Jack the Reaper, page 8
Otto gritted her teeth and nodded. The lilting sentences were driving her batty. If he talked like this all the time, a full interview would be excruciating. “Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”
He shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
His eyes widened. “Marcus Blane?”
She pursed her lips to avoid snapping when he couldn’t even state his own name with finality. She wasn’t really annoyed with him, anyway. He just happened to be the guy standing in front of her at the moment. It was the situation itself that frustrated her.
Otto reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone and renewed her friendly-factor. “Marcus, give me your cell number so I can call you next time instead of bothering you by coming over.”
He nodded and rattled off the number. She handed him a business card. He looked down at the raised gold seal and rubbed the pad of his thumb over it as if the solid feel provided some kind of secure vibe.
“If Lauren comes back, would you ask her to give me a call?” He nodded, and she widened her eyes with mock surprise. “Oh, shoot. I don’t have her cell number with me. Give it to me quickly.”
“I thought you worked together?” He seemed alarmed now, which he should have been right from the start.
“We both work for the FBI. That’s right,” Otto reassured him. “You have my card right there in your hand, and you already saw my badge.”
He nodded slowly, still a little nervous. But he pulled his phone out of his pocket, found the number, and gave it to her.
“Thanks for the help, Marcus. I’ll let you get back. Please let Lauren know I stopped by.” She put her hand on the heavy brass door handle, thumbed the release button, and pulled the door open. The sharp wind gusted inside, swirling her coat around her legs.
Gaspar’s taxi slowed at the curb out front.
“You’ve been really helpful, Marcus.” She turned to face him briefly before she ducked out. “I’ll be sure to tell Lauren when I catch up with her.”
He smiled in that silly way that boys do when they’re smitten. “Lauren’s really great, you know?”
“She is. She absolutely is. Thanks again.” Otto ducked through the door and glanced up and down the block for the black sedan before she hurried down the steps to the sidewalk.
When she was reseated, shivering, in the back seat of the taxi, Gaspar said, “Well?”
“We need a better plan.”
“So she wasn’t very helpful?” He mocked and raised both eyebrows instead of the usual one.
She shot a fierce scowl his way. “If you laugh, I swear I’ll shoot you.”
He pressed his lips together, but his laughter erupted anyway.
The taxi driver said, “Where to?”
Gaspar was still laughing.
Otto said the first logical place that came to mind. “The Dakota.”
“You got it.” The cab made a turn at the next block.
She glared at Gaspar. “Call Brewer. Get him to meet us up there. They’re more likely to cooperate with a local.”
“Yes, Lady Boss.” He grinned, but he pulled his phone from his pocket and placed the call. While he waited for Brewer to pick up, he said quietly for her ears only, “You were right. Our watcher is waiting around the corner up ahead.”
Being right wasn’t what she’d wanted. Her heart broke into a full out gallop.
She pulled her phone from her pocket, flipped it to video mode, and steadied the camera to shoot through the side window.
As the taxi turned the corner and joined the slow inching crawl of mid-day traffic, she started the video. She saw the back of the sedan, idling in front of a fireplug on the left.
The car and the driver were close enough to reach out and touch when the taxi passed at a snail’s pace. The driver glanced to his right at exactly the right time. She got a good look at both man and car.
Which meant her heart rate slowed to a still-painful canter. She pushed the stop record button on the video and slumped back into the passenger seat behind the driver. She had stopped breathing. When she noticed the pain, she exhaled.
She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it yet. She frowned.
This was the third time she’d seen the sedan this morning.
She shook her head. Definitely not a coincidence.
Gaspar stared at her. When she met his eyes, he nodded.
So Gaspar agreed.
The vehicle was owned by Uncle Sam.
And the driver was definitely not Reacher. He was big, but not that big. His hair was short but dark. His eyes were brown, not icy blue.
So who was he? And why was he following them?
The taxi was stopped again, one car length from the sedan.
Otto threw a hard glance toward Gaspar. “Stay in the taxi. Don’t go too far. I’ll catch up.”
She opened the door and stuck her left leg out first.
“What the hell—” He reached for her arm, but his grasp wasn’t firm enough.
She jerked her arm away and left the cab for the street. She closed the door and walked back to the sedan. On the way, she unbuttoned her coat and readied her holster, just in case.
Ten seconds later, she stood on the sidewalk beside the sedan’s front door. She rapped on the window. The driver had been looking down at his phone. When he looked up, his shocked expression was almost comical.
People on the sidewalk were hustling past in the cold. One or two looked at Otto briefly, but no one stopped or asked any questions.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said, gesturing toward the gridlock on the street. “Get out of the car.”
He frowned, but he didn’t move.
“Open the door, or I’ll break the glass and pull you out.” Her voice was calm. Controlled. He probably thought she couldn’t or wouldn’t make good on the threat. He was wrong on both counts.
After a few moments, maybe realizing he was stuck right here with her until the traffic cleared, he shrugged and opened the door. She moved to one side. He stepped out on the sidewalk.
