5

Reacher stood for a moment in the parking lot and watched Neagley through the window. She hadn’t changed much in the four years since he had last seen her. She had to be nearer forty than thirty now, but it wasn’t showing. Her hair was still long and dark and shiny. Her eyes were still dark and alive. She was still slim and lithe. Still spending serious time in the gym. That was clear. She was wearing a tight white T-shirt with tiny cap sleeves and it would have taken an electron microscope to find any body fat on her arms. Or anyplace else.

She was a little tan, which looked good with her coloring. Her nails were done. Her T-shirt looked like a quality item. Overall she looked richer than he remembered her. Comfortable, at home in her world, successful, accustomed to the civilian life. For a moment he felt awkward about his own cheap clothes and his scuffed shoes and his bad barbershop haircut. Like she was making it, and he wasn’t. Then the pleasure of seeing an old friend swamped the thought and he walked on through the lot to the door. Went in and stepped past the Please Wait to Be Seated sign and slid straight into her booth. She looked up at him across the table and smiled.

“Hello,” she said.

“To you, too,” he said.

“Want lunch?”

“That was my plan.”

“So let’s order, now you’re finally here.”

He said, “You sound like you were waiting for me.”

“I was. And you’re about on time.”

“Am I?”

Neagley smiled again. “You called my office guy from Portland, Oregon. He saw the caller ID. Traced it to a pay phone at the bus depot. We figured you’d head straight for the airport. Then I figured you’d take United. You must hate Alaska Airlines. Then a cab ride here. Your ETA was easy enough to predict.”

“You knew I would come here? To this diner?”

“Like you taught me, back in the day.”

“I didn’t teach you anything.”

“You did,” Neagley said. “Remember? Think like them, be them. So I was being you being me. You’d figure I’d head for Hollywood. You’d start right here on Sunset. But there’s no meal on United from Portland, so I figured you’d be hungry and want to eat first. There are a couple of possible places on the block but this one has the biggest sign and you’re no gourmet. So I decided to meet you here.”

“Meet me here? I thought I was tracking you.”

“You were. And I was tracking you tracking me.”

“Are you staying here? In Hollywood?”

She shook her head. “Beverly Hills. The Wilshire.”

“So you came out here just to scoop me up?”

“I got here ten minutes ago.”

“The Beverly Wilshire? You’ve changed.”

“Not really. It’s the world that has changed. Cheap motels don’t do it for me anymore. I need e-mail and the internet and FedEx service now. Business centers and concierges.”

“You make me feel old-fashioned.”

“You’re improving. You use ATMs now.”

“That was a good move. The bank balance message.”

“You taught me well.”

“I didn’t teach you anything.”

“Like hell.”

“But it was an extravagant move,” Reacher said. “Ten dollars and thirty cents would have worked just as well. Maybe even better, with the period between the ten and the thirty.”

Neagley said, “I thought you might need the airfare.”

Reacher said nothing.

“I found your account, obviously,” Neagley said. “Wasn’t too much more trouble to hack in and take a look. You’re not rich.”

“I don’t want to be rich.”

“I know. But I didn’t want you to have to respond to my ten-thirty on your own dime. That wouldn’t have been fair.”

Reacher shrugged and let it go. Truth was, he wasn’t rich. Truth was, he was almost poor. His savings had eroded to the point where he was starting to think about how to boost them back up again. Maybe a couple of months of casual labor were in his future. Or some other kind of a score. The waitress came over with menus. Neagley ordered without looking, a cheeseburger and a soda. Reacher matched her for speed, tuna melt and hot coffee. The waitress retrieved the menus and went away.

Reacher said, “So are you going to tell me what your ten-thirty was for exactly?”

Neagley answered him by leaning down and pulling a black three-ring binder out of a tote bag on the floor. She passed it across the table. It was a copy of an autopsy report.

“Calvin Franz is dead,” she said. “I think someone threw him out of an airplane.”