Lee Child - MatchUp

Five yards, then they saw Thorsten through an expanse of glass, seated at a desk that matched everything else in the building. The door was open. Brennan and Reacher entered. Both did their habitual scan.

The room wasn’t big, wasn’t small, wasn’t drab, wasn’t bright. Despite the fish tank wall, an overabundance of papers, printouts, files, and books made the unexceptional space feel tight and claustrophobic. A warehouse print hung behind Thorsten’s head—a wooden pier, gulls, and a boat. It blended well with the blah.

Thorsten looked about fifty going on heart failure. Gray hair, saggy eyes, saggy gut. He raised skeptical brows on seeing Brennan. Apparently Luong had mentioned only her paralegal. Or maybe it was Reacher’s size. Or gender.

“The lady of the hour,” Thorsten guessed. Or knew, from press photos. Then the questioning eyes slid to Reacher.

“I’m the paralegal.”

“Sure you are.” Thorsten pointed at the two chairs facing him. They looked like the desk, except they were chairs.

Reacher sat. Brennan sat. Thorsten directed his next comment to her.

“Word is you burned one of my reporters.” Voice dry and flat as the Kalahari.

“Word’s wrong.”

“And I’m blessed with your presence because?”

“I intend to find the bastard who did.”

Thorsten thought about that. Then, “Yeow learned some interesting facts about you.”

“Such as?”

“Beats me.”

“He didn’t brief you on his investigation?”

“Yeow was a veteran. We operated on a need-to-know basis.”

“I need to know.”

Another tense silence as they stared in two directions across the desk. Thorsten’s gaze was impersonal. Brennan figured years had passed since empathy last wormed into it.

“You’re aiding Luong with the doc’s defense?” Thorsten asked Reacher.

“I am.”

“Paralegally.”

“Yes. It would help to have the names of people Yeow was interviewing.”

Thorsten laughed, as Brennan and Reacher both knew he would. “Please. I can’t reveal sources.” Realizing his mistake. “If I knew them.”

“Yeow never told you what they said?” Brennan asked.

Thorsten shook his head slowly.

“He never showed you his notes? Asked for authorization? Requested travel money? Inducement money? Lunch money?”

The head kept wagging.

“What can you reveal, Mr. Thorsten?” Reacher, the diplomat.

“Yeow promised me one hell of a piece.”

“Guess you’re out of luck on that.” Distaste coated Brennan’s tone.

“Or the story’s become much better.”

“Be very careful, Mr. Thorsten.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Journalists often pretend they know more than they do.”

Thorsten shrugged. Whatever.

Brennan glanced at Reacher. He dipped his chin. They both stood.

“I didn’t kill Jonathan Yeow,” Brennan said, looking down at the editor. “And I didn’t make an error or take a bribe in the Calder Massee case. When I prove those two facts, and find Yeow’s killer, my first call will be to the New York Times. ”

Brennan drew a card from her shoulder bag and winged it onto the desk. Then she and Reacher turned and left. Along the corridor overlooking the very long newsroom. Down the quiet elevator. Through the lobby out onto K street. Which wasn’t quiet.

They decided to take the Metro. Were waiting on the platform when Brennan’s cell phone rang. Caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number. She answered anyway.

“You didn’t hear this from me.” The Kalahari voice was muffled, as though Thorsten’s mouth was cupped with one hand.

“Hear what?”

“Ian Massee.”

“Calder’s youngest brother.”

“Ian thinks the suicide was a DOD-ordered execution.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“The guy’s a lunatic.”

“You’ve spoken to him?” Locking eyes with Reacher, who was listening to her end of the conversation.

“Many times. Until I stopped taking his calls.”

“Do you think he could be violent?”

“He loathes the government.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“In my opinion, Ian Massee’s the next Sandy Hook waiting to happen.”

“Why would he kill Yeow? Yeow was going to prove him right.”

“Follow the money,” said the Kalahari voice, muffled, like a dust storm.

Then the call clicked off.

Reacher said, “Our Mr. Thorsten is a versatile character. One minute Mr. Cautious Corporate Editor, and the next minute Mr. Watergate Deep Throat.”

Brennan said, “I don’t want to have to talk to Ian Massee.”

“Maybe we won’t have to. Why would Thorsten change his tune like that?”

“You tell me.”

“Maybe he dreams of the old days.”

“Or?”

“He dreams of the money. He runs a newspaper. He’s got a great story that just got better. He could sell a lot of extra copies. He could get all kinds of syndication deals. Maybe a movie. Except he doesn’t know what the story is. Not yet. He knows the sources. But he doesn’t know what they said. He’s trying to get us to do the interviews all over again. To keep the dream alive.”

“Doesn’t work,” Brennan said. “Thorsten wouldn’t benefit. I’m sure Ian Massee sold the movie rights years ago. It’s his project. And Watergate is ancient history. Journalists are different now. They know better. A hack like Yeow would sign up with Massee’s people ahead of time, and in his own name. He’d cut Thorsten out. He’d want all the profit, not just a percentage.”

“You’re following the money.”

“To where?”

“To wherever Ian Massee sold the rights. Some movie company somewhere knows the whole story. As a contractual requirement, I’m sure. Before making their substantial investment.”

Brennan said, “Which would make them protect Mr. Yeow, because he’s the golden goose. They can’t possibly be suspects.”

Reacher said nothing.

Brennan said, “And obviously they’re not. But I suppose a rival might be. If someone wins, someone else loses. Suppose the someone else doesn’t want to lose. People tell me show business is tough. Kill Yeow, you kill your competitor’s bid for glory. And you make him waste his investment. That comes off his bottom line. It’s a win-win.”

“Follow the money.”

“Which means television, not movies. People tell me that’s where the money is these days. In which case there are hundreds of companies and therefore potentially thousands of one-on-one ratings wars. Millions, actually. It’s a math thing.”

“I understand,” Reacher said. “I went to West Point. Which is a kind of college.”

“It’s an academy.”

“We could all read and write.”

“We would need to start where Ian Massee sold the rights. And work outward from there. Which means talking to him anyway. We’re back where we started.”

“At least we know what to ask him. We don’t have to beat about the bush.”

THEY RODE THE METRO TO where Brennan’s internet phone told them Ian Massee maintained his office. Which turned out to be a storefront with a yellow painted-over window, between a post office and a bilingual tax preparer, in a mall about equidistant from the best and the worst the metro area had to offer.

On the inside the office was a plain rectangular space, and it was empty, except for a woman at a reception desk, just inside the door. She was backlit with gold, from the sunlight coming through the painted window.

Reacher stepped up and asked, “Is Mr. Ian Massee in the office?”

The woman looked at him with a pleasant receptionist-style smile, warm and friendly, except her eyes said It’s an open-plan office with only me in it. What part of that don’t you understand?