otto family feast was mandatory.

The house seemed symmetrically divided on each side of the front entrance. The large open foyer was roughly the size of my entire Detroit apartment. A wide staircase curved up one level on the right side of the foyer. Double doors to our left and right led to rooms on either side of the entry, and straight ahead was the back of the house, where the kitchen must have been.

We waited two full minutes for Lesley Browning, long enough that I began to wonder whether she was home after all. But she emerged with a flour smudge on her nose, wearing an apron, and drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She began talking as she approached.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Katie said you were here and I thought she would just bring you back.” By the time she stopped walking and talking, she was close enough that I could see her freckles. She reached out for a firm handshake just as her daughter had. “You work with my husband, right? He said you’d be later, so I’m sorry that I’m not quite ready.”