The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(10)
The information would flow up the chain of command until a decision was reached. Who that involved or where they were located, Natasha didn’t know. The system was designed that way. For security. Compartmentalization was king in the world she currently inhabited. She suspected there must be a local connection. Someone with their ear to the ground. Who raised the alarm in the first place. Who may or may not still be involved. Who may or may not have a say in the outcome. Identifying him or her would be possible, she supposed. Maybe necessary. Certainly desirable. But that was a problem for the future. Right then all she had to worry about was keeping her team, and therefore herself, in the field.
The lead officer took care of searching Reacher. He was thorough. And slow. Rutherford was in the back of the first car before the officer got as far as Reacher’s waist. He was reclaiming a little authority, Reacher guessed. Showing whose timetable they were working to. Reacher stood still and let him finish. Then the officer stepped to the side and made a call on his cell, while another cop guided Reacher into the back of the second car.
Reacher expected the station house to be outside the main part of town, some place where the real estate was cheaper, so he was surprised when the journey ended after two streets. The cop used his lights to blast through the intersection with the broken signals, took the next left, then swung left again into a lot at the side of a wide sandstone building. It was braced with Greek columns and studded with rows of parallel windows. The officer pulled up next to the car that had been hit by the Suburban and climbed out. A framed sign announced the place as the courthouse, and smaller letters underneath added that it was also home to the treasurer’s department, the town clerk, and the police department. All it was lacking for full efficiency was the jail.
The officer led the way past the porticoed entrance at the front of the building, which was apparently reserved for members of the public who hadn’t been arrested, and continued around to the side. He stopped at a plain metal door, ignored its card reader and unlocked it with a key, then ushered Reacher down a dimly lit flight of cement steps. They emerged at the side of a reception counter. It was glassed in all the way to the ceiling and had a full set of blinds, which were closed. On the opposite side brass handrails lined the stairs that respectable citizens could use on their way to file reports or make enquiries or conduct whatever other kind of legitimate business regular people have.
The officer pressed a buzzer and after a moment a door opened, leading to a booking area. Another cop was waiting at a large wooden table. Behind him there were two desks supporting worn but serviceable computers which were currently switched off, a stack of deep plastic trays in a rainbow of colours, and a pale, droopy potted plant. The walls were covered with posters warning against the dangers of crime and encouraging the public to take responsibility for their own safety. The cop grabbed one of the trays and dropped it on the table near where Reacher was standing.
‘Put your possessions in there.’ He sounded bored. ‘You’ll get them back when you’re released.’
Reacher produced his roll of cash. His toothbrush. His ATM card. And his passport.
‘Is that all?’
‘What else do I need?’ Reacher said.
The cop shrugged and started to count the cash. When he was done he handed Reacher a receipt then led the way along a corridor to a door marked Interrogation Room 2. The interior was lined with sound-muffling tiles. Reacher had seen them before. He knew they served no sonic purpose. They were part of a psychological trick designed to give suspects the illusion that they were in a place where it was safe to spill the dirt on their partners. The floor was smooth concrete and the metal table and chairs were bolted to it. The observation window was made to look like a mirror in the usual way and a panic strip ran around the walls at waist level. Reacher guessed they’d brought him there because they only had one cell area. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him talking to the guy he’d rescued. Too much risk of them lining up their stories. And he knew they’d make him wait. An hour, at least. Maybe two. A standard tactic. Isolation breeds the urge to talk. An urge to talk can become an urge to confess. He’d used the technique himself, countless times. And this wasn’t the first time it had been used against him.
Both chairs were too close to the table to be comfortable so Reacher sat on the floor in the corner opposite the door. The clock in his head told him that an hour thirty-seven had passed by the time the door opened again. Ninety-seven minutes. The largest two-digit prime number. One of his favourites. He took that as a good sign. A less good sign was the smug grin on the face of the man who’d entered the room. He didn’t look a day over thirty and was all curly hair and rounded features. He took the chair with its back to the window and continued to smile.
‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ the man said. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Want to grab a seat? Join me? See if we can’t get this thing squared away?’
Reacher shrugged as if he didn’t care either way then stood, stretched, and wedged himself into the chair on the other side of the table.
‘I’m John Goodyear.’ The man’s grin grew even wider. ‘I’m the detective here?’
‘Jack Reacher.’
‘I know that. But what I don’t know is your deal. Why are you in my town?’
‘I don’t have a deal. I’m in this town by chance.’