No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(18)

“When?”

“Monday night. Late. Maybe around midnight.”

“So this guy Roth died less than twelve hours before Angela was killed. You buy that as a coincidence?”

Harewood shrugged.

Reacher said, “Who found the body?”

“His ex-wife.”

“Where?”

“At his apartment. Yesterday morning. He was a big guy. As in ripped. Not fat. He had a home gym. He’d been working out. Which he did regularly. And then, bang. Game over. Just like that.”

“Steroids? Or whatever the latest thing is?”

“No indication of any.”

“Why was his ex-wife at his apartment?”

“For breakfast.”

“Is that normal?”

“For them, yes, apparently.”

“How did she get inside?”

“She has a key.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe the ex was trying to get back into the picture. Found out about this reunion. Got jealous.”

Harewood shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’d been divorced ten years. She moved to the apartment next door when they split. Neighbors said they got on like brother and sister. Any kind of spark fizzled out years ago. There was no bad blood.”

“Had Roth had other relationships?”

Harewood shrugged.

Reacher said, “Did the ex know about his relationship with Angela?”

“We didn’t ask her about it. We had no reason to. Roth’s body was found before Angela got killed. We didn’t know anything about her until we pulled her out from under that bus.”

“So the ex didn’t confirm the rendezvous?”

“No. That’s not to say she didn’t know about it. But we already verified it another way.”

Harewood thumbed through his file, pulled out another piece of paper, and set it on the edge of the bed. Reacher wasn’t familiar with the format but he guessed it was a transcript of the emails that the Minerva IT guys had come up with. It was certainly made up of alternating messages between two people. He assumed they were Angela and Roth but the names weren’t shown in a way he could decipher. There were just bunches of letters and numbers with @ signs in the middle and .coms at the end. There were vertical lines at the left of the page, starting at the top of each separate message and running all the way down to the end of the last one. Each successive line was one space to the right so that the lowest message was all squashed up into less than half the width of the page. It was the oldest, from Angela. She had been putting out feelers about getting back together. Reacher could sense her excitement. Her trepidation. The newest message, at the top, written on Sunday morning, was also from Angela. The tone was flat. She sounded depressed. The tentative hope had faded away. All that was left was an undercurrent of despair. Plus a bunch of hints that she couldn’t carry on alone. Just as Harewood had reported.

Reacher put the paper down. “If Angela came here to meet Roth, where is her purse? Her car?”

Harewood took the paper and slipped it back into his file. “Her purse was in her car. Her car was in a parking lot. The first one you come to if you’re coming in from the east. Like she would have done.”

“I saw the guy take her purse. They must have dumped it in her car. Was there an envelope inside it?”

Harewood checked his notes. “No. There was a wallet. Keys. Some personal stuff. But no correspondence. Why?”

“Never mind. How do you account for the blood?”

“What blood?”

“On her purse. There was blood spatter all over one side of it.”

“There’s no record of that. What makes you think so?”

“I saw it.”

“How? Blood wouldn’t stand out against black leather.”

“The purse was tan. And it wasn’t leather.”

Harewood checked his notes again. “It was leather. And it was black.”

“They must have switched it. Replaced it with a sanitized one.”

“Can you prove that?”

“What about her kid?”

“How do you know she had a kid?”

“Lucky guess.”

Harewood shook his head. “She made arrangements with a neighbor. A woman who often watched her.”

“Permanent arrangements? With money attached? Adoption papers? Favorite toys?”

Harewood shrugged. “I only have what the officers in Mississippi passed along. They seem satisfied.”

“And the BMW?”

Harewood shook his head. “That’s another problem. The plates you gave me are registered to a Dodge Caravan in Oklahoma City. The owner was at work yesterday. He has a receipt from a parking garage. Timestamped, with pictures of the vehicle arriving and leaving.”

“OK. Where are the shell casings? I put six rounds into that car.”

“CSU swept the alley. Twice. It was clean. No trace of any brass.”

“So test my hands for GSR.”

“Which would prove what? That you fired a gun? Not necessarily a gun that fired missing rounds at a missing car.”

“What about the fire escape? There’s no hiding that.”

“It collapsed. Sure. But there’s no proof why.”