He wasn’t as tall as Reacher. Six foot two, she guessed. He wasn’t as big as Reacher, either. He filled out his clothes well enough. An indicator that he worked out and took the fitness requirements seriously.
“Relax.” He flashed a megawatt dazzler. “I know you’re not going to shoot me, so I’ll return the favor.”
His voice was somewhere in the mid-range. He had a smooth, soft, Southern drawl. Not Atlanta. Nashville, maybe.
“Don’t bet the farm,” she replied. “You’re driving a government vehicle. Show me your ID.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a badge wallet similar to hers. She recognized the badge immediately.
“You’re a Treasury agent?”
“Close enough.” He nodded. “Technically, IRS Criminal Investigation Division, Special Agent John Lawton, at your service. Johnny to my friends.”
She shook her head to clear the confusion. “Why the hell are you following us?”
“We’re not. We’re watching Brewer. I saw you this morning. No one knew who you were. So,” he shrugged again.
“Why are you watching Brewer?”
“Nothing to do with you. It’s a Treasury matter.” He was not wearing an overcoat, and the wind had picked up. She noticed he was shivering, but he seemed unconcerned about frostbite. He gave her a slightly dimmer version of the smile. “You can torture me if you want. But that’s all you’re getting.”
She figured he meant what he said. She could stand here all day and get nothing but frozen. She glanced at the street traffic. Her taxi was a few car lengths closer to the light at the corner now.
“Let’s do this,” she suggested, dipping her hand into her pocket. “Here’s my card. Give me one of yours.”
He complied.
She looked at it. “This your personal cell number, Agent Lawton?”
“That’s right. You want to invite me to dinner?” He flashed a genuine grin this time. One that caused his whole face to light up. Which made him a lot better looking in addition to infuriating. The guy was hot. And he knew it.
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I had in mind.” Her sarcasm was as thick as lava. “When I call you, pick up the phone. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mocking her.
“And stop following me,” she demanded.
He failed to reply, but she wouldn’t have heard him anyway. She was already halfway down the block.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thursday, January 13
2:05 p.m.
Palm Beach, Florida
Lauren Pauling waited outside at Palm Beach International Airport for her limo. She grinned and stretched in the warm sun like a lazy cat. She felt lighter, too, without the weight of Elwood’s welfare and a winter coat on her shoulders.
She found her private cell phone and checked for calls she’d missed during the flight. Several voice messages were waiting. Most were not important, but two were unusual.
One caller was “unknown,” which usually meant blocked caller ID. That message was short. Probably some sort of solicitation. She shrugged. They’d call again.
The second voice message was from Greg Brewer. She smiled. He was her favorite NYPD detective. It had been quite a while since she’d talked to him. She pressed the play button.
“It’s Brewer. Listen, just a heads up. A couple of FBI agents were here asking questions about Reacher. I didn’t say much. Figured I’d leave it up to you. They’re on the way to you next. Thought you’d want to know.”
A frown crossed her face. Jack Reacher. Several quick questions raced through her mind. Why were FBI agents interested in Reacher? And how had they identified her? Or Brewer? What did they want?
A smile crossed her lips. She had thought about Reacher a lot in the past few months. She divided her life now in two parts. Before Reacher. After Reacher.
She hadn’t expected the passing fling to influence her life so profoundly. Had she known, would she have welcomed him to her bed?
She shrugged. If nothing else, Reacher had pushed her to live in the moment. Take everything exactly as it comes. Deal with what happens as it happens.
He’d shown her, in the most realistic way possible, that every moment could be her last. A lesson she should have learned at a much younger age, given the number of times her life had been on the line. She often wondered how she’d denied her own mortality before Reacher.
Before, she’d been mired in the worst of things that human beings did to one another, powerless to repair the damage or prevent the behavior from happening again.
Simply put, Reacher had changed her life.
When she saw him again, she planned to thank him properly. The thought alone sent waves of warmth through her body.
The one regret she had about her time with Reacher was that she’d never figured out how the clock in his head worked more accurately than any watch. She’d tried to duplicate his precision but never succeeded.
The limo pulled up, and the driver jumped out to open the passenger door. She settled into the roomy back seat while he stowed her luggage. A few minutes later, he rolled into the flow of traffic, north and east toward Palm Beach Island.
The current president owned a home on the island and often visited from D.C. When he was in residence, navigating the narrow streets of the small community was a disaster area. His entourage overwhelmed everything when they were in town. Every restaurant, every street, even the boats and parties and events that were normally such a pleasure, became a nightmare of crowds, security, and inconvenience.
Luckily, he was away on an overseas diplomatic trip now. Her ride home was uneventful, and she expected to enjoy a bit of socializing without the constant pressure of his presence before he returned tomorrow night.
The drive across Flagler Memorial Bridge from West Palm Beach onto Palm Beach Island spanned what she thought of as the great divide. Those residents who were comfortably well-off on one side and those who embraced the more expensive best of everything the country had to offer on the other. Not exactly the haves and the have-nots, of course. Everything was a matter of degree.
