Lee CHILD: Faking a Murderer

Reacher had never heard the word Temperance used as a name before.

The anchor said, “But Jonathan Yeow claimed it was more than a dispute. He claimed to have definitive proof that Massee was executed.”

The expert said, “You’re absolutely right, even to the point where there was a strong rumor Yeow had an actual copy of the illegal 1987 order to deploy the assassin. And don’t forget, Yeow was a very well respected reporter. He was from the Washington Post . He was the heir to a grand tradition. What he was going to say would have carried some weight. If he was right, Dr. Brennan was either ordered or coerced or bribed to falsify her second autopsy, and if that was true, her career would be over. All her previous testimony would be worthless. She would be a laughingstock. I mean, just this morning she gave the keynote at their convention at the Marriott Wardman down there in D.C., telling hundreds of other forensic scientists to keep it reliable, and relevant, and real.”

“Is that enough reason for homicide?”

“Professional ruin is a powerful motivator. Stranger things have happened. And sources inside the FBI suggest there is physical evidence, perhaps in the form of fingerprints.”

“But Dr. Brennan hasn’t been formally arrested.”

“Before she even left the convention ballroom, she hired Veronica Luong. Brennan’s supporters say that’s appropriate, in terms of their respective professional achievements, but others say you don’t hire the hottest hotshot in town unless you’re in trouble. Either way it seems Luong negotiated a special arm’s-length own-recognizance relationship with the FBI, at least for these initial stages of the investigation. Some are calling that a professional courtesy, and others are calling it the start of another cover-up.”

Then the anchor moved on, to the price of gas.

Reacher looked at the driver and said, “I’m sorry, I have to get out now. I changed my mind. I’m not going to Savannah anymore. I’m going to D.C. instead.”

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2100 EST

REACHER GOT A BUS ON Georgia avenue and got out where he thought the convention hotels might be. He asked a girl passing by if she knew the Marriott Wardman, and she did what they all did, thumbs flashing over a thin flat telephone the size of a paperback book, and then she showed him the screen, which represented their current location as a blue pulse, and the Wardman as a red blob, like the plastic head of a pushpin shoved in a map. South and west, two blocks down and three blocks over.

It was a big brassy place, with a lobby the size of a football field, still busy in the middle of the evening. Reacher figured however courteous and arm’s-length Brennan’s current relationship with the FBI might be, it would inevitably include a don’t-leave-town provision, which meant extra nights in her convention room, plus no doubt a deal breaker on the FBI’s part, in the form of an agent right outside her door, just in case she decided to run for it. No hotshot lawyer could negotiate that one away. So Reacher rode the elevator as high as it went and then walked back down the fire stairs, stopping at every floor to take a covert glance up and down the corridor. He saw two turndown carts, and three maids walking, and plenty of crusted trays of room-service leftovers. But no federal agents.

Until the fifth floor. Like in a movie. An old guy in a fold-up chair, right next to a door. Reacher pulled back and walked down to four, and came back up again to five in the elevator, like a normal person would. He stepped out and pretended to study the sign, these numbers this way, those numbers that way, and then he walked toward the seated agent, and said, “I’m Dr. Brennan’s paralegal. From Veronica Luong’s office.”

The old guy didn’t get up.

He said, “Got ID?”

Reacher gave him his passport.

The old guy said, “According to the number, this passport was issued direct by a certain office inside the State Department.”

“It came in the mail,” Reacher said.

“And now you’re a lawyer?”

“Not quite. Paralegal, from the ancient Greek para. Like parachute. Not quite a fall.”

“What do you need to see Dr. Brennan about?”

“Her Sixth Amendment right to assistance of counsel.”

“Now you’re the pro bono intern too?”

“You haven’t arrested her. You can’t stop her having visitors. You can put my name in the log. Which could help you in the end. We might want to switch to the Fifth Amendment later, and think about due process instead. Or as well.”

The old guy handed back Reacher’s passport.

He said, “Knock yourself out, kid.”

The room door had a panel on the wall, close to the handle, with a red light for Do Not Disturb, and a green light for Make Up My Room, and a pushbutton for the doorbell.

The red light was on.

Do not disturb.

Reacher pressed the doorbell button. He heard a chime inside the room, muted and polite. A woman’s voice said, “Who is it?”

Reacher said, “Your paralegal. Ms. Luong sent me.”

The door opened on the chain. Reacher saw a third of a face, a green eye, the sweep of dark blond hair. Not tiny, not tall.

He liked what he saw.

He said, “Are you Temperance Brennan?”

The woman said, “Yes.”

“Great name.”

“Who are you?”

Reacher said, “I’m here to help.”

“How?”

“Any way I can, which is what you’re going to need, because this is the Massee family we’re talking about here.”

“Do you know them?”

“From a distance.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jack Reacher.”

“And?”

“I was in the army in March 1987. Serving in Germany, as a matter of fact.”

Brennan was quiet for most of a minute.

Then she said, “You better come in.”

• • •

BRENNAN’S ROOM WAS A STANDARD rectangle all gussied up with brass and wallpaper, so it could be priced as deluxe or executive. It had two club chairs under the window, either side of a small round table. Reacher sat down in one of them. Less threatening.

Brennan said, “What do you know?”

“I can’t tell you,” Reacher said.

“Then why are you here?”

“In case a rock meets a hard place. Which it might not. But you shouldn’t underestimate the trouble you’re in.”

“I wasn’t bribed and I didn’t make a mistake. Massee shot himself.”

“You know that scientifically.”

“Yes, scientifically. Jonathan Yeow was wrong. Why would I be scared of him?”

Reacher said, “I’ll stay the night in this hotel. My advice would be to call Ms. Luong and have her contact me first thing in the morning.”

“What are you going to tell her that you won’t tell me?”

“Nothing. This is all just in case.”

“Of rocks and hard places?”

“Yeow is a dead journalist, which will drive all the other journalists batshit crazy. He’s one of them. He’s their hero now. It will become a question of stamina. Sooner or later the DOD will throw you under the bus just to shut them up.”

“Who are you?”

“Just a guy passing through.”

“What kind?”

“I was a military cop.”

“They say Yeow was suffocated with a plastic bag.”

“Uncommon method.”

“They say my prints are on the bag.”

“But they haven’t arrested you.”

“I don’t think they buy it physically,” Brennan said. “Yeow must have struggled. He was bigger than me. Almost certainly stronger.”

“And because you’re a major player.”

“I suppose.”

“How did your prints get on the bag?”

“I don’t know.”

Reacher got up and walked out of the room. He nodded to the old man in the fold-up chair and headed to the elevators, where he rode down to the lobby and hiked across an acre of marble to the reception desk. He bought a room for the night, using his passport for ID, and his ATM card for money. The room was on the third floor. Neither deluxe nor executive. No brass, no wallpaper. But it had a telephone, which rang within forty-two minutes.