Lee Child - Bad Luck and Trouble

“Right here.”

Reacher shook his head. “No, it isn’t. You’ve got a fence a three-year-old could walk through and no guard shack at the gate and an unsecured lobby. Tony Swan wouldn’t have let you get away with that if anything sensitive was happening here.”

“I really can’t comment on our procedures.”

“Who was Swan’s boss?”

“Our Director of Security? He’s a retired LAPD lieutenant.”

“And you kept him and let Swan go? Your last-in-first-out policy didn’t do you any favors there.”

“They’re all great people, the ones who stayed and the ones who went. We hated making the cut. But it was an absolute necessity.”

Two minutes later Reacher and Neagley were back in the Mustang, sitting in New Age’s parking lot, engine idling to run the air, with the full scope of the disaster plain to both of them.

“Really bad timing,” Reacher said. “Suddenly Swan is at loose ends, Franz calls him with a problem, what else is Swan going to do? He’s going to run right over there. It’s twenty minutes down the road.”

“He’d have gone anyway, unemployed or not.”

“They all would. And I guess they all did.”

“So are they all dead now?”

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst.”

“You got what you wanted, Reacher. It’s just the two of us.”

“I didn’t want it for these reasons.”

“I just can’t believe it. All of them?”

“Someone’s going to pay.”

“You think? We’ve got nothing. We’ve got one last chance with a password. Which by definition we’ll be too nervous to take.”

“This is no kind of a time to be getting nervous.”

“So tell me what to type.”

Reacher said nothing.

They retraced their route through the surface streets. Neagley drove in silence and Reacher pictured Tony Swan making the same drive more than three weeks earlier. Maybe with the contents of his New Age desk boxed up in his trunk, his pens and pencils and his chip of Soviet concrete. On his way to help his old buddy. Other old buddies pouring in down spokes of an invisible wheel. Sanchez and Orozco hustling over from Vegas on the 15. O’Donnell and Dixon coming in on planes from the East Coast, toting luggage, taking taxis, assembling.

Meeting and greeting.

Running into some kind of a brick wall.

Then their images faded away and he was alone again with Neagley in the car. Just the two of us . Facts were to be faced, not fought.

Neagley left the car with the Beverly Wilshire valets and they entered the lobby from the rear through the crooked corridor. They rode up in the elevator in silence. Neagley used her key and pushed open her door.

Then she stopped dead.

Because sitting in her chair by the window, reading Calvin Franz’s autopsy report, was a man in a suit.

Tall, fair, aristocratic, relaxed.

David O’Donnell.

O’Donnell looked up, somber. “I was going to inquire as to the meaning of all those rude and abusive messages on my answering machine.” Then he raised the autopsy report, an explanatory gesture. “But now I understand.”

Neagley asked, “How did you get in here?”

O’Donnell just said, “Oh, please.”

“Where the hell were you?” Reacher asked.

“I was in New Jersey,” O’Donnell said. “My sister was sick.”

“How sick?”

“Very sick.”

“Did she die?”

“No, she recovered.”

“Then you should have been here days ago.”

“Thanks for your concern.”

“We were worried,” Neagley said. “We thought they got you, too.”

O’Donnell nodded. “You should be worried. You should stay worried. It’s a worrying situation. I had to wait four hours for a flight. I used the time making calls. No answer from Franz, obviously. Now I know why, of course. No answer from Swan or Dixon or Orozco or Sanchez, either. My conclusion was that one of them had gotten all the others together and they had run into a problem. Not you or Reacher, because you’re too busy in Chicago and who the hell could ever find Reacher? And not me, because I was temporarily off the grid in New Jersey.”

“I wasn’t too busy,” Neagley said. “How could anyone think that? I’d have dropped everything and come running.”

O’Donnell nodded again. “At first that was the only thing that gave me hope. I figured they would have called you.”

“So why didn’t they? Don’t they like me?”

“If they hated you they’d still have called you. Without you it would have been like fighting with one hand behind their backs. Who would do that voluntarily? But in the end it’s perception that counts, not reality. You’re very high grade now compared to the rest of us. I think they might have hesitated with you. Maybe until it was too late.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that one of them, and now I see that it would have been Franz, was in trouble, and he called all of us that he perceived as readily available. Which excluded you and Reacher by definition, and me also, by bad luck, because I wasn’t where I normally am.”

“That’s how we saw it, too. Except you’re a bonus. Your sister being sick was a stroke of luck for us. And for you, maybe.”

“But not for her.”

“Stop whining,” Reacher said. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Nice to see you, too,” O’Donnell said. “After all these years.”

“How did you get in here?” Neagley asked.

O’Donnell shifted in his seat and took a switchblade from one coat pocket and a set of brass knuckles from the other. “A guy who can get these through airport security can get into a hotel room, believe me.”

“How did you get those through an airport?”

“My secret,” O’Donnell said.

“Ceramic,” Reacher said. “They don’t make them anymore. Because they don’t set the metal detector off.”

“Correct,” O’Donnell said. “No metal at all, apart from the switchblade spring, which is still steel. But that’s very small.”

“It’s good to see you again, David,” Reacher said.

“Likewise. But I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“The circumstances just got fifty percent happier. We thought it was just the two of us. Now it’s the three of us.”

“What have we got?”

“Very little. You’ve seen what’s in his autopsy report. Apart from that we’ve got two generic white men who tossed his office. Didn’t find anything, because he was mailing stuff to himself in a permanent loop. We found his mail box and picked up four flash memories and we’re down to the last try at a password.”

“So start thinking about computer security,” Neagley said.

O’Donnell took a deep breath and held it longer than seemed humanly possible. Then he exhaled, gently. It was an old habit.

“Tell me what words you’ve tried so far,” he said.

Neagley opened her notebook to the relevant page and handed it over. O’Donnell put a finger to his lips and read. Reacher watched him. He hadn’t seen him in eleven years, but he hadn’t changed much. He had the kind of corn-colored hair that would never show gray. He had the kind of greyhound’s body that would never show fat. His suit was beautifully cut. In the same way as Neagley, he looked settled and prosperous and successful. Like he was making it.

“ Koufax didn’t work?” he asked.

Neagley shook her head. “That was our third try.”

“Should have been your first, out of this list. Franz related to icons, gods, people he admired, performances he idolized. Koufax is the only one of these that really fits the bill. The others are merely sentimental. Miles Davis perhaps, because he loved music, but ultimately he thought music was inessential.”