Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(24)

“I have a crazy personal theory,” Isaac said.

“About what?”

“Or maybe I’m just deluding myself.”

“About what?” Reacher asked again.

“The last thing Julian said. About the civil suit, against the employer. No point pursuing it because the assets are worthless. Usually good advice. Good advice in this case, too, I’m sure. Except actually I’m not sure.”

“Why not?”

“The guy was famous here for a spell. Everyone was talking about him. Ironically Meg Shevick did a great job with the PR. Lots of tech sector mythology, lots of young entrepreneur stuff, lots of positive immigration spin, about how he came to this country with nothing, and made such a success. But I heard negative things, too. Here and there, fragments, gossip, bits and pieces, all unconnected. All hearsay and uncorroborated, too, but from people who should know. I became weirdly obsessed with figuring out how all those random pieces fit together, behind the public image. There seemed to be three main themes. He was all about himself, he was ethically challenged, and he seemed to have way more money than he should. My crazy personal theory was that if you joined the dots the one and only way they could be joined, then logically you were forced to conclude he was skimming off the top. Which would have been easy for an ethically challenged person. There was a tsunami of cash back then. It was insane. I think it was irresistible. I think he shoveled millions of dollars of investor money under his own personal mattress.”

“Which would explain how the company went down so fast,” Reacher said. “It had no reserves. They had been stolen. The balance sheet was all messed up.”

“The point is that money might still be there,” Isaac said. “Or most of it. Or some of it. Still under his mattress. In which case the civil suit would be worth it. Against him personally. Not against the company.”

Reacher said nothing.

Isaac said, “The lawyer in me tells me it’s a hundred to one. But I would hate to see the Shevicks go down without checking it out. But I don’t know how to do it. That’s what I need advice about. A real law firm would hire a private investigator. They would locate the guy and dig through his records. Two days later we would know for sure. But the project doesn’t have the budget. And we don’t get paid enough to chip in ourselves.”

“Why would they need to locate the guy? Has he disappeared?”

“We know he’s still in town. But he’s laying low. I doubt if I could find him by myself. He’s very smart, and if I’m right, he’s also very rich. Not a good combination. It lengthens the odds.”

“What’s his name?”

“Maxim Trulenko,” Isaac said. “He’s Ukrainian.”





Chapter 12


Gregory heard the first whispers out of the gourmet quarter an hour after the events there took place. His bookkeeper called to say his nightly report would be delayed because he was still waiting on two particular bagmen who hadn’t checked in yet. Gregory asked which two, and the bookkeeper told him the guys who did the five restaurants. At first Gregory thought nothing of it. They were grown-ups.

Then his right-hand man called to say the same two bagmen hadn’t been answering their phones for some time, and their car wasn’t where it should be, so accordingly word had gone out to the taxi fleet, with a description of the car, which for once had gotten an instant response. Two separate drivers said the exact same thing. Some time ago they had seen a car just like that getting a tow. Rear wheels off the ground, behind a medium-sized tow truck. Three silhouettes in the tow truck’s cab. At first Gregory thought nothing of it. Cars broke down.

Then he asked, “But why would that stop them answering their phones?”

In his head he heard Dino’s voice. We have a guy at the car crushing plant. He owes us money, too. Out loud he said, “He’s making it four for two. Not two for two. He must have lost his mind.”

His guy said, “The restaurant block is worth less than the moneylending. Perhaps that’s the message.”

“What is he now, a CPA?”

“He can’t afford to look weak.”

“Neither can I. Four for two is bullshit. Put the word out. I want two more of his by morning. Make it decorative this time.”



* * *



—

Reacher made the right and the left and came up on a sturdy triangle of three high-rise hotels, all national mid-market chains, two of them east of Center Street, and one of them west. He picked one out at random, and spent five whole minutes of his life at its front desk, using his passport as his photo ID, and his ATM card as his preferred method of payment, and then signing his name two times, in two different places, on two different lines, for two different reasons. He had gotten into the Pentagon easier, back in the day.

He took a city map from the lobby and rode up to his room, which was a plain bland space with nothing to commend it, but it had a bed and a bathroom, which were all he needed. He sat on the bed to look at the map. The city was shaped like a pear, gridded out with streets and avenues, pulling upward at the top toward the distant highway. The Ford dealer and the agricultural machinery would be right at the tip, where the stalk would be. The hotels were plumb in the middle of the fat part. The business district. There was an art gallery and a museum. The development with the Shevick house was halfway to the eastern limit. On the map it looked like a tiny squared-up thumbprint.