“The hell it isn’t. If I’d been here, he might still have run out, but Berenson wouldn’t have been able to take him. I thought she’d be in New York going after Dixon. That’s why I went there. But I screwed up. And Paul’s paying the price. I didn’t count on her working with Dean.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was petrified of him five years ago. I figured she’d be as far away from Dean as possible. Didn’t see that one coming. Not even remotely.”
“You never see the bullet that gets you, Neagley. If you’d seen it coming, you’d have moved him out of harm’s way. Get over it. We’ve got to deal with where we are.”
“She had to sedate him somehow and she knew that,” Neagley said. “She’d been watching him for days. She knew there’s no way she could have gotten close to him, let alone grabbed him and taken him somewhere against his will unless she drugged him first.”
Gaspar said, “Then there’s a good chance she’s still close by, unless she’s driving. And if she is driving, we’ll find her. She can’t get on an airplane with an unconscious man. Not undetected, anyway.”
“Is Cooper even looking for them?” Neagley asked.
Kim replied, “He suggested he was.”
“Bastard,” Neagley said. “And Dixon. Did he say how Dean managed to abduct her? She’s pretty good at taking care of herself.”
“Didn’t say that, either,” Kim said. “But would she have been worried about being abducted, though? Could Dean have tricked her somehow? You didn’t suspect Dean and Berenson were working together. Maybe Dixon didn’t suspect that, either.”
Kim could almost see the gears turning in Neagley’s head.
“Maybe,” Neagley finally said. “We thought Dean and Berenson were victims back then. Thought they were co-workers, not connected in any way we could see. Maybe Dixon didn’t see that one coming, either.” The thought seemed to make Neagley relax slightly. Maybe telling herself, if Dixon screwing up didn’t mean Dixon was an idiot, maybe her own screw-up didn’t mean she was incompetent, either.
Gaspar cleared his throat. Apologetically, he said, “It’s possible they’re already both dead.”
“Not likely,” Neagley said, unconcerned. “Neither Paul nor Dixon have any value to Berenson and Dean if they’re dead. More likely they wanted hostages.”
“Hostages?” Kim asked. “It’s about time you told us what the hell is going on here, isn’t it?”
Neagley rose and grabbed her coffee cup. “Nothing more we can do right now for Paul or Dixon. Come with me.”
She walked swiftly down a long corridor to another wing of the house. She stopped in front of what appeared to be a solid, wood-paneled wall. She reached for a small framed watercolor, which opened on hinges to reveal a wall-mounted key pad. She punched a security code and the solid panel slid open. Neagley led them into what looked like a high-tech security office.
The room was empty, but someone had been here recently. At least one man, from the slight male scent Kim detected. She saw dirty coffee cups and scuff marks made by large and small boots on the carpet. Maybe Neagley and Morrie had been working here earlier.
There were multiple television screens on the walls and a control board for operating electronics. Neagley picked up a remote and turned on one of the screens. A twenty-four minute video had ended. She selected a shorter one.
“This is two minutes. Watch first. Then talk,” she ordered.
Kim recognized the location. It was Dave O’Donnell’s personal office. Two men were talking, but there was no sound. One was O’Donnell. The other was the dead man she’d seen in Neagley’s office yesterday. The one Neagley claimed was Jorge Sanchez. The effect was a little eerie because both men onscreen were now dead and Kim had never known either of them. She felt detached from the scene, attracted and repelled at the same time. Whatever Neagley felt, if anything, she kept well concealed.
The video was surprisingly clear for office surveillance equipment. Kim had seen too many such recordings. O’Donnell’s stuff was top notch. Which didn’t keep him alive. But it might help identify his killer.
After the first run-through, Neagley cued it up again and they asked questions.
Gaspar said, “You were watching O’Donnell?”
“No.”
“So you removed relevant evidence from a murder scene, then.”
Neagley said nothing.
“When and how did you get this video?” Kim asked.
“The DC homicide cop called me and asked me to come over. I did. By the time I got there, he still hadn’t found O’Donnell’s surveillance equipment. I found it on my second visit. After I saw it, I figured Sanchez would go after Dixon and me, so I went to New York, hoping to get there first.”
“Have you shared this with DC?” Kim asked.
“They’ll close their homicide investigation shortly. Sanchez is dead now. What’s the point?”
