Past Tense (Jack Reacher #23)(90)

Shorty didn’t answer. They sat side by side in the gloom. Patty had her hands palm-down on the bed, under her legs. She was rocking back and forth, just a little, and staring ahead at nothing. Shorty had his elbows on his knees, and his chin propped in his hands. He was sitting still. Trying to think.

Then all at once the room lit up bright, every fixture, every table lamp, like a movie set, and the motor whirred and the blind rolled up in the window. Outside they saw a line of six men. On the boardwalk. Shoulder to shoulder. An inch from the glass. Staring in. Karel was one of them. The weasel with the tow truck. Three of them they had seen before. Two were new.

The six of them stared on and on. Openly, frankly, no inhibition at all. From her to him, and him to her. They were judging, and evaluating, and assessing. They were reaching conclusions. Tight grimaces of quiet satisfaction appeared on faces. There were slow nods of appreciation and approval. There were gleams in eyes, of enthusiasm.

Then on some unspoken cue they raised their hands and clapped, long and loud, a standing ovation, as if they were a respectful audience saluting star performers.

But somehow in advance.





Chapter 34


Ten minutes later Reacher dialed Amos again. She answered. She sounded out of breath.

He said, “What’s up?”

“False alarm,” she said. “We got a maybe on Carrington. But it was two hours old and nothing came of it. We still can’t find him.”

“Did you find Elizabeth Castle?”

“Her neither.”

“I should come back to town,” Reacher said.

Amos paused a beat.

“No,” she said. “We’re still in the game. The computer is watching the red light cameras. Nothing that came in from the south in the second wave this morning has gone back out again yet. We think Carrington is still in the area.”

“Which is why you need me there. No point coming back after they take him away.”

“No,” she said again.

“What was the maybe?”

“Allegedly he was seen entering the county offices. But no one else remembers him, and he isn’t there now.”

“Was he alone, or with Elizabeth Castle?”

“It was hard to say. It was a busy time of day. Lots of people. Hard to say who was with who.”

“Was it the census archive?”

“No, something else. The county has offices all over town.”

“Did you get a minute for ancient history?”

She paused again.

“It was longer than a minute,” she said.

“What did you find?”

“I need advice before I tell you. From Carter Carrington, ironically.”

“Why?”

“You asked for unsolved cases. I found one. It has no statute of limitations.”

“You found an unsolved homicide?”

“Therefore technically it’s still an open case.”

“When was it?”

“Within the dates you specified.”

“I wasn’t born yet. I can’t be a witness. Certainly I can’t be a perpetrator. Talking to me is no legal hazard.”

“It has implications for you.”

“Who was the victim?”

“You know who the victim was.”

“Do I?”

“Who else could it be?”

“The kid,” Reacher said.

“Correct,” Amos said. “Last seen face down on the sidewalk, late one September evening in 1943. Then later he shows up again, now twenty-two years old, just as much of an asshole as he was before, and he gets killed. The two files were never connected. I guess there was a lot going on back then. It was wartime. Detectives came and went. They didn’t have computers. But today’s rules say the first file makes a material difference to the second file. Which it does, no question. We can’t pretend we haven’t seen it. Therefore we’re obliged to re-open the homicide as a cold case. Just to see where it goes. Before we close it again.”

“How did the kid get killed?”

“He was beaten to death with a pair of brass knuckles.”

Reacher paused a beat.

He said, “Why wasn’t it solved?”

“There were no witnesses. The victim was an asshole. No one cared. Their only suspect had disappeared without a trace. It was a time of great chaos. Millions and millions of people were on the move. It was right after VJ Day.”

“August 1945,” Reacher said. “Did the cops have a name for the suspect?”

“Only a kind of nickname. Secondhand, overheard, all very mysterious. A lot of it was hearsay, from the kind of people who pick things up from casual conversations on the street.”

“What was the nickname?”

“It’s why we have to re-open the case. We can’t ignore the link. I’m sure you understand. All we’re going to do is type out a couple new paragraphs.”

“What was the name?”

“The birdwatcher.”

“I see,” Reacher said. “How soon do you need to type out your paragraphs?”

“Wait,” she said.

He heard a door, and a step, and the rustle of paper.

A message.

He heard a step, and a door, and on the phone she said, “I just got an alert from the license plate computer.”