CHAPTER 12
THE WOMAN ACROSS the street was called Patricia Joseph, Patti to her few remaining friends, and she was dialing an NYPD detective named Brewer. She had his home number. He answered on the second ring.
“I’ve got some activity to report,” Patti said.
Brewer didn’t ask who his caller was. He didn’t need to. He knew Patti Joseph’s voice about as well as he knew anybody’s.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“There’s a new character on the scene.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have a name for him yet.”
“Description?”
“Very tall, heavily built, like a real brawler. He’s in his late thirties or early forties. Short fair hair, blue eyes. He showed up late last night.”
“One of them?” Brewer asked.
“He doesn’t dress like them. And he’s much bigger than the rest. But he acts like them.”
“Acts? What have you seen him do?”
“The way he walks. The way he moves. The way he holds himself.”
“So you think he’s ex-military, too?”
“Almost certainly.”
“OK,” Brewer said. “Good work. Anything else?”
“One thing,” Patti Joseph said. “I haven’t seen the wife or the daughter in a couple of days.”
Inside the Dakota living room the phone rang at what Reacher figured was five o’clock exactly. Lane snatched the receiver out of the cradle and clamped it to his ear. Reacher heard the drone and squawk of the electronic machine, faint and muffled. Lane said, “Put Kate on,” and there was a long, long pause. Then a woman’s voice, loud and clear. But not calm. Lane closed his eyes. Then the electronic squawk came back and Lane opened his eyes again. The squawk droned on for a whole minute. Lane listened, his face working, his eyes moving. Then the call ended. Just cut off before Lane had a chance to say anything more.
He put the receiver back in the cradle. His face was half-filled with hope, half-filled with despair.
“They want more money,” he said. “Instructions in an hour.”
“Maybe I should get down there right now,” Reacher said. “Maybe they’ll throw us a curveball by changing the time interval.”
But Lane was already shaking his head. “They threw us a different kind of curveball. They said they’re changing the whole procedure. It’s not going to be the same as before.”
Silence in the room.
“Is Mrs. Lane OK?” Gregory asked.
Lane said, “There was a lot of fear in her voice.”
“What about the guy’s voice?” Reacher asked. “Anything?”
“It was disguised. Same as always.”
“But beyond the sound. Think about this call and all the other calls. Word choice, word order, cadence, rhythm, flow. Is it an American or a foreigner?”
“Why would it be a foreigner?”
“Your line of work, if you’ve got enemies, some of them might be foreign.”
“It’s an American,” Lane said. “I think.” He closed his eyes again and concentrated. His lips moved like he was replaying conversations in his head. “Yes, American. Certainly a native speaker. No stumbles. Never any weird or unusual words. Just normal, like you would hear all the time.”
“Same guy every time?”
“I think so.”
“What about this time? Anything different? Mood? Tension? Is he still in control or is he losing it?”
“He sounded OK,” Lane said. “Relieved, even.” Then he paused. “Like this whole thing was nearly over. Like this might be the final installment.”
“It’s too soon,” Reacher said. “We’re not even close yet.”
“They’re calling the shots,” Lane said.
Nobody spoke.
“So what do we do now?” Gregory asked.
“We wait,” Reacher said. “Fifty-six minutes.”
“I’m sick of waiting,” Groom said.
“It’s all we can do,” Lane said. “We wait for instructions and we obey them.”
“How much money?” Reacher asked. “Ten?”
Lane looked right at him. “Guess again.”
“More?”
“Four and a half,” Lane said. “That’s what they want. Four million five hundred thousand U.S. dollars. In a bag.”