“And if you did give the evidence to DC, someone would get in the way of your own plans,” Gaspar said.
Neagley said, “Yours, too. Not helpful to either of us, is it?”
Kim watched as Sanchez paced around O’Donnell’s office behind O’Donnell’s chair. O’Donnell must have trusted him. Otherwise, why let Sanchez get behind him? Sanchez’s gait was awkward—the prostheses. He pulled the gun and shot O’Donnell in the back of the head, stood there for a few moments in the silence, then disconnected the speaker, stepped around O’Donnell’s body and left the room.
Kim remembered the fingerprint on the speakerphone on O’Donnell’s desk. So it was Sanchez who put it there. DC crime techs found it, which was why the residue was visible when Kim was there.
Sanchez’s print should have come up in the databases. He had been a military cop. His prints would have been on file so they could be excluded from his many investigations, if for no other reason. But he also had concealed weapons permits and a private investigator’s license in Nevada awhile back, which should have required prints. There may have been other sets as well. Yet Sanchez wasn’t mentioned in the homicide file at all, which probably meant the DC cops didn’t run the military databases. Or maybe Sanchez’s prints were no longer there, either. Whoever had been eliminating all of Reacher’s paper trail could also be eliminating others.
“Who were they talking to on the speakerphone?” Kim asked.
“We weren’t able to trace the call and the listener never speaks, unfortunately,” Neagley said. “I thought it was you.”
“What?”
“Think about it, Otto. You come on the scene, asking questions about all of us, especially about Reacher. Sanchez comes back from the dead, working together with someone, too. Reasonable to assume he’s looking for Reacher. Sanchez shoots O’Donnell in cold blood, which is way beyond the pale, wouldn’t you say? Then Berenson tries to kill you. And you know what I think of your boss. All in all, you and Gaspar here were not a bad working hypothesis.”
Neagley was right. Not that Kim would ever admit it.
Gaspar spoke up. “But now you know Sanchez was not working with us because we didn’t even know he existed until you told us, and we’re sitting here trying to help you find Paul and Dixon. So who was listening on the speakerphone?”
“I figure either Berenson or Dean, or both, or someone working with them. They had a couple of kids who would be adults now. They had a crew. Or it could still be you,” Neagley said. “Seems most likely at this point.”
“Why isn’t there any sound on this video?” Gaspar asked, ignoring her accusations as she ignored his.
Neagley said, “It’s not helpful.”
“Let’s hear it anyway,” Kim said. “I want to hear the conversation. Does Sanchez say why he’s doing this?”
“He does. But that’s not helpful, either. And it won’t make any sense to you at all.”
“You can explain it to us, then.”
Neagley shrugged, pushed the restart button. The video opened with Sanchez standing behind O’Donnell, but Kim figured there had to be more footage prior to this point. Sanchez was pacing. His voice was agitated. Whiny. Distraught.
“They’ve got my
kids
, Dave. My
wife.
You have any idea what that’s like? Knowing it’s your fault? Knowing you let it happen and you’ve only got one very slim chance to fix it? Knowing you’re playing beat the clock and time is running out?”
“What are you talking about?” O’Donnell asked. “When did you get married?”
Sanchez waved the Glock in the air. O’Donnell didn’t seem at all concerned. Sanchez executed his friend and watched him die.
You never see the bullet that gets you,
Kim thought again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sunday, November 14
4:13 a.m.
Chicago, IL
They’d watched the full twenty-four minute O’Donnell video twice and the short murder scene several more times. Sanchez’s story was grim and heartbreaking and Kim could easily see how Berenson and Dean drove him to the edge of madness, if not beyond it.
Hindsight being what it is, Kim identified a number of tactical mistakes O’Donnell had made which led to his death. Like watching a horror movie, Kim wanted to shout out a warning several times, but O’Donnell could not hear or heed warnings, then or now.
The video opened with a vital, attractive Dave O’Donnell seated at his desk. He was movie-star handsome, dressed in a dark suit, blue shirt, and a designer brand tie Kim often noticed around the necks of successful stockbrokers. Perhaps he’d rushed in from another event, because he seemed slightly breathless.
