"You get coyotes here?" he asked.
"In town?" Milena said. "I never saw one."
"OK."
"Why?"
"Just wondering."
They walked on. Took the same shortcut they had used before. Arrived outside the bar a little after three o'clock in the afternoon.
"Tammy's angry," Milena said. "I'm sorry about that."
"It's to be expected," Reacher said.
"She was there when the bad guys came to search. Asleep. They hit her on the head. She was unconscious for a week. She doesn't remember anything. Now she blames whoever it was who called for all her troubles."
"Understandable," Reacher said.
"But I don't blame you," Milena said. "It wasn't any of you that called. I guess half of you were involved and half of you weren't."
She ducked inside the bar without looking back. The door closed behind her. Reacher stepped away and sat down on the wall, where he had waited that morning.
"I'm sorry, people," he said. "We just wasted a lot of time. My fault, entirely."
Nobody answered.
"Neagley should take over," he said. "I'm losing my touch."
"Mahmoud came here," Dixon said. "Not LA."
"He probably made a connection. He's probably in LA right now."
"Why not fly direct?"
"Why carry four false passports? He's cautious, whoever he is. He lays false trails."
"We were attacked here," Dixon said. "Not in LA. Makes no sense."
"It was a collective decision to come here," O'Donnell said. "Nobody argued."
Reacher heard a siren on the Strip. Not the bass bark of a fire truck, not the frantic yelp of an ambulance. A cop car, moving fast. He glanced up, toward the construction zone a half-mile away. He stood up and moved right and shaded his eyes and watched the short length of the Strip he could see. One cop was nothing, he thought. If some construction foreman had finally showed up for work and found something, there would be a whole convoy.
He waited.
Nothing happened. No more sirens. No more cops. No convoy. Just a routine traffic stop, maybe. He took one step more, to widen his view, to be certain. Saw a wink of red and blue beyond the corner of a grocery store. A car, parked in the sun. A red plastic lens over the tail light. Dark blue paint on a fender.
A car.
Dark blue paint.
He said, "I know where I saw that guy before."
52
They stood around the Chrysler at a cautious and respectful distance, like it was a roped-off exhibit in a modern art museum. A 300C, dark blue, California plates. It was parked tight to the curb, locked up, still and cold, a little travel-stained. Neagley took out the keys that Reacher had found in the dying guy's pocket and held them at arm's length like the guy had held the gun, and pressed the remote button once.
The blue Chrysler's lights flashed and its doors unlocked with a ragged thunk.
"It was behind the Chateau Marmont," Reacher said. "Just waiting. That same guy was in it. His suit matched the sheet metal exactly. I took it for a car service with a gimmick."
"The others told them we would come," O'Donnell said. "At first as a threat, I suppose. And then later as a consolation. So they sent the guy to take us out. He spotted us on the sidewalk, I guess, just after he hit town. We were right there in front of him. He got lucky."
"Real lucky," Reacher said. "May all our enemies have the same kind of extreme good fortune."
He opened the driver's door. The car smelled of new leather and plastic. The interior was unmarked. There were maps in the door pocket, crisp and folded. That was all. Nothing else on show. He slid in and stretched a long arm over to the glove-box lid. Opened it up. Came out with a wallet and a cell phone. That was all that was in there. No registration, no insurance. No instruction manuals. Just a wallet and a phone. The wallet was a slim thing designed to be carried in a trouser pocket. It was a stiff rectangle made of black leather with a money clip built in on one side and a credit card pocket built in on the other. There was a wad of folded cash in the clip. More than seven hundred dollars, mostly fifties and twenties. Reacher took it all. Just pulled it out of the clip and stuffed it in his own pants pocket.
"That's two more weeks before I need to find a job," he said. "Every cloud has a silver lining."
He turned the wallet over. The credit card section was jammed. There was a current California driver's license and four credit cards. Two Visas, an Amex, and a MasterCard. Expiration dates all far in the future. The license and all four cards were made out to a guy by the name of Saropian. The address on the license had a five-digit house number and a Los Angeles street name and a zip that meant nothing to Reacher.
He dropped the wallet on the passenger seat.
The cell phone was a small silver folding item with a round LCD window on the front. It was getting great reception but its battery was low. Reacher opened it up and a larger window lit up in color. There were five voice messages waiting.
He handed the phone to Neagley.
"Can you retrieve those messages?" he asked.
"Not without his code number."
"Look at the call log."
Neagley scrolled through menus and selected options.
"All the calls in and out are to and from the same number," she said. "A 310 area code. Which is Los Angeles."
"Landline or cell?"
"Could be either."
"A grunt calling his boss?"
Neagley nodded. "And vice versa. A boss issuing orders to a grunt."
"Could your guy in Chicago get a name and address for the boss?"
"Eventually."
"Get him started on it. The license plate on this car, too."
Neagley used her own cell to call her office. Reacher lifted the center armrest console and found nothing except a ballpoint pen and a car charger for the phone. He checked the rear compartment. Nothing there. He got out and checked the trunk. Spare tire, jack, wrench. Apart from that, empty.
"No luggage," he said. "This guy didn't plan on a long trip. He thought we were going to be easy meat."
"We nearly were," Dixon said.
Neagley closed the dead guy's phone and handed it back to Reacher. Reacher dropped it on the passenger seat next to the wallet.
Then he picked it up again.
"This is an ass-backward situation," he said. "Isn't it? We don't know who sent this guy, or from where, or for why."
"But?" Dixon said.
"But whoever it was, we've got his number. We could call him up and say hello, if we wanted to."
"Do we want to?"
"Yes, I think we do."
53
They got in the parked Chrysler, for quiet. The doors were thick and heavy and closed tight and gave the kind of vacuum hush a luxury sedan was supposed to. Reacher opened the dead guy's phone and scrolled through the call log to the last call made and then pressed the green button to make it all over again. Then he cupped the phone to his ear and waited. And listened. He had never owned a cell phone but he knew how they were used. People felt them vibrate in their pockets or heard them ring and fished them out and looked at the screen to see who was calling and then decided whether or not to answer. Altogether it was a much slower process than picking up a regular phone. It could take five or six rings, at least.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then it was answered in a real hurry.