Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (5 page)

Kim glanced at Gaspar. He signaled agreement with a slight nod. They’d get nowhere with Chief Roscoe today unless they could shake her loose a little. If they had to come back another time, she’d have her answers sanded to smooth uselessness.

Now or never.

“We’ve been asked to conduct a background check on an army veteran,” Kim said, slowly, watching Roscoe’s demeanor closely. Almost like the children’s game of hot, hot, cold, but the method depended less on what Roscoe said and more on how she reacted. Standard interview techniques Kim had applied a thousand times. If Roscoe was worried about anyone not an army veteran, she should relax a bit.

But she didn’t relax.

Gaspar bluffed. “We know he came to Margrave about fifteen years ago. Maybe he lives here now. Law enforcement might have had some contact with him.”

Pulse elevated and steady at one-twenty. Something Gaspar had said had alarmed Chief Roscoe further. Good.

Roscoe said, “Our population has grown quite a bit because of sprawl out of Atlanta. But I’d know anyone who’s lived here more than a few months. What’s his name?”

The way she inquired, the tension she carried in her eyes and shoulders, the timing, her failure to breathe. Pulse at one-twenty-five. Very concerned. But the greater Atlanta area boasted a significant veteran population. She could be worried about someone else entirely.

But Kim had noted that fifteen men were referenced in the materials received from the boss. And only two women: Reacher’s mother, now dead two decades.

And the first source: Beverly Roscoe.

Not identified by her married name, either. Roscoe, not Trent. The name she had when Reacher swept through Margrave. The name she still used on every official record. In an old-fashioned small town where everybody knew she was Mrs. Trent.

Kim set her coffee mug on the table between her chair and Gaspar’s. She wiped her hands. She reached into her pocket for the photograph.

“Here, let me show you,” Kim said, as she lifted her gaze directly to Roscoe’s face, watching for nuanced micro movements, lowering her voice to focus Roscoe’s full attention while she revealed the photo, and she said, “The man’s name is Jack Reacher.”

Roscoe’s face aged instantly. The formal smile she’d worn a moment before vanished along with all vitality from those enormous eyes. Her expression became both vacant and horrified.

A full second passed. Maybe two. Roscoe continued to stare at the altered photo of Jack Reacher. Her pulse was erratic, racing.

And then she started to cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tears flooded Roscoe’s eyes. One rolled down her cheek before she grabbed a tissue. The tears kept on coming. Her chin quivered. She took a deep ragged breath, and another. Still the tears fell. She swiveled her chair around, turning her back on Kim and Gaspar, hiding her face. They could hear her rhythmic breathing, struggling to regain control.

She was like the hundreds of crime victims Kim had interviewed after unimaginable, tragic, deeply personal disasters. What the hell had Reacher done to her? Nothing in Reacher’s file reflected violence against women, although he was certainly capable of it.
The bastard.
Why hadn’t she considered that Reacher might have hurt this woman?

Kim glanced toward Gaspar. Blatant emotion had not been on his list of expected reactions, either. What should they do now? Gaspar didn’t seem to have a clue.

Roscoe’s deep breaths continued a minute or two until she finally composed herself and turned around to face them once again. Her eyes were clear and her chin was strong. She smiled weakly and took a sip of coffee, stalling, maybe steadying her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said, a little catch in her tone. She sipped and swallowed again, and regained her self-control.

“No, Chief Roscoe, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Kim said. “I didn’t know. Truly. I had no idea Reacher’s photograph would upset you so much. I sincerely apologize.”

Roscoe’s brows arched and she tilted her head and jutted her chin, like a dog identifying the source of a distant sound. Her lips lifted slightly at one corner, amused.

She’s laughing at me now?
Kim felt played. But she didn’t understand the game. Heat rose in her chest.

Roscoe said, “Reacher’s not here. You’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid.”

Gaspar said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a cop cry when shown a missing persons photo, Chief Roscoe. In fact, I think this is a first for me. How about you, Agent Otto?”

“A first for me, too,” Kim snapped.

Roscoe replied with a little sarcasm of her own. “Sorry. Really shocking, my behavior. Seeing as how you’ve been so upfront with me. So I should definitely have been more helpful.”

Gaspar didn’t let up. “So you’re refusing to cooperate with an FBI investigation?”

Roscoe’s back was up now, too. “Look, you barge into my town, into my office. Unannounced. Unexpected. Lie to me. You knew Reacher wasn’t here when you asked me, didn’t you? I don’t owe you anything.”

Quietly, Kim asked, “What caused you to cry? What did Reacher do to you?”

Roscoe took a breath, and another, and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got emotional because, well, I was … relieved.”

“I’m lost,” Gaspar said. “Some guy assaults you, or worse, and you’re
relieved
that we think he might be back in your jurisdiction?”

Roscoe said, “He didn’t assault me. And I’m relieved because the FBI thinks he’s still alive. I haven’t heard from him since he left Margrave.”

“You expected to hear from him?” Kim asked.

Gaspar seemed to get it, too. “You knew him well, then?”

Roscoe hesitated too long.

Kim could almost see her rejecting one reply after another. Why so much concern over what to say about a drifter who passed through her jurisdiction briefly more than a decade ago?

Finally, Roscoe offered a weak, “I knew him well enough.”

Which made perfect sense and no sense at all.
So that’s the way it was.
Followed swiftly by,
But how could that be true?