He began with an establishing statement for the video. “Scheduled conference with Jorge Sanchez’s brother, Jose. Friday night, November 5, 11:10 p.m. Jose called earlier today and requested the late meeting because he’s traveling through town and only has a short layover. He didn’t want to meet in a public place, so we could talk. He said he had something to discuss about Jorge’s share of the money. Wouldn’t say any more. I’ve never met Sanchez’s brother. Didn’t know he had a brother, actually. We weren’t close enough for that, I guess. Never saw Sanchez either, after we left the Army. He was killed by the scum who murdered the others back in California—”
He was interrupted by the buzzer Kim remembered, indicating a visitor had pushed the call button in the corridor. Kim wondered about O’Donnell’s choice of words. The “we” who had been so mistaken about Sanchez? The likely culprits were Neagley, Dixon and Reacher. And who were the “scum”? Did he mean Dean and Berenson?
O’Donnell stood, smoothed his hair with the flat of his palm, left the room and the next action was the two returning to O’Donnell’s office less than a minute later. O’Donnell was taller, fairer, and a thousand times more handsome than the leathery, gaunt Sanchez.
Maybe Sanchez identified himself or maybe O’Donnell recognized him. Either way, they walked into the frame laughing and seemed genuinely pleased to be together. Which was jarring because Sanchez would kill O’Donnell within the next fifty-one minutes, as cold-bloodedly as any murderer Kim had ever witnessed.
After the backslapping and pleased-to-see-you-vertical-and-above-ground guy stuff, O’Donnell suggested that Sanchez take a seat, but he declined. He said, “I’ve been sitting awhile and my legs get stiff and I’ve got another flight tonight. Okay if I walk around? I’m getting permission in case you still have that switchblade in your pocket.”
They chuckled and O’Donnell consented, but he didn’t deny the switchblade.
“Man, Sanchez,” O’Donnell said, “I can’t tell you how great it is to see you’re alive. I know we served only a short time together. And it was a long time ago. But you guys were closer to me than my own family, man. Too many of us are dead now. We’ll get the unit together. Have a few beers. Let’s really do it, okay?”
Sanchez coughed a little. “Could I get some water? My throat is parched. Room temperature, not chilled, if you have it.”
“Absolutely,” O’Donnell said as he hurried out. In the few seconds he was gone, Sanchez reached over and pressed the speakerphone button. The call connected but no words were spoken.
Kim pressed the pause button on the remote and turned to Neagley. “Can you identify the phone number?”
“It was a burner. We are working on identifying the location. No luck yet.”
Kim restarted the video.
O’Donnell returned with a plastic bottle of water and handed it to Sanchez, who opened it, took a swig, and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
If O’Donnell found the water bottle stashing odd, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked, “Where’ve you been? We were in California and we were trying to find out what happened to you guys. And the news was bad, man. We found Franz and Orozco. They were dropped out of a helicopter onto the desert floor. While they were still alive, Sanchez. Can you imagine? We never found Swan. Or you. We looked, but we failed.”
Sanchez said nothing.
O’Donnell swiped his sweaty face with his palm, forehead to chin, and ran both hands, fingers splayed, through his hair. “We made them pay, Sanchez. You know we did. And we did what we could for the families. We collected some spoils and Dixon converted them and we shared it, with extra for the families, not so much for the rest of us.” He smiled at Sanchez, shook his head. “I can’t believe you made it out alive. How’d you do it? You’re one tough bastard, aren’t you? Reacher always said that about you.”
Sanchez seemed more agitated the more O’Donnell talked. His pacing was jerky, and deteriorated as O’Donnell continued. Sanchez’s lips pressed into a hard line and his brow furrowed into deep horizontal lines. Nostrils flexed.
When O’Donnell finally wound down, Sanchez seemed to have a little trouble getting started. But once he began, his words flowed nonstop. Even the third time she heard it, Kim felt punched by an opener that was almost as shocking as his close.
“I’m confused, Dave. I thought you’d feel a little bit guilty, at least.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
Where Sanchez had halted his circuit of the room, he was looking right into the camera. His expression was chilling. Wrong. “You left me for dead,” he said, quietly, almost pleasantly. “Never even tried to find me. Can you imagine what it’s like to be out of your mind with pain because some goons beat your shins to bone meal with iron rods? And then you’re laying on a pile of rotting garbage in a desert landfill for three days, when the summer heat reaches 110 degrees, watching the circling buzzards just waiting to pick your carcass clean?”