The guy took his eyes off the mirror and glanced at Reacher.
Reacher said, "Ten-sixty-two."
No reaction.
Reacher said, "So don't be an asshole. Pony up, OK?"
The guy looked at the mirror again. Nothing in his face.
"I'll call Ms. Pauling's cell," he said. "When, I don't know. I just can't say. It could be days. But I'll get what I can as soon as I can."
Then he slid out of the booth and walked straight to the door. Opened it and made a right turn and was lost to sight. Lauren Pauling breathed out.
"You pushed him," she said. "You were a little rude there."
"But he's going to help."
"Why? What was that ten-sixty-two thing?"
"He was wearing a military police lapel pin. The crossed pistols. MP is his day job. Ten-sixty-two is MP radio code for fellow officer in trouble, requests urgent assistance. So he'll help. He has to. Because if one MP won't help another, who the hell will?"
"Then that's a lucky break. Maybe you won't have to do it all the hard way."
"Maybe. But he's going to be slow. He seemed a little timid. Me, I'd have busted straight into somebody's file cabinet. But he's going to go through channels and ask nicely."
"Maybe that's why he's getting promoted and you didn't."
"A timid guy like that won't get promoted. He's probably terminal at major."
"He's already a Brigadier General," Pauling said. "Actually."
"That guy?" Reacher stared at the door, as if it might have retained an after-image. "He was kind of young, wasn't he?"
"No, you're kind of old," Pauling said. "Everything is comparative. But putting a Brigadier General on it shows how seriously the U.S. is taking this mercenary stuff."
"It shows how seriously we're whitewashing it."
Silence for a moment.
"Mutilation for sport," Pauling said. "Sounds horrible."
"Sure does."
Silence again. The waitress came over and offered refills of coffee. Pauling declined, Reacher accepted. Said, "NYPD found an unexplained body in the river this morning. White male, about forty. Up near the boat basin. Shot once. Lane got a call."
"Taylor?"
"Almost certainly."
"So what next?"
"We work with what we've got," Reacher said. "We adopt the theory that Knight or Hobart came home with a grudge."
"How do we proceed?"
"With hard work," Reacher said. "I'm not going to hold my breath on getting anything from the Pentagon. However many scars and stars he's got, that guy's a bureaucrat at heart."
"Want to talk it through? I was an investigator once. A good one, too. I thought so anyway. Until, you know, what happened."
"Talking won't help. I need to think."
"So think out loud. What doesn't fit? What's out of place? What surprised you in any way at all?"
"The initial takedown. That doesn't work at all."
"What else?"
"Everything. What surprises me is that I can't get anywhere with anything. There's either something wrong with me, or there's something wrong with this whole situation."
"That's too big," Pauling said. "Start small. Name one thing that surprised you."
"Is this what you did? In the FBI? In your brainstorming sessions?"
"Absolutely. Didn't you?"
"I was an MP. I was lucky to find anyone with a brain to storm."
"Seriously. Name one thing that surprised you."
Reacher sipped his coffee. She's right, he thought. There's always something out of context even before you know what the context ought to be.
"Just one thing," Pauling said again. "At random."
Reacher said, "I got out of the black BMW after Burke had switched the bag into the Jaguar and I was surprised how fast the guy was into the driver's seat. I figured I would have time to stroll around the corner and set up a position. But he was right there, practically on top of me. A few seconds, maximum. I barely got a glimpse of him."
"So what does that mean?"
"That he was waiting right there on the street."
"But he wouldn't risk that. If he was Knight or Hobart, Burke would have recognized him in a heartbeat."
"Maybe he was in a doorway."
"Three times running? He used that same fireplug on three separate occasions. At three different times of day. Late night, early morning, rush hour. And he might be memorable, depending on the mutilation."
"The guy I saw wasn't memorable at all. He was just a guy."
"Whatever, it was still hard to find appropriate cover each time. I've done that job. Many times. Including one special night five years ago."
Reacher said, "Give yourself a break."
But he was thinking: Appropriate cover.
He remembered bouncing around in the back of the car listening to the nightmare voice. Remembered thinking: It's right there on the same damn fireplug?
The same damn fireplug.
Appropriate cover.
He put his coffee cup down, gently, slowly, carefully, and then he picked up Pauling's left hand with his right. Brought it to his lips and kissed it tenderly. Her fingers were cool and slim and fragrant. He liked them.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much."
"For what?"
"He used a fireplug three times running. Why? Because a fireplug almost always guarantees a stretch of empty curb, that's why. Because of the parking prohibition. No parking next to a hydrant. Everyone knows that. But he used the same fireplug each time. Why? There are plenty to choose from. There's at least one on every block. So why that one? Because he liked that one, that's why. But why did he like that one? What makes a person like one fireplug more than another?"
"What?"
"Nothing," Reacher said. "They're all the same. They're mass-produced. They're identical. What this guy had was a vantage point that he liked. The vantage point came first, and the fireplug was merely the nearest one to it. The one most visible from it. As you so correctly pointed out, he needed cover that was reliable and unobtrusive, late night, early morning, and rush hour. And potentially he might have needed to be there for extended periods. As it happened Gregory was punctual both times, but he could have hit traffic. And who knew where Burke was going to be when he got the call on the car phone? Who knew how long he might take to get down there? So wherever this guy was waiting, he was comfortable doing it."
"But does this help us?"
"You bet your ass it does. It's the first definite link in the chain. It was a fixed, identifiable location. We need to get down to Sixth Avenue and figure out where it was. Someone might have seen him there. Someone might even know who he is."
Chapter 29
REACHER AND PAULING caught a cab on Second Avenue and it took them all the way south to Houston Street and then west to Sixth. They got out on the southeast corner and glanced back at the empty sky where the Twin Towers used to be and then they turned north together into a warm breeze full of trash and grit.
"So show me the famous fireplug," Pauling said.
They walked north until they came to it, right there on the right-hand sidewalk in the middle of the block. Fat, short, squat, upright, chipped dull paint, flanked by two protective metal posts four feet apart. The curb next to it was empty. Every other legal parking spot on the block was taken. Pauling stood near the hydrant and pirouetted a slow circle. Looked east, north, west, south.