He took off the chain and undid the extra lock. Opened the door.
Karla Dixon.
She was still fully dressed. She would be, he guessed, for a walk through the corridors and a ride in the elevator. Black suit, no shirt.
"Can I come in?" she said.
"I was just about to call you," Reacher said.
"Right."
"I was on my way to the phone."
"Why?"
"Lonely."
"You?"
"Me for sure. You, I hoped."
"So can I come in?"
He held the door wide. She came in. Within a minute he discovered a shirt wasn't the only thing she wasn't wearing under the suit.
Neagley called on the bedside phone at nine-thirty in the morning.
" Dixon 's not in her room," she said.
"Maybe she's working out," Reacher said. "Jogging or something."
Dixon smiled and moved at his side, warm and lazy.
Neagley said, " Dixon doesn't work out."
"Then maybe she's in the shower."
"I've tried her twice."
"Relax. I'll try her. Breakfast in a half-hour, downstairs."
He hung up with Neagley and gave the phone to Dixon and told her to count to sixty and then call Neagley's room and say she had just gotten out of the bath. Thirty minutes later they were all eating breakfast together in a lounge restaurant full of the noise of slot machines. An hour after that they were back on the Strip, heading for the bar with the fire pit again.
48
Vegas in the morning looked flat and small and exposed under the hard desert sun. The light was pitiless. It showed up every fault and compromise. What by night had looked like inspired impressionism looked like silly fakery by day. The Strip itself could have been any worn-out four-lane in America. This time they walked it in a quadrant of four, two ahead, two behind, a smaller collective target, alert and always aware of who was ahead and who was behind them.
But there was nobody ahead and nobody behind. Traffic on the street was thin and the sidewalks were empty. Vegas in the morning was as close as it ever got to quiet.
The construction zone halfway down the Strip was quiet, too.
Deserted.
No activity.
"Is it Sunday today?" Reacher asked.
"No," O'Donnell said.
"A holiday?"
"No."
"So why aren't they working?"
There were no cops there. No crime-scene tape. No big investigation. Just nothing. Reacher could see where he had bent the fence panel the night before. Beyond it, the dirt and the sand were muddied where Neagley had hosed them off. The old sidewalk had a huge dry stain on it. The old roadbed's gutter had the last of a thin damp slick running to a drain. A mess, for sure, but no construction zone was ever tidy. Not perfect, but reasonable. There was nothing overt that could have attracted anyone's attention.
"Weird," Reacher said.
"Maybe they ran out of money," O'Donnell said.
"Pity. That guy's going to start to smell soon."
They walked on. This time they knew exactly where they were going, and in the daylight they found a shortcut through the mess of curved streets. They came up on the bar with the fire pit from a different direction. It wasn't open yet. They sat on a low wall and waited and squinted in the sun. It was very warm, almost hot.
"Two hundred eleven clear days a year in Vegas," Dixon said.
"Summer high of a hundred and six degrees," O'Donnell said.
"Winter low of thirty-six."
"Four inches of rain a year."
"One inch of snow, sometimes."
"I still didn't get to my guide book," Neagley said.
By the time the clock in Reacher's head hit twenty to twelve, people started showing up for work. They came down the street in loose knots, separated out into ones and twos, men and women moving slowly without visible enthusiasm. As they passed by, Reacher asked all the women if they were called Milena. They all said no.
Then the sidewalk went quiet again.
At nine minutes to twelve another bunch showed up. Reacher realized he was watching the bus timetable in action. Three women walked past. Young, tired, dressed down, with big white sneakers on their feet.
None of them was called Milena.
The clock in Reacher's head ticked around. One minute to twelve. Neagley checked her watch.
"Worried yet?" she asked.
"No," Reacher said, because beyond her shoulder he had seen a girl he knew had to be the one. She was fifty yards away, hurrying a little. She was short and slim and dark, dressed in faded low-rider blue jeans and a short white T-shirt. She had a winking jewel lodged in her navel. She was carrying a blue nylon backpack on one shoulder. She had long jet black hair that fell forward and framed a pretty face that looked about seventeen. But judging by the way she moved she was nearer to thirty. She looked tired and preoccupied.
She looked unhappy.
Reacher got up off the wall when she was ten feet away and said, "Milena?" She slowed with the kind of sudden wariness any woman should feel when randomly accosted in the street by a giant of a stranger. She glanced ahead at the bar's door and then across at the opposite sidewalk as if assessing her options for a fast escape. She stumbled a little as if caught between the need to stop and the urge to run.
Reacher said, "We're friends of Jorge's."
She looked at him, and then at the others, and then back at him. Some kind of slow realization dawned on her face, first puzzlement, then hope, then disbelief, and then acceptance, the same sequence Reacher imagined a poker player must experience when a fourth ace shows up in his hand.
Then there was some kind of muted satisfaction in her eyes, as if contrary to all expectations a comforting myth had proved to be true.
"You're from the army," she said. "He told me you'd come."
"When?"
"All the time. He said if he ever had trouble, you'd show up sooner or later."
"And here we are. Where can we talk?"
"Just let me tell them I'm going to be late today." She smiled a little shyly and skirted around them all and headed inside the bar. Came out again two minutes later, moving faster, standing taller, with her shoulders straighter, like a weight had been taken off them. Like she was no longer alone. She looked young but capable. She had clear brown eyes and fine skin and the kind of thin sinewy hands a person gets after working hard for ten years.
"Let me guess," she said. She turned to Neagley. "You must be Neagley." Then she moved on to Dixon and said, "Which makes you Karla." She turned to Reacher and O'Donnell and said, "Reacher and O'Donnell, right? The big one and the handsome one." O'Donnell smiled at her and she turned back to Reacher and said, "They told me you were here last night looking for me."
Reacher said, "We wanted to talk to you about Jorge."
Milena took a breath and swallowed and said, "He's dead, isn't he?"
"Probably," Reacher said. "We know for sure Manuel Orozco is."
Milena said, "No."
Reacher said, "I'm sorry."
Dixon asked, "Where can we go to talk?"
"We should go to Jorge's place," Milena said. "His home. You should see it."
"We heard it was wrecked."
"I cleaned it up a little."
"Is it far?"
"We can walk."
They walked back down the Strip, all five of them, side by side. The construction zone was still deserted. No activity. But no commotion, either. No cops. Milena asked twice more whether Sanchez was dead, as if repeating the question might eventually yield the answer she wanted to hear. Both times Reacher answered, "Probably."