The Midnight Line (5 page)

He stood in the dark a minute more, and then headed back the way he had come. On the opposite corner he stopped in at the convenience store. He figured a cup of coffee would be a good idea. Maybe a sandwich. He was hungry. There was another guy in there on the same mission. He was standing at the deli counter sipping from a go-cup. He was a small man, neat and compact, in a dark suit and a necktie. Apparently he had ordered an elaborate construction involving a fried egg and a large quantity of grated cheese. Clearly not worried about cholesterol. The counterman finished his work and wrapped the sloppy result first in paper, and then in aluminum foil. He handed it over and the guy in the suit turned and stepped around Reacher and headed for the door.

Reacher ordered his go-to, which was roast beef and Swiss cheese, with mayo and mustard, on white bread. Plus coffee. The counterman turned away and spun up the slicing machine. Reacher asked him, “What do you know about the laundromat down the block?”

The guy turned back. The blade hissed and sung behind him. He looked puzzled at first, and then a little hostile, as if he suspected someone was making fun of him. Then he looked preoccupied, as if he was struggling with a difficult arithmetic calculation, and coming out with an answer he liked but didn't trust.

He said, “That's what the other guy just asked.”

Reacher said, “The guy with the fried egg sandwich?”

“But what does that kind of guy need with a laundromat? The suits go to the dry cleaner, and the shirts get starched for a buck and a half. Am I right?”

“I'll be back in a second,” Reacher said.

He stepped to the door, and out to the sidewalk.

No sign of the guy in the suit and the tie.

No echo of lonely nighttime footsteps.

Reacher came back in and stepped back to the counter, and the guy making his sandwich said, “He would need to wash his underwear, maybe. And socks. But all the hotels have laundry bags in the closet. A guy like that wouldn't sit and watch the soap suds go around and around.”

“You think he's staying in a hotel?”

“He's not local. Did you get a look at him? He's some kind of a professional person. I would say a lawyer, in town to try a big case, but he didn't look rich enough. So now I'm thinking IRS or something. A government worker. And then you asked the same question. About the laundromat. I don't think you're IRS, but you could be a cop. So now I'm thinking Arthur Scorpio has got trouble coming.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it works. Mr. Scorpio has been in trouble before. Nothing ever sticks.”

The next morning Reacher left his not-free room just as the sun was coming up. He retraced his steps from the night before, until the last couple of blocks, which he looped around at a distance, until he was beyond them. Then he doubled back, toward Scorpio's alley from the far side, and he peeked in.

There was a sentry posted at the laundromat's rear door. Leaning on the wall, arms folded, short black coat, black sweater, black pants and shoes. Maybe forty years old, maybe six-two, maybe two-ten.

Reacher backed away, and looped around again at the same distance he had used before, two blocks over, two blocks down, so he could approach the breakfast place unseen, from the rear. He figured it would have an alley of its own behind it. Like Scorpio's place. A necessary amenity. Greasy spoons generated a lot of trash. Eggshells, coffee grounds, packaging, leftovers. Drums of used grease. And where there was an alley would be a kitchen door. It would be open. Almost certainly a legal requirement.
This door must remain unlocked during business hours
. To act as a fire escape for the cook. Another necessary amenity. Greasy spoon kitchens burned like napalm.

Reacher found the alley. Found the door. He went in through the kitchen. Into the dining room. He focused on the window, and stepped left for a better view.

There was a second sentry at the laundromat's front door. Same kind of guy. Same kind of pose. Leaning on the wall, impassive, dressed in black.

Arthur Scorpio was taking precautions.

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 toweled 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 ninety-five 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 ninety-five 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 gray and dusty, but driven by some kind of quiet internal vigor 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-colored 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 barroom 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 inquiring 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 ninety-five 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.

“So what's the story?”

“I found it in a pawn shop in a small town in Wisconsin. It's not the kind of thing you would give up easily. This woman suffered four hard years to get it. Every day they tried to break her and make her quit. That's how West Point works. And 9/11 had just happened. Those were serious years. And what came afterward was worse. Iraq, and Afghanistan. She might have sold her car, or the watch she got from her aunt for Christmas, but she wouldn't have sold her ring.”

“Does this guy Jimmy own the pawn shop?”

