Don't Know Jack (17 page)

“Agent Otto?” her boss said.

Gaspar started back with the dog.

“Yes, sir.”  Traffic noise made it hard to hear him. She covered her opposite ear with her palm and tried to concentrate on his voice alone.

“Are you standing in plain sight of the Chevy?”

How did he know about the Chevy?  She looked skyward as if she could locate the satellite he was using to spy on them. The traffic cam directly overhead wouldn't have been within his control, would it?

She said, “Yes, sir.”

Two eighteen wheelers roared past with the whine of tires and a howl of wind. She couldn’t hear her boss. Sounded like he’d said, “Get the hell out of there.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll take care of the traffic cam. GHP is on the way. I don’t want you within ten miles of that car. You haven’t been there. You haven’t seen the Chevy. You haven’t seen what’s in it. Under any circumstances. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

But she didn’t understand why he'd tell her to leave the scene of an accident. Not at all.

“Be in Roscoe’s office when they call about the Chevy. You’ve got less than six minutes to get out of sight. Move.”  He disconnected the call.

“Yes, sir,” she said again, to the dead air, no chance to ask more questions.

Gaspar had covered about half the ground, pulling the gyrating dog. The dog jerked hard and Gaspar slipped on the gravel and fell to his knees. He got up again and the crazy hound jumped and pulled back toward the Chevy. Gaspar held fast to his improvised leash and kept on coming. Kim put the phone in her pocket and hustled toward the old truck. Gramps was still standing on the shoulder, watching his dog, awaiting its return. His pigs were squealing louder than ever. Kim gagged on the stench. How in God’s name could Gramps stand that smell?

“Sir, I’m sorry,” Kim said. Gramps cupped his hand around his ear. Kim yelled to be heard over the traffic and the squealing. “We’ve got an emergency here. My friend will be right back with your dog. Can we get your truck off the road here so we can get moving?”

The old guy smelled nearly as bad as his pigs. Kim gagged again. The greasy eggs she’d barely tasted an hour ago didn’t want to stay down. She swallowed twice, three times. When the old man failed to budge, she yelled, “OK?”

Gramps flashed a big, toothless grin. “Sure, honey. Anything you say. You’re a cute little thing, you know that?”

For a horrified second she thought he might touch her. If he did, she’d have to burn all her clothes. She stepped back. Smiled at him. Cajoled him toward the driver’s seat with gestures.

“Start your truck,” she yelled.

By the time Gramps got settled and moved his truck out of the way, Gaspar had returned with the leaping dog. He placed the dog inside the cab with his appreciative owner. Kim tapped her foot while Gaspar stood with his head inside the truck’s window, unable to break away from Gramps undying gratitude, wasting precious seconds. She listened for sirens; couldn’t hear any. But a silent approach was more likely than a noisy one. GHP would be here any moment. They had to leave.

Kim ran back to the Crown Vic and leaned on the horn. Gaspar didn’t hear it. She hopped into the driver’s seat and perched on the edge and started the car. She could barely see over the dash. The hood stretched ahead forever.

Deep breath. Hands on the steering wheel at the ten-and-two position for balance. Transmission in drive, one set of toes on the accelerator and one on the brake. Braced for takeoff.

She threaded the monstrous sedan between the ditch and Gaspar’s backside. She stopped. Lowered the window. Tapped the horn again. Pig squeals drowned out the sound, but Gaspar felt the big car’s heat and vibration behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

Kim screamed to be heard over the pigs, the passing traffic, and the Crown Vic’s engine. “Gaspar?  Get in. Right now.”  She waved her left palm toward the passenger side for emphasis. Gaspar looked at her as if she’d lost her last ounce of sense. He pulled back from the truck and stood upright. No hurry.

“You drive carefully now, sir,” he said to the old man through the open window, and watched Gramps head off in the opposite direction. Then, satisfied with his good deed, he slipped into The Crown Vic’s passenger seat.

“Where’s the fire?” he asked.

Kim didn’t answer. She just lifted her left toes off the brake and pressed the accelerator hard with her right. The car jumped forward into the intersection. Momentum sent Gaspar sprawling back in his seat.

Kim turned toward Margrave. The Crown Vic swallowed miles in tense, silent minutes. Then it jerked, stopped, and stalled in the Margrave Police Station parking lot.

“And you accuse me of having a lead foot,” Gaspar said.

Kim pried her fingers off the steering wheel and checked the time on the dash. Amber LCDs showed 10:43 a.m. She said, “If the boss was right on the timing, GHP should be looking inside that Chevy any minute now.”

Gaspar’s eyes widened and then narrowed as she relayed their orders. The crease reappeared in his brow. Nostrils flared. “What the hell is that old bastard up to?”

“I don’t know, compadre. But something tells me we’re about to find out.”

He put a hand on her arm to capture her full attention. She looked into his serious face. Concern slowed his speech and lowered his voice.

