Lee Child - Make Me

“No, I never heard that name.”

“Thank you,” Westwood said. “I’ll be back in touch.”

He hung up.

Chang said, “I know, welcome to your life.”

Westwood said, “Welcome to New Mexico.”

He deleted the third, the fourth, and the sixth numbers from his temporary list. He said, “Beam boy and granite guy and close encounters guy aren’t it, agreed? Which leaves us the abandoned cell phone in Louisiana, and the abandoned cell phone in Mississippi, and the volunteer room in Chicago. We cut the odds in half, at least.”

He neatened up the new three-line layout on his screen. At the top was the Louisiana number, which ten weeks ago had belonged to a person named Headley, according to the database, and below it was the Mississippi number, with the name Ramirez, and below that was the Chicago rec room, one user of which had been the elusive Mr. McCann, according to the database, or Ms. McCann, neither of which the out-of-breath kid had ever heard of.

Westwood printed the page and handed it to Chang.

She said, “Try the Maloney number again.”

Westwood dialed it, beep-boop-bap, and it rang and rang, and it wasn’t answered, and voice mail didn’t cut in.

He hung up, after another whole minute of trying.

Reacher said, “We need a list of everything you published in the last six months.”

Westwood said, “Why?”

“Because why else would the guy call you? He saw something you wrote. We need to know what it was.”

“That won’t help us find him.”

“I agree. It won’t. But we need to know what kind of guy we’re dealing with when we get there. We need to know what his problem is.”

“All my stuff is on the web site. You can check it, going back years.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Many thanks for your help.”

“What now?”

“We’ll figure something out. Like you said, we cut the odds in half. We have three to choose from. We’ll track them down.”

“Here’s another theory,” Westwood said. “I checked Keever’s web page, obviously, and Ms. Chang’s too. It all looks very competent. I’m sure you have all kinds of resources available to you, including your own private databases, and reverse phone directories, and possibly your own sources inside the phone companies themselves. Therefore my new theory is you don’t need me anymore. My theory is you’ll cut me out completely now.”

“We won’t,” Chang said. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Why would you?”

“We don’t want the book rights.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m too busy and he can barely write his own name with a crayon.”

Reacher said nothing.

Westwood said, “So I stay in?”

Chang said, “All for one and one for all.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“But only if it’s a good story. Please don’t bring me beams or granite or spaceships.”

Reacher and Chang left Westwood in his office, and rode the elevator back to the street. Chang had a laptop computer in her suitcase, and all she needed was a quiet space and a wifi connection, and then she could get to work, with her private databases, and her reverse phone directories, and her list of sources inside the phone companies themselves. Which meant a hotel, which meant finding a taxi. There was one parked at the curb across the street, and Reacher whistled and waved at it, but for some reason it took off fast in the other direction without them. Every city had its own hailing protocol, and it was hard to keep track. They walked north toward the children’s museum and found cabs lined up and ready to go. The kind of places Reacher knew in LA weren’t notably quiet and might not have had wifi, so he let Chang decide their destination. She told the driver West Hollywood, and the guy set out through the traffic.

Ten minutes later, twenty miles south of Mother’s Rest, the man with the ironed jeans and the blow-dried hair took a third call on his land line. This time his contact was in a chatty mood. The guy said, “It was a gift. They met in the LA Times office for nearly an hour. Which is an old building with thick walls. But Hackett got lucky. Apparently most of the business was done on the phone, and apparently Westwood uses his phone in a dock on his desk, and his desk is under his window, so Hackett had an amplified signal blasting straight through the glass. His scanner nearly blew up. They made seven calls in total. Two were expired cell phones, one was a cell phone that didn’t answer, and one was a public phone in Chicago. The other three were weirdoes they gave up on. Keever’s name was mentioned once, and private detectives in general all three times, plus once more to the shared number in Chicago, where Westwood also asked about the name McCann.”

The man south of Mother’s Rest was quiet for a very long time.

Then he said, “But no real progress?”

“That’s for you to decide. They got three possibles. I’m sure one of them was Keever’s client, and I’m sure you know which. They got phone data, which can be checked. I’ve seen things go bad from less.”

“I need to know if they contact the phone companies. Like a distant early warning system. And if they do, I need to know what the phone companies tell them.”

“That would cost extra, I’m afraid. Phone companies can be secretive. Palms would need to be greased.”

“Do it.”

“OK.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then it got a little comical.”

“How so?”

“Westwood stayed inside and Reacher and Chang left.”

“Where did they go?”

“That’s where it got comical. Hackett lost them. He was posing as a cab driver. No better cover in a city. But Reacher tried to hail him, so he had to take off fast.”

“That’s not good.”

“He has Chang’s phone in his system. As soon as she makes a call, he’ll know exactly where they are.”

The address in West Hollywood that Chang chose was a motel, not unlike the one in Mother’s Rest, except its more glamorous location made it hip and ironic rather than old and sad. Reacher paid cash for a room, which had a desk and a chair and a choice of wired or wireless connection. But best of all it had a king-size bed, flat and wide and firm. They both looked at it, and kissed, meaning it, but only briefly, like people who knew they had work to do first. Chang sat down and plugged in her laptop. She unfolded the paper Westwood had printed. Three names, three numbers. She said, “Are you a gambling man?”

Reacher said, “Louisiana is right next to Arkansas, which could explain why the guy has those two area codes. But so is Mississippi, just the same. Chicago isn’t, but a guy with the real name McCann might choose Maloney for an alias. Maybe it was his mother’s name. So at this point I would say it’s even money.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“With the current 501. It might be a recent contract. It might have a real name on it.”

“If it isn’t a burner.”

She opened a search page just as ugly as Westwood’s, and typed in the number, 501 and seven more digits.

The screen said: refer .

Reacher said, “What does that mean?”

She said, “It means it isn’t in the reverse directory, but there’s information to be had. At a price, from a source in the phone company.”

“How big of a price?”

“A hundred bucks, probably.”

“Can you afford it?”

“If it comes to anything I’ll bill the LA Times .”

“Check the others first. In case you need a quantity discount.”

Which turned out to be a possibility. The Chicago number came back exactly as advertised, one of a dozen lines into the Lincoln Park branch of the city library, but both the Louisiana cell and the Mississippi cell came back as refer .