Reacher shook his head. “He's a local biker. Goes by the name Jimmy Rat. He wholesaled the ring along with a bunch of other trinkets. He told me he got it from Arthur Scorpio, here in Rapid City. So now I want to know who Arthur Scorpio got it from. That's the only question I want to ask him.”

“He won't tell you.”

“That's what the guy in the pawn shop said about Jimmy Rat.”

Nakamura didn't reply. Nothing was happening out the window. The waitress came back with Reacher's meal. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, maple syrup. It looked good. He asked for more coffee. Nakamura ordered hot tea and a bran muffin.

Reacher put the ring back in his pocket.

The guy in the necktie got up and left.

Still nothing happening out the window.

Reacher asked, “What kind of private investigator is he?”

Nakamura said, “I didn't say he was.”

“I told you stuff. Now you can tell me stuff.”

The waitress brought Nakamura's muffin. It was about as big as her head. She broke off a pea-sized crumb and ate it.

She said, “He's from Chicago. His name is Terry Bramall. He's retired FBI. He finds missing persons.”

“Who is he looking for here?”

“I don't know.”

“Is Scorpio a kidnapper too?”

“We don't think so.”

“Yet Mr. Bramall from Chicago is watching his place. Not just this morning. He was in the neighborhood last night. I saw him in the convenience store.”

“You got in last night?”

Reacher nodded. “Pretty late.”

“You came straight here from Wisconsin. This is important to you.”

“I could have gotten here sooner. I took a nap in Sioux Falls.”

“Exactly how did you get Arthur Scorpio's name from Jimmy Rat?”

“I asked him nicely.”

She didn't reply. He carried on eating his breakfast. She sipped her tea. There was a long silence.

Then she said, “Arthur Scorpio is not well liked within the police department.”

“Understood,” Reacher said.

“Nevertheless I am officially required to warn you against committing any kind of crime inside our jurisdiction.”

“Don't worry,” Reacher said. “All I'm going to do is ask him a question. No law against that.”

“What if he doesn't answer?”

“I suppose that's always a theoretical possibility,” Reacher said.

She took a business card from her purse. She put it on the table, near his coffee cup. She said, “Those are my numbers. Office and cell. Call me if you need to talk. Scorpio is a dangerous man. Never forget that.”

She put five bucks on the table. For her tea and her muffin. Then she got up and left. Out the door, along the sidewalk, and out of sight.

Still nothing happening out the window.

She had left her muffin. Whole and untouched, apart from the pea-sized crumb she had eaten. So Reacher ate the rest of it, with another mug of coffee. Then he called for his check, and asked for quarters in his change. He stopped in the restroom corridor, where there was a pay phone on the wall. Just like there was in the bar in Wisconsin. Which was where Jimmy Rat had made his call to Arthur Scorpio. The background noise proved it. Reacher had seen the guy loop around the line of bikes, to the rear of the building, where he must have gone in the back door, where he must have seen the phone on the wall, where he must have decided upon an immediate warning. Right there and then. While Reacher was still outside, still talking to the county cop.

Some kind of urgency.

Reacher leaned on the wall, where he could still watch the front window, and he dialed the same ancient number from memory.

The same woman answered.

“West Point,” she said. “Superintendent's office. How may I help you?”

“This is Reacher,” he said.

“Wait one, major.”

She knew his rank. She had read his file. There was a click, and a long silence, and then another click, and a man's voice said, “This is the supe.”

The superintendent. The big boss. What any other college would call the president.

Reacher said, “Good morning, general,” politely but vaguely, because he didn't know the guy's name. He didn't keep up with alumni affairs. But the supe was always a general. Usually smart and accomplished, sometimes progressive, never a pushover.

The guy said, “Your inquiry yesterday was most irregular.”

“Yes, sir,” Reacher said, purely out of habit. In such situations there were only three permissible responses at West Point: Yes sir, no sir, no excuse sir.

The guy said, “I would like an explanation.”

So Reacher told the same story he had just gotten through telling Nakamura, about the pawn shop, and the ring, and his nagging sense of disquiet.

The supe said, “So this is about a ring.”

“It seemed significant.”

“Yesterday you implied the former cadet was in danger.”