One Shot (28 page)

Linsky nodded and sat down in an armchair, a little
closer to the Zee than Chenko was. That maintained the
hierarchy in the proper order. The Zee was eighty, and
Linsky himself was more than sixty. Chenko and
Vladimir were both in their forties, important men for
sure, but comparative youngsters. They didn't have the
history that the Zee and Linsky shared. Not even close.

'Tea?' the Zee asked, in Russian.

'Please,' Linsky said.

'Chenko,' the Zee said. 'Bring Grigor a glass of tea.'

Linsky smiled inside. Chenko's being made to serve
him tea was a statement of the greatest importance. And
he noted that Chenko did it with no unwillingness. He
just got up out of his slouch and went out to the kitchen
and came back in with a glass of tea on a small silver
tray. Chenko was a very small man, short, wiry, no bulk
at all. He had coarse black hair that stuck up in all
directions, even though he kept it cropped short.

Vladimir was different. Vladimir was very tall and heavy
and blond. Unbelievably strong. It was entirely possible
that Vladimir had German genes somewhere in his
background. Perhaps his grandmother had picked them
up, back in 1941, like germs. We've been talking,' the
Zee said.

'And?' Linsky said.

'We have to confront the fact that we made a mistake.

Just one, but it could prove irksome.'

'The cone,' Linsky said.

'Obviously Barr isn't on tape placing it,' the Zee said.

'Obviously.'

'But will it be a problem?'

"Your opinion?' Linsky asked, politely.

'Significance is in the eye of the beholder,' the Zee
said. 'The detective Emerson and the DA Rodin won't
care about it. It's a minor detail, one they won't feel
inclined to pursue. Why would they? They're not
looking to trip themselves up. And no case is ever a
hundred per cent perfect. They know that. So they'll
write it off as an inexplicable loose end. They might
even convince themselves that Barr used a different
vehicle.' 'But?'

'But it's still a loose end. If the soldier tugs on it,
something might unravel.'

'The evidence against Barr is indisputable.'

The Zee nodded. 'That's true.'

'So won't that be enough for them?'

'Certainly it would have been. But it's possible that
Barr no longer exists.

Not in the sense that he's a legal entity accessible to
their jurisprudence.

He has permanent retrograde amnesia. It's possible
that Rodin won't be able to put him on trial. If so, Rodin
will be very frustrated about that. He'll be expected to
seek a consolation prize. And if the consolation prize
were eventually to assume a higher profile than Barr
himself, how could Rodin turn it down?' Linsky sipped
his tea. It was hot and sweet.

'All this from a videotape?' he said.

'It depends entirely on the soldier,' the Zee said. 'It
depends on his tenacity and his imagination.' 'He was a
military cop,' Chenko said, in English. 'Did you know
that?'

Linsky glanced at Chenko. Chenko rarely spoke
English in the house. He had a perfect American accent,
and sometimes Linsky thought he was ashamed of it.

'That doesn't necessarily impress me,' Linsky said, in
Russian.

'Or me,' the Zee said. 'But it's a factor we must weigh in
the balance.'

'Silencing him now would draw attention,' Linsky said.

'Wouldn't it?'

'It would depend on how it was done.'

'How many ways are there?'

'We could use the redheaded girl again,' the Zee said.

'She would be no use against the soldier. He's a giant,
and almost certainly extensively trained in self-defence.'

'But he already has an established issue with her.

Several people know she tried to set him up for a
beating.

Perhaps she could be found severely injured. If she
was, the soldier would be the obvious prime suspect.

We could let the police department silence him for us.'

'She would know who attacked her,' Vladimir said. 'She
would know it wasn't the soldier.'

The Zee nodded appreciatively. Linsky watched him.

He was accustomed to the Zee's methods. The Zee liked
to tease solutions out of people, like Socrates of old.

'Then perhaps she should be left unable to tell anyone
anything,' the Zee said.

'Dead?'

'We've always found that the safest way, haven't we?'

'But it's possible she has many enemies,' Vladimir
said. 'Not just him. Maybe she's a big time prick-teaser.'

'Then we should firm up the link. Possibly she should
be found somewhere suggestive. Maybe he invited her
out to renew their acquaintance.' 'In his hotel?'

'No, outside his hotel, I think. But close by. Where she
can be discovered by someone other than the soldier
himself. Someone who can call the police while the
soldier is still asleep. That way he's a sitting duck.' "Why
would her body be outside his hotel?'

'Evidently he hit her and she staggered away and
collapsed before she got very far.'

'The Metropole Palace,' Linsky said. 'That's where he
is.'

'When?' Chenko asked.

"Whenever you like,' the Zee said.

The Astros beat the Cardinals 10-7 after a limp
defensive performance by both franchises. Plenty of
cheap hits, plenty of errors. A bad way to win, and a
worse way to lose. Reacher had stopped paying
attention halfway through. He had started thinking
about Eileen Hutton instead. She was part of his
mosaic.