“Where did you meet him?” Gaspar asked.

Roscoe’s pleasant expression returned. She’d collected her poise once again. Kim felt the momentum shift to Roscoe. She would cooperate, but only on her terms. Whatever those terms might be.

“In the interview room across the hall in the old station.” Roscoe tilted her head in that direction. She grinned. “I took his fingerprints and his mug shot after he was arrested.”

Gaspar looked surprised. “Our files don’t contain any arrest records.”

“No arrest records?” Roscoe’s desk phone rang. “Hard to believe the FBI missed something like that.” She glanced down to see where the call came from and then ignored it.

“We’ll need copies,” Gaspar said. “Can we get them now, while we’re here?”

Roscoe feigned chagrin. “Afraid not. We had a fire. The station and everything in it was destroyed, unfortunately.”

Gaspar ran his hand through his hair. He looked as peeved as Kim had felt a few moments before. “What was he arrested for?”

“Something he didn’t do.”

Not likely, Kim thought. If Reacher was arrested for anything, he’d done ten times worse and not been caught. Reacher was the kind of guy who solved all problems as permanently as possible.

Roscoe’s phone kept on ringing. A low, insistent buzz. Two, three, four, five times.

Gaspar pressed on. “What didn’t he do?”

The phone kept buzzing. Someone really wanted Chief Roscoe to pick up that receiver.

“Murder,” Roscoe said.

Kim wasn’t surprised. An army-trained expert killer prowling under all available radar for fifteen solid years, invisible even to the mighty FBI. What else had Reacher been doing besides murder? That was the relevant question. Gaspar looked equally skeptical. He’d read the same file Kim had. No way would he believe Reacher innocent of murder, either.

Maybe disappointed in their reaction, Roscoe offered something that did astonish. “And then he saved my life, too.”

Roscoe smiled at their surprise. Finally she picked up her phone. She said, “Yes, Brent?” And then her smile died. She said, “What?” All business now. Short concise questions, longer periods of listening. Controlled. No tears. “He’s sure? When?” Concentration, closed eyes, deep furrows in her brow. “OK, call crime scene, paramedics and medical examiner, too. Phones only. Keep listeners out as long as we can.”

Roscoe stood up, rested the receiver against her shoulder with her chin to free her hands, patted her waist in two places, one where her gun would be holstered and the other where her badge would likely rest. She said, “Good plan. Both in the air?” She looked around for a cell phone, found it, picked it up, and dropped it into her jacket pocket. She put the phone down and picked up her car keys. She glanced across the desk and said, “My sergeant, the one who didn’t come in today? He’s been killed.” Her voice was soft, but the rest of her behavior was purely professional. “So can we pick this up later?” she asked, on her way to the door.

Gaspar moved fast. “We could ride along, like a couple of extra hands. If you like. Purely informal.”

Roscoe hesitated, pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes again, breathed deep. Then she said, “Yes, that would be great.”

Before Kim had a chance to say anything at all, Gaspar headed out, Traverse keys in hand. “I’ll drive. You can brief us as we go. Have Brent bring your car out.”

Roscoe followed close behind, issuing instructions to Brent along the way.

Kim remained seated in the abandoned man-cave. She checked her watch again to confirm the timing. She collected Reacher’s photo from Roscoe’s desk and looked around to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

No reason to rush. Plenty of reasons not to. For the first time in eight hours she felt she finally understood where this assignment was going.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Roscoe and Gaspar were already belted into the front seats of the Traverse. The engine was running, the air conditioning was blasting, and the left rear door was open. Kim stepped up into the back seat half a second before Gaspar took off. She didn’t fall out, so maybe she was getting used to his style. He drove as fast as he could without a bubble light to clear traffic, straight back the way they had come less than an hour ago. They’d reach the interstate in about fourteen minutes.

“The deceased is Sergeant Harry Black,” Gaspar said, glancing into the rearview mirror to meet her eyes, catching her up on what he’d heard while waiting. “Shot and killed at home. With his own gun. By his wife, Sylvia.”

“Did you know him well?” Kim asked Roscoe.

“Since we were kids,” Roscoe said. “Harry Black grew up here. He’s worked in our department about five years, I guess. Second marriage. Sylvia worked as a secretary in our shop a while. That’s how they met. Married three years or so.”

“So what happened today?” Gaspar asked.

“You were there when I took the call. I have limited data. Sylvia called nine-one-one at eleven twenty-eight a.m. I haven’t heard the tape yet. At some point, we’ll get a copy and a transcript. I’m told she said, quote, ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’ The operator asked her all the appropriate questions, and Sylvia just repeated those three sentences over and over again. She hasn’t uttered another word.”

“Anybody at the scene?” Gaspar asked.

“At the time of the shooting? I don’t know. But now, yes. The nine-one-one service here is routed through Atlanta. The operator called Georgia Highway Patrol first. Maybe not sure who had jurisdiction out at Harry’s. Could have been the County Sheriff. Both of us are at least twenty miles away. GHP had a car fairly close. They called us.”

Roscoe’s voice had a slight edge to it, Kim thought.

Gaspar asked, “Something wrong with calling the GHP?”

“Not by itself, no.”

“What, then?” Kim asked.

Roscoe turned around in her seat. She met Kim’s gaze with a steady stare. She said, “GHP is a professional organization. They’ve got good officers and good training. Just like the FBI, I’m sure.”