“Watch yourself, Susie Q. Assume you’re being watched every minute, too. What I didn’t get the chance to tell you back there?  The Chevy guy was murdered. No doubt about it. Two holes in the back of his head. Fair amount of his face missing. It’s all too tidy. This whole thing doesn’t pass the smell test. Not even close. Understand?”

“I understand,” she said. She opened her door and pulled the keys out of the ignition and handed them over. “We’re supposed to be in Roscoe’s office when she gets the call. If it hasn’t come in already.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

10:46 a.m.

Kim followed Gaspar toward Roscoe’s office. Heavenly whiffs of brewing coffee lured her into the break room first. She poured strong, black stamina into the largest mug she could find and carried it into the rosewood office.

Roscoe was showered and dressed in a crisp white blouse, sharply creased khakis, and a full equipment belt that matched her work boots for allure. She looked formidable. Kim felt worn, rumpled, and stained by comparison. Her suit looked like a cast-off the Salvation Army couldn’t give away to a naked hobo. Soon, she promised herself, a shower and a clean suit. A decent meal and some shut-eye would be welcome, too.

“Good morning, chief,” she said, as normally as she could manage. The big round clock hanging on the wall over Roscoe’s credenza showed 10:48 a.m. Five minutes since she’d parked out front, twenty minutes since she’d received her orders. Surely enough time for GHP to choose the right jurisdiction and notify first responders?

“We’ve been working half the day already. Where have you been?”  Roscoe stood behind her desk, searching through papers in two manila folders, preoccupied. Brightly patterned reading glasses rested at the bottom of her nose.

Gaspar slouched low in a green leather chair, eyes closed, his usual coping posture. Kim closed the door and slipped into the other chair.

“Well?” Roscoe asked, staring over the glasses directly at Kim as if she was a disobedient teen.

“Sorry?”

“You left her outside?  Put her back in her cell?”

Kim said, “Whatever happened to Sylvia, we knew nothing about it until you called.”

Totally true.

“Then why are you here?”  Each word an accusation.

Kim said, “You know why we’re here. We’re building the Reacher File for the SPTF. We need to find out what happened when he was here in Margrave fifteen years ago. What he’s been doing since then, and where.”

“Reacher file, my ass.”  Said with a stare.

Kim was tired and tense, but not looking for a fight. She said, “Chief, please, that tone might get confessions from purse snatchers and cow-shooting delinquents or whatever else you get around here. But you must know it won’t work with me. We know nothing about Sylvia. We left because we had to interview Finlay in New York before he left the country.”

“So he said.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“About ten last night.”  Roscoe’s jaw muscles clenched. “At that point, I still thought we were all on the same team.”

The same team?  Who does she think she's kidding?

Roscoe studied Kim for a few moments over the top of her glasses. Silence filled the space until she shrugged and returned to her paper shuffling. “OK, see Brent on your way out for an appointment. Maybe we can discuss ancient Reacher history sometime in the next couple of decades. Or not.”

Roscoe continued searching for a few more seconds, but she failed to find what she was looking for. She dropped the two manila folders onto the desk top, left the rosewood office and headed down the hall.

Kim turned to Gaspar, still slouched in his chair. “Any chance you could help me out here?”

“You were doing a good job without any help from me,” he replied. “Tell me when you figure out what you want me to do, Boss Lady.”

She reached over and grabbed the two folders off Roscoe’s desk. “These are personnel files. One for Harry Black and one for Sylvia.”

“Anything about either Jack or Joe Reacher?  Common dates?  Prior military service?  Employed at Treasury?”  Gaspar moved nothing but his lips.

“Not that I can see.”  Kim scanned the contents of both files without rushing. The headshots were recognizable, but Sylvia’s photo reflected a rather plain female by comparison to the sophisticated woman Kim had observed yesterday at the crime scene.

Roscoe returned with new papers, and her old attitude. “So you’re not interested in Sylvia Black, huh?”

Kim said, “You made it pretty clear that you won’t help us until we help you with her. So it seems I’ve got two choices. Either I arrest you for impeding a Federal investigation, or I get your problem fixed so we can move on to Reacher. Let’s try the easy way first. What were you looking for in these personnel files?”

“Sylvia’s fingerprint records.”  Roscoe resumed her position behind the desk. She replaced the reading glasses on the end of her nose and turned her attention to the new documents she’d collected.

Kim passed through the file contents again. Every employee in any law enforcement capacity is fingerprinted. Lots of reasons. Standard practice, even before 9/11. Once in the system, prints are maintained forever. No exceptions. An existing fingerprint card and report were too distinctive to overlook.

“No prints in here.”

“Exactly,” Roscoe said, searching through the new pages she’d collected. She pointed to the personnel file with her chin. “Full work up before we hired her; no prints now.”  Her tone had lost its edge.

Gaspar sat almost upright in the chair and stretched out an open palm. “Can I take a look?”

Kim ripped the first page of Sylvia’s file off its staple and handed both folders to him. She scanned the familiar checklist; she’d seen hundreds exactly like it. Everything that should have been completed was marked as done. “What was her job here, again?  Dispatcher?”

Roscoe said, “Her title was Administrative Aide.”