Lee Child - Gone Tomorrow

‘Did she give you anything?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Completely. Are we done?’

The guy asked, ‘You got plans?’

‘I’m leaving town.’

‘Heading where?’

‘Someplace else.’

The guy nodded. ‘OK, we’re done. Now beat it.’

I stayed where I was. I let them walk away, back to their car. They got in and waited for a gap in the traffic and eased out and drove away. I guessed they would take the West Side Highway all the way downtown, back to their desks.

Theresa Lee was still on the sidewalk.

I crossed the street and threaded between two parked blue and white prowl cars and stepped up on the kerb and stood near her, far enough away to be respectful, close enough to be heard, facing the building so I wouldn’t have the sun in my eyes. I asked, ‘What was that all about?’

She said, ‘They found Susan Mark’s car. It was parked way down in SoHo. It was towed this morning.’

‘And?’

‘They searched it, obviously.’

‘Why obviously? They’re making a lot of fuss about something they claim is no big deal.’

‘They don’t explain their thinking. Not to us, anyway.’

‘What did they find?’

‘A piece of paper, with what they think is a phone number on it. Like a scribbled note. Screwed up, like trash.’

‘What was the number?’

‘It had a 600 area code, which they say is a Canadian cellular service. Some special network. Then a number, then the letter D, like an initial.’

‘Means nothing to me,’ I said.

‘Me either. Except I don’t think it’s a phone number at all. There’s no exchange number and then it has one too many digits.’

‘If it’s a special network maybe it doesn’t need an exchange number.’

‘It doesn’t look right.’

‘So what was it?’

She answered me by reaching behind her and pulling a small notebook out of her back pocket. Not official police issue. It had a stiff black board cover and an elastic strap that held it closed. The whole book was slightly curled, like it spent a lot of time in her pocket. She slipped the strap and opened it up and showed me a fawn-coloured page with 600-82219-D written on it in neat handwriting. Her handwriting, I guessed. Information only, not a facsimile. Not an exact reproduction of a scribbled note.

600-8221 9-D.

‘See anything?’ she asked.

I said, ‘Maybe Canadian cell phones have more numbers.’ I knew that phone companies the world over were worried about running out. Adding an extra digit would increase an area code’s capacity by a factor of ten. Thirty million, not three. Although Canada had a small population. A big land mass, but most of it was empty. About thirty-three million people, I thought. Smaller than California. And California got by with regular phone numbers.

Lee said, ‘It’s not a phone number. It’s something else. Like a code or a serial number. Or a file number. Those guys are wasting their time.’

‘Maybe it’s not connected. Trash in a car, it could be anything.’

‘Not my problem.’

I asked, ‘Was there luggage in the car?’

‘No. Nothing except the usual kind of crap that piles up in a car.’

‘So it was supposed to be a quick trip. In and out.’

Lee didn’t answer. She yawned and said nothing. She was tired.

I asked, ‘Did those guys talk to Susan’s brother?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He seems to want to sweep it all under the rug.’

‘Understandable,’ Lee said. ‘There’s always a reason, and it’s never very attractive. That’s been my experience, anyway.’

‘Are you closing the file?’

‘It’s already closed.’

‘You happy with that?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Statistics,’ I said. ‘Eighty per cent of suicides are men. Suicide is much rarer in the East than the West. And where she did it was weird.’

‘But she did it. You saw her. There’s no doubt about it. There’s no dispute. It wasn’t a homicide, cleverly disguised.’

‘Maybe she was driven to it. Maybe it was a homicide by proxy.’

‘Then all suicides are.’

She glanced up and down the street, wanting to go, too polite to say so. I said, ‘Well, it was a pleasure meeting you.’

‘You leaving town?’

I nodded. ‘I’m going to Washington D.C.’

I TOOK THE TRAIN FROM PENN STATION. MORE PUBLIC transportation. Getting there was tense. Just a three-block walk through the crowds, but I was watching for people checking faces against their cell phone screens, and it seemed like the entire world had some kind of an electronic device out and open. But I arrived intact and bought a ticket with cash.

The train itself was full and very different from the subway. All the passengers faced forward, and they were all hidden behind high-backed chairs. The only people I could see were alongside me. A woman in the seat next to me, and two guys across the aisle. I figured all three of them for lawyers. Not major leaguers. Double- or Triple-A players, probably, senior associates with busy lives. Not suicide bombers, anyway. The two men had fresh shaves and all three of them were irritable, but apart from that nothing rang a bell. Not that the D.C. Amtrak would attract suicide bombers anyway. It was tailor-made for a suitcase bomb instead. At Penn the track is announced at the last minute. The crowd mills around on the concourse and then rushes down and piles on. No security. Identical black roll-ons are stacked on the luggage racks. Easy enough for a guy to get off in Philadelphia and leave his bag behind, and then explode it a little later, by cell phone, as the train pulls into Union Station without him, right in the heart of the capital.

But we got there OK and I made it out to Delaware Avenue unharmed. D.C. was as hot as New York had been, and damper. The sidewalks ahead of me were dotted with knots of tourists. Family groups, mostly, from far and wide. Dutiful parents, sullen children, all dressed in gaudy shorts and T-shirts, maps in their hands, cameras at the ready. Not that I was either well dressed or a frequent visitor. I had worked in the area from time to time, but always on the left of the river. But I knew where I was going. My destination was unmistakable and right there in front of me. The U.S. Capitol. It had been built to impress. Foreign diplomats were supposed to visit during the fledgling days of the Republic and come away convinced that the new nation was a player. The design had succeeded. Beyond it across Independence Avenue were the House offices. At one time I had a rudimentary grasp of congressional politics. Investigations had sometimes led all the way to committees. I knew that the Rayburn Building was full of bloated old hacks who had been in Washington for ever. I figured a relatively new guy like Sansom would have been given space in the Cannon Building instead. Prestigious, but not top drawer.

The Cannon Building was on Independence and First, crouching opposite the far corner of the Capitol like it was paying homage or mounting a threat. It had all kinds of security at the door. I asked a guy in a uniform if Mr Sansom of North Carolina was inside. The guy checked a list and said yes, he was. I asked if I could messenger a note to his office. The guy said yes, I could. He supplied a pencil and special House notepaper and an envelope. I addressed the envelope to Major John T. Sansom, US. Army, Retired , and added the date and the time. On the paper I wrote: Early this morning I saw a woman die with your name on her lips . Not true, but close enough. I added: Library of Congress steps in one hour . I signed it Major Jack-none-Reacher. US. Army, Retired . There was a box to tick at the bottom. It asked: Are you my constituent? I ticked the box. Not strictly true. I didn’t live in Sansom’s district, but no more so than I didn’t live in any of the other 434 districts. And I had served in North Carolina, three separate times. So I felt I was entitled. I sealed the envelope and handed it in and went back outside to wait.