She gazed at the sparkling Intracoastal Waterway. At Royal Palm Way, the last of her tension slipped off as they rolled into The Town of Palm Beach. America’s Best Place to Live. The welcome sign and every expert said so. Pauling agreed.
Nostalgia washed over her. She and Hugh had been so happy here. He’d bought the small condo on Ocean Boulevard years before, when real estate was at least somewhat affordable and paid little attention to the place. She’d thrown herself into renovations until the bare dwelling became a comfortable home they’d both loved.
Her heart no longer ached for those days. Hugh had been the love of her life, but she’d finally let him go. She’d had no choice.
When Hugh died, she’d closed up their retreat to avoid the heart-piercing memories, and thrown herself into her work at the FBI.
Until she failed. Spectacularly. She’d resigned a half step before the stink of failure consumed her previously stellar career. She’d opened her private investigating business, and five years after that, she’d met Reacher. Because of that old failure.
The case she’d botched led to two life-altering experiences.
She shook her head. Sounded like some kind of cheap romance novel, didn’t it?
She’d known Reacher only a few days, and what they shared was—what? Not a whirlwind romance. Not even remotely.
But he’d had a profound impact on her life in more ways than one.
Reacher was a big man who filled every space he entered. After he moved on, she finally noticed how empty her life was. She’d needed a change. A drastic one. Reacher gave her that.
Sixteen months later, here she was. Palm Beach in January. She’d lived in New York City her entire life, and she loved it. But the small condo on Ocean Boulevard felt more like home now.
The limo driver pulled up out front. He parked and brought her luggage inside. After he left, she was blissfully alone.
She walked through the place quickly. Everything was as expected. The housekeeping service had done an excellent job. Everything clean, fridge stocked, and the temperature inside as well as outside was perfect. She kicked off her shoes and grabbed a bottle of cold seltzer.
She hit the call back button on Brewer’s message. After several rings, the call flipped to voice mail. “Thanks for the heads up. When you have a chance, let me know what’s going on.”
He’d call when he could.
She slid the patio door open and walked outside. A salty breeze blew gently from the Atlantic Ocean, stinging her cheeks. She lifted her seltzer and toasted the magnificence surrounding her.
She felt glorious. “My God, Hugh was so right. This is truly paradise.”
She guessed the time before she glanced at her watch. Wrong again. But she had space for a quick swim before her guest arrived.
On the way to her bedroom to change, she stopped at the small room that had once served as Hugh’s office before she repurposed it. She slid the heavy oak panel away to reveal the vault’s gleaming door.
Constructed of eight-inch thick Hercvlite to reduce the weight, this door was a work of art in highly polished silver, black, and gold metals. She paused to admire the craftsmanship every time.
Quickly, she entered the primary combination into the first lock and a different combination into the second one. Two locks were enough to thwart a team of three intruders with modern tools, she’d been assured. A third lock could have been added when she’d ordered the lightweight vault panel system, but that had seemed excessive.
The second lock released and she pulled the big round door open. Although the door was heavy, it swung smoothly on its hinges, simultaneously engaging the interior light. A slight whiff of orange blossom wafted to her nose from the air freshener that eliminated musty mold and mildew indigenous to Palm Beach.
She stepped over the flat sill threshold. She’d test the door’s inside emergency release again when she had a chance. For now, she glanced at the contents of the vault, critically measuring the stacks against her mental inventory. She nodded. Everything appeared in order. A more thorough count would have to wait.
She stepped out, closed and locked the vault, and slid the oak panel into place. Then, she hurried to change into her swimsuit. She kept her phone with her.
An hour later, after her swim, she was sunning by the pool when Brewer called.
“This is Lauren Pauling,” she said, as she always did when she answered the phone. But she put a smile in her voice.
“It’s Brewer. I’ve only got a minute. I’m right in the middle of something here.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You got my message?”
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“FBI Agents Otto and Gaspar. They’re asking questions about Reacher. Some bullshit about him being considered for a special project.”
Pauling frowned. “What kind of project?”
“They said it was classified. Claimed they didn’t know. Said they were just updating his file. But here’s the thing. They knew my name and where to find me. They knew yours, too. We don’t have any paper trail connecting us to Reacher or to each other. So how did they know?”
Pauling stood and paced around the pool deck. She always thought more clearly when she was in motion. “I have no idea. They didn’t say, I gather?”
“No. Just thought you’d want to know. Maybe you’d want to ask around. Let me know if there’s anything I should worry about.”
“What would you have to worry about, Greg?”
He blew out a long stream of air. “Beats me. Sorry. I’m being called back in. Keep me posted.”
“I will,” she said, but he’d already hung up.
She felt chilled all of a sudden. She picked up her towel and went inside. What could have raised the FBI’s radar about Reacher? And why now? After all this time?
She knew about the TrueLeaks documents. She’d checked the media reports when the leaks were first reported. There were millions of documents and they covered a wide swath. The government loved paperwork. No doubt, many of the documents were duplicates. It could take years to sort through all that stuff.
