Ли Чайлд - No Middle Name

‘So let the State Police have it. They’ll chase it through the shoe size. This guy must be a basketball player. I mean, what size are your feet?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Is that big or small?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We need a larger sample. What about Joe, for instance?’

Reacher didn’t answer.

Neagley said, ‘What?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘About Joe and his footwear habits. He’s same as me, I think. Maybe eleven and a half.’

‘And he’s an inch taller, as I recall, as well as better looking, so if we ballpark it we could round it up and say a size twelve is about right for guys about your height, and we could push it up to size fourteen, maybe, to allow for some genetic variation, which has to mean a guy who wears a size fifteen is not going to be any smaller than you, at least, and probably bigger, which makes him some kind of ape man who lives in the woods. Should be easy to spot. Should be easy to eliminate suspects. The State Police will handle it fine.’

‘We’re supposed to supervise. The JAGs got us access.’

‘I believe we’re already getting all of Fort Smith’s paperwork.’

‘I think we need to be proactive.’

‘In what way?’

‘In whatever way works. It had to be random, but it can’t have been. There’s a whole span of assumptions right there, and at least one of them can’t be true. We’ll have to figure it out sooner or later. Because the State Police will ask. Also sooner or later. That’s for damn sure.’

‘OK. We’ll do what we can. Plus the autopsy will be happening.’

Two hours later the autopsy reported exactly what everyone expected. Otherwise healthy. The fatal shot was probably the first, into the chest. Hard to be sure, for both pathologist and perpetrator, hence the two follow-ups. The vertical triangle. Chest, chest, head. Job done.

All three bullets had been recovered inside the Porsche. They were badly mangled, but they were almost certainly nine-millimetre Parabellum. The entry wound in the forehead was exactly nine millimetres wide. The angle was plausible, for a tall man firing downward into a stationary car. Which matched the earlier photographs. The big feet had walked close, then shuffled around, possibly during a moment of conversation, and then they had stepped back and braced. For the moment of truth. Recoil off the nine wasn’t terrible, but a sound footing was always a good idea. Range about eight feet, Reacher guessed. Ideal. Chest, chest, head. Hard to miss, at eight feet. No brass in the photographs. The guy had picked up his shell cases. And driven away, in the decoy vehicle.

A skilled worker.

An execution.

Neagley said, ‘The career gossip sounds fairly normal, for a pointy-head. She was a classroom superstar at West Point. A decent physical soldier, but mostly a geek. Therefore always destined for the back rooms. Smooth acceleration all the way. Really blossomed in War Plans. It suited her somehow. She became her own person. She loosened up a little. Even started spending some of her money. Maybe she felt awkward before. That was when she first got the fancy uniforms.’

Reacher said, ‘Do we know anything about the money yet? As in, where it originally came from?’

‘You think this is a financial crime?’

‘Who knows, with rich people? They’re different from you and me.’

‘I’ve got a call in, to the family. Difficult today, obviously. With her being dead, and so on. There are protocols involved and procedures to follow. We’ll probably end up talking to the family lawyer. But that’s fine. These things can be complicated. We’ll need him anyway.’

‘Anything useful from the State Police?’

‘They’re looking for a tall guy with big feet. Not necessarily active-duty military. Their minds are open. They acknowledge they have a lot of veterans. Plus a lot of kids who have seen every execution style in history on cable TV. And who have guns. And vehicles.’

‘Motive?’

‘They say robbery. Casting a net and seeing what showed up. Like fishing on a lazy afternoon.’

‘On a road to nowhere?’

‘They say people take that road sometimes. She took it that day, obviously.’

‘Low odds.’

‘But a quiet and undisturbed location.’

‘They didn’t steal anything.’

‘They panicked and ran.’

‘Does the State Police really believe any of that?’

‘No. It’s a polite hypothetical. They’re bending over backward to be fair, because JAG is right there at their elbows. But I hear deep down they’re sure it’s a soldier. They’re assuming romantic, because they haven’t been told exactly how pointy her head was.’

‘Could it be romantic?’

‘There’s no evidence of boyfriends past or present. Or girlfriends.’

‘The woman with no enemies. She wins, no one loses. Extra spending. It’s all good. Except it isn’t. One of those facts is wrong. Which one is it?’

‘You said it was random, Reacher. It was a road to nowhere. You just told me that.’

‘What was the decoy vehicle? Do they know?’

‘The tyre tracks were generic Firestones. On a million domestic products. Up to mid-size cars, and mid-range pick-up trucks. And before you ask, yes, the army uses them extensively. I checked, and there’s a set on the car I drove down in.’

‘You drove from Bragg?’

‘It’s not that far. Normal people like driving more than you do.’

Reacher said, ‘They’re going to ask us for a list of shoe sizes at Fort Smith. That’s what’s coming next.’

‘Smith is all special forces. Those guys run smaller than normal. I bet they’re all size nine.’

‘That’s not the point. We can’t give them something like that. Not without lawyers. They’ll be talking for months. This thing is going to turn into a nightmare.’

Thirty minutes later the fine print from the autopsy came in on the fax machine, and then the telex chuntered into life with a new report from Fort Smith. The pathologist in Atlanta had weighed and measured and poked and prodded and X-rayed. Crawford had been slender but well toned. All her organs were in perfect working order. She had long-healed childhood breaks to her right collarbone and her right forearm. She had recent cosmetic dentistry. Toxicology was clear, and there was no evidence of recent sex, and she had never been pregnant. Heart and lungs like a teenager. Nothing wrong with her at all, except for the bullets.

The telex from Smith showed some initiative. The MPs out there had done some good work, on a timeline for Crawford’s first week on post. Seven completed days. A lot of talking. A lot of meetings. Different agendas, different constituencies. Not just officers. She had talked to NCOs and enlisted men. She had eaten in the mess two nights, and gone out five. She had taken recommendations from the mess stewards. Which was smart. They had long-term postings, and could be relied upon to know the local joints. Which were mostly an hour away, at least, on the roads through the woods. Reacher checked back with the maps, and traced them all. Barbecue, bars, a family restaurant, and even a movie theatre. No place had an obvious linear way to get there. Every destination could be arrived at by a number of different looping routes. The roads had been made for forestry purposes, not ease of transportation. There had been speculation that the low-slung Porsche wouldn’t handle them well. But Crawford had reported no problems. She had gone out and come back safe, five straight times. A young staff officer, for once outside the D.C. bubble, making the most of things. Reacher had seen it before.

Neagley came in and said, ‘The protocol office can’t find the parents. They think the father might be deceased. But they’re not sure. And they don’t have a number for the mother. Or an address. They’re still looking.’