He had seen her once in the States before the Gulf, just
briefly across a crowded courtroom, just long enough
to register her head-turning quality, and he had
assumed he would never see her again, which he
figured was a pity. But then she had shown up in Saudi
as part of the long ponderous Desert Shield build-up.

Reacher had been there pretty much from the start, as a
recently demoted captain. The first stage of any clean-sheet foreign deployment always resembled gang
warfare between the MPs and the troops they were sent
out with, but after six weeks or so the situation usually
settled down some, and Desert Shield wasn't any
different. After six weeks there was a structure in place,
and in terms of military law enforcement a structure
demanded in-country personnel all the way up from
jailers to judges, and Hutton had shown up as one of
the prosecutors they shipped in. Reacher had assumed
it was volunteer duty for her, which he was happy
about, because that made it likely she was unmarried.

She was unmarried. First time their paths crossed, he
checked her left hand and saw no ring. Then he
checked her collar and saw a major's oak leaves. That
would make it a challenge, he figured, for a recently
demoted captain. Then he checked her eyes and saw
that the challenge would be worth it. Her eyes were blue
and full of intelligence and mischief. And promise, he
figured. And adventure. He had just turned thirty one
years old, and he was up for anything.

The desert heat helped. Most of the time the
temperature was above a hundred and twenty degrees
and apart from regular gas-attack practices standard
on-post dress devolved down to shorts and sleeveless
undershirts. And in Reacher's experience the close
proximity of hot and nearly naked men and women
always led somewhere good. Better than serving out
November in Minnesota, that was for damn sure.

The initial approach had promised to be tricky, given
the disparity in rank.

And when it came to it he fumbled it slightly, and was
saved only because she was just as up for it as he was,
and wasn't afraid to let it show. After that it had been as
smooth as silk, three long months. Good times. Then
new orders had come through, like they always did
eventually. He hadn't even said goodbye to her. Didn't
get the chance. Never saw her again, either.

I'll see her again tomorrow, he thought.

He stayed in the bar until ESPN started recycling the
highlights it had already shown once. Then he settled
up his tab and stepped out to the sidewalk, into the
yellow glare of the street lights. He decided he wouldn't
go back to the Metropole Palace. He decided it was time
for a change. No real reason. Just his normal restless
instinct. Keep moving.

Never stay in one place too long. And the Metropole
was a gloomy old pile.

Unpleasant, even by his undemanding standards. He
decided to try the motor court instead. The one he had
seen on his way to the auto parts store. The one next to
the barbershop. Any Style $7. Maybe he could get a
haircut before Hutton blew into town.

Chenko left the Zee's house at midnight. He took
Vladimir with him. If the redhead was to be beaten to
death, then Vladimir would have to do it. It had to look
right, forensically. Chenko was too small to inflict the
kind of battering that an enraged six foot five, two
hundred and fifty pound ex-soldier might be provoked
to. But Vladimir was a different matter. Vladimir might
well be able to do the job with a single blow, which
might be convincing on the postmortem slab. A refusal,
an objection, a sexual taunt, a big man might lash out
once in frustration, a little harder than he intended.

They were both familiar with the girl. They had met her
before, because of her connection to Jeb Oliver. They
had even all worked together once. They knew where
she lived, which was in a rented garden apartment that
nestled on a barren patch of land in the shadow of the
state highway, where it first rose on its stilts, south and
west of downtown. And they knew that she lived there
alone.

Reacher walked a long aimless three-block circle
before approaching the motor court. He kept his own
footsteps light and listened hard for the gritty crunch of
a shadow behind him. He heard nothing. Saw nothing.

He was alone.

The motor court was practically an antique. At one time
it must have been the latest thing and consequently
fairly upmarket. But since then the relentless march of
time and fashion had left it behind. It was well
maintained but not updated. It was exactly the kind of
place he liked.

He roused the clerk and paid cash for one night only.

He used the name Don Heffner, who had played second
base and hit.261 during the Yankees' lean year of 1934.

The clerk gave him a big brass key and pointed him
down the row to room number eight. The room was
faded and a little damp. The counterpane on the bed
and the drapes at the window looked original. So did the
bathroom. But everything worked and the door locked
tight. He took a short shower and folded his pants and
his shirt very carefully and put them flat under the
mattress. That was as close as ever he got to ironing.

They would look OK in the morning. He would shave
and shower very carefully and go to the barbershop
after breakfast. He didn't want to devalue whatever
memories Hutton might have retained. Assuming she
had retained any at all.

Chenko parked east of the highway and he and
Vladimir walked under it and approached the girl's
apartment building from the back, unseen. They kept
close to the wall and walked round to her door. Chenko
told Vladimir to keep out of sight. Then he knocked
gently. There was no response, which wasn't entirely
unexpected. It was late, and she was probably already
in bed. So Chenko knocked again, a little louder. And
again, as loud as he dared. He saw a light come on in a
window. Heard the quiet shuffle of feet inside. Heard her
voice, through the crack where the door met the jamb.