Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(31)
“Last night,” he said. “In the bar. When I asked you about the guy on the door, you asked me if I was a cop.”
“You are a cop,” she murmured.
“Was a cop,” he said.
“Close enough for a first impression. I’m sure it’s a look you never lose.”
“Did you want me to be a cop? Were you hoping I was?”
“Why would I be?”
“Because of the guy on the door. Maybe you thought I could do something about him.”
“No,” she said. “Hoping would have been a waste of time. The cops don’t do anything about those guys. Never. Too much hassle. Too much money changing hands. Those guys are pretty much safe from the cops, believe me.”
Old disappointments in her voice.
As an experiment he asked, “Would you have liked it if I could have done something about him?”
She snuggled tighter. Unconsciously, he thought. Which he figured had to mean something.
She said, “That particular guy?”
“He was the one in front of me.”
She paused a beat.
“Yes,” she said. “I would have liked it.”
“What would you have liked me to do to him?”
He felt her stiffen against him.
She said, “I guess I would have liked you to mess him up.”
“Bad?”
“Real bad.”
“What have you got against him?”
She wouldn’t answer.
After a minute he said, “There was something else you mentioned last night. You said texts would have gone out, with my description.”
“As soon as they realized they lost you.”
“To hotels and such.”
“To everybody. That’s how they do it now. They have automated systems. They’re very good at technology. They’re very advanced with computers. They’re always trying new scams. Sending out an automatic all-points bulletin is easy in comparison.”
“And literally everyone gets the same alert?”
“Who are you thinking of in particular?”
“Potentially, a guy in a different division. In the moneylending section.”
“Would that be a problem?”
“He has a photograph of me. A close-up of my face. He’ll recognize the description, and he’ll text the picture in response.”
She snuggled closer. Relaxed again.
“Doesn’t really matter,” she said. “They’re all out looking for you anyway. Your description is more than enough. A photograph of your face doesn’t add much. Not from a distance.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“The moneylending guy thinks my name is Aaron Shevick.”
“Why?”
“The Shevicks are my old couple. I did some business on their behalf. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But now the wrong name is out there. They could dig for an address. I wouldn’t want them showing up at the Shevick house, looking for me. That could lead to all kinds of unpleasantness. The Shevicks have enough on their plates already.”
“Where do they live?”
“Halfway to the eastern city limit, in an old postwar development.”
“That’s Albanian territory. It would be a very big deal for the Ukrainians to go there.”
“They already took over their moneylending bar,” Reacher said. “That was way east of Center. The battle lines seem relatively fluid right now.”
Abby nodded sleepily against his chest.
“I know,” she said. “They all agree they can’t have a war, because of the new police commissioner, but all kinds of things seem to be happening.”
Then she took a deep breath and held it and sat up and shook herself awake and said, “We should go now.”
“Where?” Reacher asked.
“We should go make sure your old couple is OK.”
* * *
—
Abby had a car. It was parked in a garage a block away. It was a small white Toyota sedan, with a stick shift and no hubcaps. Plus electrical ties holding on one of the fenders. Plus a crack in the windshield that made the view out front look like two overlapping halves. But the engine started and the wheels steered and the brakes worked. The glass in the windows was plain, not tinted, and Reacher felt his face was close to it, clearly visible to those outside, crammed as he was in a cramped interior. He watched for Town Cars, like he had crashed at the Ford dealer, and seen the night before, coming at him north and south on the street, but he saw none at all, and no pale men in dark suits either, loitering on corners, watching.
They drove the same way he had walked, past the bus depot, through the light, into the narrower streets, past the bar, and out again to the wider spaces. The gas station with the deli counter was up ahead.
“Pull in there,” Reacher said. “We should take them some food.”
“Are they OK with that?”
“Does it matter? They got to eat.”
She pulled in. The menu was the same. Chicken salad or tuna salad. He got two of each, plus chips, plus soda. Plus a can of coffee. Quitting eating was one thing. Coffee was a whole different thing entirely.
They drove into the development and worked their way around the tight right-angle turns to the cul-de-sac near its center. They parked by the picket fence, with its nudging rosebuds.