3

Reacher had served thirteen years in the army, all of them in the military police. He had known Frances Neagley for ten of those years and had worked with her from time to time for seven of them. He had been an officer, a second lieutenant, then a lieutenant, a captain, a major, then a loss of rank back to captain, then a major again. Neagley had steadfastly refused promotion beyond sergeant. She wouldn’t consider Officer Candidate School. Reacher didn’t really know why. There was a lot he didn’t know about her, despite their ten-year association.

But there was a lot he did know about her. She was smart and resourceful and thorough. And very tough. And strangely uninhibited. Not in terms of personal relationships. She avoided personal relationships. She was intensely private and resisted any kind of closeness, physical or emotional. Her lack of inhibition was professional. If she felt something was right or necessary, then she was uncompromising. Nothing stood in her way, not politics or practicality or politeness or even what a civilian might call “the law.” At one point Reacher had recruited her to a special investigations unit. She had been a big part of it for two crucial years. Most people put its occasional spectacular successes down to Reacher’s leadership, but Reacher himself put them down to her presence. She impressed him, deeply. Sometimes even came close to scaring him.

If she was calling for urgent assistance, it wasn’t because she had lost her car keys.

She worked for a private security provider in Chicago. He knew that. At least she had four years ago, which was the last time he had come into contact with her. She had left the army a year later than he had and gone into business with someone she knew. As a partner, he guessed, not an employee.

He dug back in his pocket and came out with more quarters. Dialed long distance information. Asked for Chicago. Gave the company name, as he remembered it. The human operator disappeared and a robot voice came on the line with a number. Reacher broke the connection and redialed. A receptionist responded and Reacher asked for Frances Neagley. He was answered politely and put on hold. Altogether his impression was of a larger operation than he had imagined. He had pictured a single room, a grimy window, maybe two battered desks, bulging file cabinets. But the receptionist’s measured voice and the telephone clicks and the quiet hold music spoke of a much bigger place. Maybe two floors, cool white corridors, wall art, an internal phone directory.

A man’s voice came on the line: “Frances Neagley’s office.”

Reacher asked, “Is she there?”

“May I know who’s calling?”

“Jack Reacher.”

“Good. Thank you for getting in touch.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Ms. Neagley’s assistant.”

“She has an assistant?”

“Indeed.”

“Is she there?”

“She’s en route to Los Angeles. In the air right now, I think.”

“Is there a message for me?”

“She wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“In Chicago?”

“She’ll be in LA a few days at least. I think you should go there.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not work related?”

“Can’t be. She’d have started a file. Discussed it here. She wouldn’t be reaching out to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger. I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Where is she staying in LA?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“So how am I supposed to find her?”

“She said you’d be able to track her down.”

Reacher asked, “What is this, some kind of a test?”

“She said if you can’t find her, she doesn’t want you.”

“Is she OK?”

“She’s worried about something. But she didn’t tell me what.”

Reacher kept the receiver at his ear and turned away from the wall. The metal phone cord wrapped around his chest. He glanced at the idling buses and the departures board. He asked, “Who else is she reaching out to?”

The guy said, “There’s a list of names. You’re the first to get back to her.”

“Will she call you when she lands?”

“Probably.”

“Tell her I’m on my way.”