The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(68)

Thomassino shrugged.

‘What?’ Reacher said. ‘Is there more to the story?’

‘I honestly don’t know. I’m in a crappy situation here. Am I really going to put my wife’s life in danger over some worn-out electronics? Stuff that people have already thrown in the trash? Which is part of a racket that even my boss is in on? No. I’m not. So I see no evil and I hear no evil. I go in. I eat. I go back out. I empty the truck at the plant. If someone helped themselves to some stuff when I wasn’t looking, I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Plausible deniability,’ Rutherford said. ‘I get it.’

‘Semi-plausible,’ Sands said.

‘Plausible or not, you went to the diner the day you picked up the servers?’ Reacher said.

Thomassino nodded.

‘And the servers were gone when you got to the plant?’

‘I guess,’ Thomassino said. ‘I mean, it’s not like we keep records. But I remember the cabinet thing. It was a pain in the ass getting it into the truck. I don’t remember getting it back out.’

‘All right,’ Reacher said. ‘One more question. The guy at the diner. The owner. Who had the picture of your wife. What’s his name?’

‘I heard someone call him Bud,’ Thomassino said. ‘But I think his real name is Budnick. Bill Budnick. There was a story about Fat Freddie’s in the paper one time and he was mentioned. About a year ago. Right after he bought the place.’

‘Good,’ Reacher said. ‘Now did this guy Budnick ever talk to you about what to do if anyone came around asking questions about him?’

‘No. Nothing like that came up. I only spoke to him that one time.’

‘So if we happen to visit Fat Freddie’s to, say, check out their reputation for milkshakes, Budnick wouldn’t be expecting us?’

‘Would I tip him off, do you mean? Look, that asshole threatened my wife. I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his teeth were on fire. I’d love for you to pay him a visit. I’d love for you to bust him and throw his ass in jail. Just please, keep my name out of it.’

‘How could we bring your name into it?’ Reacher said. ‘We’ve never met.’

Sands hit the door button, climbed out, and beckoned Thomassino to follow her. He got halfway out of his seat then sank back down.

‘There’s one other thing,’ he said. ‘Something I want you to know. The food I eat at Fat Freddie’s. I always pay for it. Apart from that first time when they caught me by surprise. I do what I do for my wife. To keep her safe. Not to get something for nothing. As far as I’m concerned, maybe they rob my truck. Maybe they don’t. But I am not one of them.’





TWENTY





So, it wasn’t laziness. It was greed. Only not on Thomassino’s part. He was just a pawn. He could have made a stand, Reacher supposed. In which case the servers would already be back in their hands. But he couldn’t blame the guy for looking the other way while his work truck got looted. Not with his wife’s life on the line. And not over a bunch of junk that people had already thrown away. Reacher would have been happier if they were driving away with the servers stacked safely in the back of the minivan. But having another breadcrumb to follow was better than nothing.

The GPS predicted a twenty-two-minute drive to Fat Freddie’s, but that turned into forty-six minutes because Reacher asked Sands to make a detour via the truck stop. He wanted to get his hands on two more things. A bolt cutter. The biggest they had. And a padlock. The strongest he could find. Sands took the opportunity to top off the gas while Reacher was inside and she was waiting when he returned with the engine running and the next leg of the route highlighted on the screen. She drove faster than before. Buoyed up with the prospect of retrieving the servers, Reacher figured. She pushed the minivan hard, swaying and drifting through the curves until a robotic voice from the dashboard announced that their destination was on their left. They were still north of town. A few houses were dotted around amongst the fields and the trees but the concentrated development was still at least a mile away. There was a pre-war flatbed parked on either side of the driveway, like a rusty automotive equivalent of the statues Reacher had seen at the entrance to grand estates. The diner itself was set back from the road. It was a wide rectangular building made to look like it was constructed from logs. It had a green metal roof and a full-width porch and a neon sign mounted in the centre of the front wall. It spelled out Fat Freddie’s in flashing red letters and below the script an animated cartoon cowboy repeatedly lifted a colossal cheeseburger from his plate to his mouth.

The parking lot was out front. It was packed. The dinner rush was still in full swing. Sands threaded her way around the cars and trucks that had been left at the ends of rows and half up on the kerbs and looped around to the back of the building. There was another line of spaces marked Staff Only, again all taken. Beyond them was the outhouse, just where Thomassino had said it would be. It was low and square, built of pale brick, with a flat roof and a fenced-off area attached at the front to contain the garbage cans. Sands pulled up at the side, next to its door. Reacher climbed out. He was holding the bolt cutter low down, tight against his leg. He checked that no one was watching. Raised the tool. Closed its jaws over the top of the padlock. And squeezed. Hard. The metal loop severed. He swung the body of the lock aside, pulled it clear, and stowed its remains in his pocket. Sands jumped down and joined him. Rutherford scurried around from the far side of the van.