No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(19)

“What about—”

“Listen, Reacher. I’ve already asked all these questions. And I’ve been told to stop. In no uncertain terms. The file is closed. I just came to let you know the situation. As a courtesy.”

“Then I guess we’re done here. You know where the door is.”

Harewood didn’t move.

Reacher waited thirty seconds then stood up and dropped his room key onto the bed. “Do me a favor. Leave that at reception on your way out.”

Harewood said, “Wait. I came to…Well, I didn’t just come as a courtesy.”

Reacher sat back down.

“To be completely honest, my lieutenant wants you out of the jurisdiction. He thinks you’re trouble.”

“So you’re here to drag me across the county line?”

“No. I’m not here at all. Not officially.”

“I figured. Showing evidence to a potential suspect—that can’t be SOP around here.”

“No.” Harewood looked down at the floor. “The lieutenant would have my ass for that.”

“So why did you do it?”

“I ran your record. The 110th. The special investigators. Your old unit. In the army.”

“What about it?”

“Look, I’m new to this gig.”

“And?”

“I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“Ask what?”

“If you were me, what would you do?”

“About what?”

“My lieutenant has ordered me to drop this case. I think he’s wrong. I want to keep working it. Should I do that?”

“You’re talking about going against your chain of command.”

“Yes, sir. I’m clear about that.”

Reacher paused. “Marine Corps?”

“How did you know?”

“My father was a Marine. I know the signs.”

“So? What should I do?”

“Your lieutenant—is he a crook? Is he running a coverup of some kind?”

“I don’t think so. I think the guy’s just lazy. He’s been given a result tied up in ribbons. He doesn’t want to untie them and see what’s really inside the box. He doesn’t want to do the work.”

“What’s Roth’s ex’s name?”

“Hannah Hampton.”

“His address?”

“I’ll write it for you.”

“Good. Then this is what you should do. Go back to work. Business as usual. Say nothing more about this.”

“I’m not asking you to work the case for me.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t get involved.”

“I’m already involved.”

“You should get uninvolved.”

“A woman was murdered. Someone has to do something about that.”

“We will do something. The police department.”

“Will you? With your lazy lieutenant?”

Harewood looked at the ground.

“Give me that address. Then keep your head down. I’ll be in touch.”





Chapter 14


Factor in the fittings and fixtures, add on the value of the art that covers the walls, and the Minerva Reception Center in Winson cost more per square foot than any corporate headquarters in the State of Mississippi. That was a sound bite Bruno Hix loved to throw around. Especially to the press. It may even have been true. Hix didn’t care. He wasn’t a detail man. He was all about creating the right impression. Building the center was the first thing Minerva did after it bought the prison and the brief Hix gave the architects was simple: Make sure the place reeks of money.

The Reception Center was near the entrance to the site, on the opposite side from the secure units. The building was a single story high, faced in pale stone, and shaped like a V. Partly so that it would fit in the available space, which was limited. But mainly so that its windows, which were on its inner face only, did not have a view of the cell blocks and exercise yards. Its conference room took up one whole wing. Hix hustled through the maze of fenced-in walkways that crisscrossed the complex the minute the covert meeting in S2’s hub wrapped up but he still failed to get to it on time. When he burst through the double doors, a little pink and out of breath, six faces were already staring back at him. Three on one side of the long alder table. Two on the other. And one all the way at the far end. They were journalists, there to be briefed about the event planned for Friday. Plus whatever else Hix chose to spoon-feed them while they were his captive audience.

Hix waited for Damon Brockman, Minerva’s other co-founder, to take a seat and dismissed the guard who’d been keeping an eye on the visitors. Then he got the ball rolling the way he always did. He stood at the head of the table, stretched out his arms like a TV evangelist, and said, “Tell me the truth. Does this room feel like it’s part of a prison?”

Five of the journalists obediently shook their heads. Only the guy at the far end didn’t respond.

Hix smiled and moved on to some history. His own, and Brockman’s. He talked about how they met three decades ago as rookie wardens at a state facility in Lubbock, Texas. How horrified they had been at the conditions. The lack of resources. The dehumanizing treatment they witnessed. He threw in a little philosophy. Some Foucault. Some Bentham. And he pulled it all together to explain the foundation of Minerva Correctional. Named for the ancient goddess of wisdom and justice, among other things. Committed to seeing inmates for what they were: people. People who had made mistakes, for sure. Who had made bad choices. But who still had potential. Who could make a positive contribution. Who could have a future, given the right kind of environment and support. He described the vocational programs the company ran. The diet and exercise initiatives they had introduced. The proactive health screening they provided at all five of their locations. He backed up his examples with statistics. Some may even have been accurate. He claimed dramatic increases in post-release employment rates. A profound drop in recidivism. And he finished by tying everything back to Friday. The jewel in Minerva’s crown. The sponsored appeal scheme for well-behaved inmates who could credibly claim to be victims of miscarried justice.