Lee Child - One Shot

Reacher shook his head. “Actually I didn’t, and that’s part of the story.”

“What story?” she said again.

“Last Friday,” Reacher said. “It wasn’t what it seemed.”

“I’m going to get out of the car now,” Yanni said.

“No,” Reacher said. “I’ll get out. I apologize if I upset you. But I need your help and you need mine. So I’ll get out. You lock the doors, start the car, keep your foot on the brake, and open your window an inch. We’ll talk through the window. You can drive off anytime you want.”

She said nothing. Just stared straight ahead as if she could make him vanish by not looking at him. He opened his door. Slid out and turned and laid the tire iron gently on the seat. Then he closed the door and just stood there. He tucked his shirt in. He heard the thunk of her door locks. She started her engine. Her brake lights flared red. He saw her reach up and switch off the dome light. Her face disappeared into shadow. He heard the transmission move out of Park. Her back-up lights flashed white as she moved the selector through Reverse into Drive. Then her brake lights went out and the engine roared and she drove off in a fast wide circle through the empty garage. Her tires squealed. Grippy rubber on smooth concrete. The squeals echoed. She lined up for the exit ramp and accelerated hard.

Then she jammed on the brakes.

The Mustang came to rest with its front wheels on the base of the ramp. Reacher walked toward it, crouching a little so he could see through the small rear window. No cell phone. She was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, hands on the wheel. The brake lights blazed red, so bright they hurt. The exhaust pipes burbled. White fumes kicked backward. Drops of water dripped out and made tiny twin pools on the floor.

Reacher walked around to her window and stayed three feet away. She buzzed the glass down an inch and a half. He dropped into a crouch so he could see her face.

“Why do I need your help?” she asked.

“Because Friday was over too soon for you,” he said. “But you can get it back. There’s another layer. It’s a big story. You’ll win prizes. You’ll get a better job. CNN will beat a path to your door.”

“You think I’m that ambitious?”

“I think you’re a journalist.”

“What does that mean?”

“That in the end, journalists like stories. They like the truth.”

She paused, almost a whole minute. Stared straight ahead. The car ticked and clicked as it warmed up. Reacher could sense the idle speed straining against the brakes. Then he saw her glance down and move her arm and shove the selector into Park. The Mustang rolled back six inches and stopped. Reacher shuffled sideways to stay level with the window. Yanni turned her head and looked straight at him.

“So tell me the story,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

He told her the story, and the truth. He sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, so as to appear immobile and unthreatening. He left nothing out. He ran through all the events, all the inferences, all the theories, all the guesses. At the end he just stopped talking and waited for her reaction.

“Where were you when Sandy was killed?” she asked.

“Asleep in the motor court.”

“Alone?”

“All night. Room eight. I slept very well.”

“No alibi.”

“You never have an alibi when you need one. That’s a universal law of nature.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“What do you want me to do?” she said.

“I want you to research the victims.”

She paused.

“We could do that,” she said. “We have researchers.”

“Not good enough,” Reacher said. “I want you to hire a guy called Franklin. Helen Rodin can tell you about him. She’s in this building, two floors above you.”

“Why hasn’t she hired this Franklin guy herself?”

“Because she can’t afford him. You can. I assume you’ve got a budget. A week of Franklin’s time probably costs less than one of your weather guy’s haircuts.”

“And then what?”

“Then we put it all together.”

“How big is this?”

“Pulitzer-sized. Emmy-sized. New-job-sized.”

“How would you know? You’re not in the business.”

“I was in the army. I would guess this is worth a Bronze Star. That’s probably a rough equivalent. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I should turn you in.”

“You can’t,” he said. “You pull out a phone and I’ll take off up the ramp. They won’t find me. They’ve been trying all day.”

“I don’t really care about prizes,” she said.

“So do it for fun,” he said. “Do it for professional satisfaction.”

He rocked sideways and took out the napkin with Helen Rodin’s number on it. Held it edge-on at the crack of the window. Yanni took it from him, delicately, trying to avoid touching his fingers with hers.

“Call Helen,” Reacher said. “Right now. She’ll vouch for me.”

Yanni took a cell phone out of her purse and turned it on. Watched the screen and waited until it was ready and then dialed the number. She passed the napkin back. Listened to the phone.

“Helen Rodin?” she said. Then she buzzed the window all the way up and Reacher didn’t hear any of the conversation. He gambled that it was really Helen she was speaking to. It was possible that she had looked at the napkin and dialed another number entirely. Not 911, because she had dialed ten digits. But she might have called the cops’ main desk. A reporter might know that number by heart.

But it was Helen on the line. Yanni buzzed the window down again and passed him her phone through the gap.

“Is this for real?” Helen asked him.

“I don’t think she’s decided yet,” Reacher said. “But it might work out.”

“Is it a good idea?”

“She’s got resources. And having the media watching our backs might help us.”

“Put her back on.”

Reacher passed the phone through the window. This time Yanni kept the glass down so that Reacher heard her end of the rest of the conversation. Initially she sounded skeptical, and then neutral, and then somewhat convinced. She arranged to meet on the fourth floor first thing in the morning. Then she clicked the phone off.

“There’s a cop outside her door,” Reacher said.

“She told me that,” Yanni said. “But they’re looking for you, not me.”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Reacher said nothing.

“I guess I need to understand where you’re coming from first,” Yanni said. “Obviously you don’t care anything about James Barr himself. So is this all for the sister? Rosemary?”

Reacher watched her watching him. A woman, a journalist.

“Partly for Rosemary,” he said.

“But?”

“Mostly for the puppet master. He’s sitting there thinking he’s as smart as a whip. I don’t like that. Never have. Makes me want to show him what smart really is.”

“Like a challenge?”

“He had a girl killed, Yanni. She was just a dumb sweet kid looking for a little fun. He pushed open the wrong door there. So he deserves to have something come out at him. That’s the challenge.”

“You hardly knew her.”

“That doesn’t make her any less innocent.”

“OK.”

“OK what?”

“NBC will spring for Franklin. Then we’ll see where that takes us.”

“Thanks,” Reacher said. “I appreciate it.”

“You should.”

“I apologize again. For scaring you.”

“I nearly died of fright.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” Reacher said. “I need to borrow your car.”