No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(22)

Chapter 15


Sam Roth’s apartment building looked just like all the others on its block. Two stories. Stone fronted. Solid but plain. Nice but ordinary. There was nothing to suggest a man had died there within the last thirty-six hours.

Maybe from natural causes.

Maybe not.

Detective Harewood said Roth’s death was caused by a heart attack. There was nothing suspicious about that. People die from heart disease all the time. Nearly seven hundred thousand people every year in the United States. More than the population of Vermont. More than one every forty-six seconds.

If heart disease had been the only factor Reacher might not have been so skeptical. If Roth had not been fit and accustomed to exercise. If Harewood’s lieutenant had not been lazy. If Roth had not died hours before he was due to meet Angela St. Vrain. If Angela had not been murdered…

Too many ifs, Reacher thought. And too few answers.



* * *



—

The buildings fronted onto a wide, leafy street but the entrances were around back on a strip that was too small to be called a road but too nice to be called an alley. It was neatly paved. Clean and tidy. There were trees and shrubs. Most of the homes had sun terraces or decks on that side. Roth’s building had two terraces, covered for shade, with a pair of doors between them. Both were painted blue. The same shade of navy. There was a parking space on each side. Both were occupied. One by a truck, all red paint and chrome and black glass. The other by a small hatchback. It was silver and sleek and a thick cable snaked from a flap on its rear wing to a box on the wall by the left-hand door.

Roth’s apartment was on the right, according to the address Harewood had provided. Reacher knocked on the door to the left. He almost hoped no one would answer. Breaking the news that somebody’s loved one was dead was a miserable job. Reacher knew from experience. He also knew that suggesting somebody’s loved one might have been murdered was almost as bad.

The door jerked open after two long minutes. A woman stood in the entrance. She was wearing three-quarter-length white pants and a plain blue T-shirt. She had nothing on her feet. Her hair was blond, streaked with a little gray, maybe shoulder length. She had it pulled back and tied in a ponytail with a plain elastic band. Her face was ghostly pale except for the deep red circles under her eyes. Reacher figured she would be in her mid-forties, although the circumstances made it hard to judge.

The woman took a moment to size Reacher up then said, “Sam’s not here. He’s…”

“I know,” Reacher said. “I’m not looking for Sam. I need to talk to you.”

The woman looked blank. “About Sam. You see, something happened and, Sam, he’s…”

“It’s OK. I know about Sam. Are you Hannah? Hannah Hampton?”

The woman blinked, then nodded. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Reacher.”

“What do you want?”

“Do you know a woman called Angela St. Vrain?”

“Angela? Oh God. I should tell her about Sam.”

“You do know her?”

“Know her? Knew her? Haven’t seen her for years. She moved to Mississippi. Oh God, Danny. I should tell him, too.”

“Danny?”

“Danny Peel. He moved out there, too. He got Angela her job.”

“Did Sam know Angela?”

“Of course. They worked together. A few years ago. Sam was her boss. More of a mentor, really.”

“Did Sam know Danny?”

Hannah nodded.

Reacher said, “Did they keep in touch?”

“Danny, not so much. Angela, off and on. She sometimes reaches out to Sam for advice. With work, mainly. Why all these questions?”

“Had Sam and Angela been in touch recently?”

Hannah paused. “Over the weekend. She sent him some stuff on email.”

“Work stuff? Or personal?”

“Work.”

“Did Sam say what it was?”

“Some dumb accounting thing. Angela didn’t know what to do about it. She was in a state. She was often in a state. Sam shouldn’t have gotten involved this time. I said to him, tell her to figure it out for herself. He had more than enough on his plate. But no. That was Sam. He would never turn his back on a friend.”

“What kind of accounting thing?”

“I don’t know. Something about a number that didn’t add up. Sam didn’t go into detail.” Hannah was silent for a moment. “Wait. What’s all this about? You’re starting to freak me out. What’s going on with Angela? And what’s it to you? Tell me or I’m done answering questions.”

Reacher paused. “Hannah, I have some news. About Angela. It’s not good news. Is there somewhere we could sit?”

Hannah took a step back. “Who are you, again?”

“My name’s Reacher. Do you remember Detective Harewood? You spoke with him yesterday after you found Sam. I’m sure he left you a card. Call him. He’ll vouch for me.”



* * *



—

The door closed, and two minutes later it opened again. Hannah gestured for Reacher to come inside. He followed her into the apartment’s main living space. There was a lounge area, all pale wood furniture with soft-colored fabrics plus a couple of low bookcases and a small TV in the corner. Then an oval glass dining table surrounded by white leather chairs. And a kitchen at the far end, tucked away behind a breakfast bar. There were two high stools next to it. Hannah made her way across and perched on one. Reacher followed and took the other.