The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(62)

‘When was the last time that happened?’

The guy chewed on his lower lip for a moment. ‘Let’s see. Last time I was sick was 1986. In the summer. I had my appendix taken out. At Vanderbilt. Nice place. And my last vacation? It was at the millennium. I went to Canada to see my brother. Used to go every New Year’s. But now he’s dead.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Rutherford said. ‘These things. What could have happened to them? They can’t have disappeared into thin air.’

The guy shrugged again. ‘If they’re not here, whatever they are, then they never came. Or they’ve already been taken away again.’

‘What about site logs?’ Sands moved across and stood next to Rutherford. ‘You must keep records of what comes in and out?’

‘Deliveries and collections,’ the guy said. ‘Sure.’

‘Show me.’

The guy sighed, then led the way to the entrance to the office. He indicated that everyone should remain outside and ducked through the door, reappearing a moment later with a clipboard in each hand. He passed the first one to Sands. Reacher read it over her shoulder. It was for collections. There were eight entries for the current month. But only one for electronics. It was dated the second. Before the ransomware attack. Before Rutherford had trashed the servers. So before they could have arrived at the facility, let alone been removed.

Sands swapped clipboards. The second one listed the deliveries. There had been thirty-two so far that month. The most frequent kinds were glass and non-ferrous metal. Bottles and cans from the local bars and restaurants, Reacher guessed. Then paper. Probably a surge due to the municipal computers being down. Electronics was all the way at the bottom. There had only been two consignments. Both had come from the town’s IT department. And both were after Rutherford had discovered his backup had failed.

‘The electronics deliveries, here and here,’ Sands said, pointing at the entries. ‘Show me the itemization for those.’

The guy looked at her blankly for a moment. ‘What itemization? We don’t list all the things that come in. How could we? There are too many. And what would be the point? Computer mouse, beige, not working. Computer mouse, beige, not working. Computer mouse, beige, not working. How would you tell one from the other?’

‘OK.’ Sands pointed to another entry on the sheet, next to the column for the delivery vehicle’s licence plate. ‘Driver ID. It’s the same both times. #083. Whose number is that?’

The guy looked at the signature line. ‘Dave. Dave Thomassino.’

‘Where can we find him?’ Sands said.

‘How would I know? He’s a delivery guy. He drives in, drops off a bunch of stuff, and drives away again. It’s not like we hang out.’

‘What’s his route today?’

‘How would I know? I’m not his boss.’

‘When’s his next delivery scheduled?’

‘No idea. The guys just show up when their trucks are full and they need to unload.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘No idea. Like I said, we’re not buddies.’

‘What about his truck?’ Reacher said. ‘Does he take it home at night?’

‘No.’ The guy shook his head. ‘They’re not allowed to. They leave the trucks at the depot. Drive home in their own vehicles.’

‘Do they work on their own?’ Reacher said. ‘Or in pairs? Or teams?’

‘For the bigger stuff it’s two men to a truck,’ the guy said. ‘Thomassino’s is smaller. He works alone. You don’t need two men to toss in a bunch of iPhones or whatever.’

‘Where’s the depot?’ Sands said.

‘Next to the office,’ the guy said.

‘Where’s the office? And don’t say next to the depot or we’re going to have a problem.’

‘I’ll write the address for you.’

‘Write Thomassino’s cell number as well.’

‘I can’t. I don’t know it.’

‘Good,’ Sands said. ‘Make sure it stays that way. Because if Thomassino doesn’t show up at the depot for any reason, I’ll be coming back. And you’ll be spending whatever time you have left on this earth in a federal penitentiary.’





EIGHTEEN





Reacher, Rutherford and Sands left the guy with his clipboards and trudged back up the slope. They climbed into the minivan. Sands fired up the engine. She cranked the air all the way up and set off slowly, following the curve around and down and off the dirt and through the exit gate and back out on to the blacktop. No one spoke. Reacher sprawled out in the back. He was thinking about the servers. About what might have happened to them. He had two plausible theories. Option A was that they’d been trashed. He pictured the guy, Thomassino, going to collect them. Thomassino worked alone. Which was probably fine when he was picking up small things like cell phones. But there were eight servers. They were housed in a cabinet. It was six feet tall. Heavy. Hard to manoeuvre. Stuck on some kind of irregularity in the floor. And its door was broken. Glass shards would be sticking out. Making it dangerous to handle, as well as difficult. The log showed that Thomassino arrived at the recycling centre after 5:00 p.m. on each occasion. Probably his last job on both days. Would he have bothered to wrestle with the cabinet on his own, so close to the end of his shift? Or would he have slipped the guys on the regular garbage duty a couple of crisp twenties to take care of the problem for him?