Reacher walked around to her window and stayed three feet away. She buzzed the glass down an inch and a half. He dropped into a crouch so he could see her face.
"Why do I need your help?" she asked.
"Because Friday was over too soon for you," he said. "But you can get it back. There's another layer. It's a big story. You'll win prizes. You'll get a better job. CNN will beat a path to your door."
"You think I'm that ambitious?"
"I think you're a journalist."
"What does that mean?"
"That in the end, journalists like stories. They like the truth."
She paused, almost a whole minute. Stared straight ahead. The car ticked and clicked as it warmed up. Reacher could sense the idle speed straining against the brakes. Then he saw her glance down and move her arm and shove the selector into Park. The Mustang rolled back six inches and stopped. Reacher shuffled sideways to stay level with the window. Yanni turned her head and looked straight at him.
"So tell me the story," she said. "Tell me the truth."
He told her the story, and the truth. He sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, so as to appear immobile and unthreatening. He left nothing out. He ran through all the events, all the inferences, all the theories, all the guesses. At the end he just stopped talking and waited for her reaction.
"Where were you when Sandy was killed?" she asked.
"Asleep in the motor court."
"Alone?"
"All night. Room eight. I slept very well."
"No alibi."
"You never have an alibi when you need one. That's a universal law of nature."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"What do you want me to do?" she said.
"I want you to research the victims."
She paused.
"We could do that," she said. "We have researchers."
"Not good enough," Reacher said. "I want you to hire a guy called Franklin. Helen Rodin can tell you about him. She's in this building, two floors above you."
"Why hasn't she hired this Franklin guy herself?"
"Because she can't afford him. You can. I assume you've got a budget. A week of Franklin's time probably costs less than one of your weather guy's haircuts."
"And then what?"
"Then we put it all together."
"How big is this?"
"Pulitzer-sized. Emmy-sized. New-job-sized."
"How would you know? You're not in the business."
"I was in the army. I would guess this is worth a Bronze Star. That's probably a rough equivalent. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick."
"I don't know," she said. "I should turn you in."
"You can't," he said. "You pull out a phone and I'll take off up the ramp. They won't find me. They've been trying all day."
"I don't really care about prizes," she said.
"So do it for fun," he said. "Do it for professional satisfaction."
He rocked sideways and took out the napkin with Helen Rodin's number on it. Held it edge-on at the crack of the window. Yanni took it from him, delicately, trying to avoid touching his fingers with hers.
"Call Helen," Reacher said. "Right now. She'll vouch for me."
Yanni took a cell phone out of her purse and turned it on. Watched the screen and waited until it was ready and then dialed the number. She passed the napkin back. Listened to the phone.
"Helen Rodin?" she said. Then she buzzed the window all the way up and Reacher didn't hear any of the conversation. He gambled that it was really Helen she was speaking to. It was possible that she had looked at the napkin and dialed another number entirely. Not 911, because she had dialed ten digits. But she might have called the cops' main desk. A reporter might know that number by heart.
But it was Helen on the line. Yanni buzzed the window down again and passed him her phone through the gap.
"Is this for real?" Helen asked him.
"I don't think she's decided yet," Reacher said. "But it might work out."
"Is it a good idea?"
"She's got resources. And having the media watching our backs might help us."
"Put her back on."
Reacher passed the phone through the window. This time Yanni kept the glass down so that Reacher heard her end of the rest of the conversation. Initially she sounded skeptical, and then neutral, and then somewhat convinced. She arranged to meet on the fourth floor first thing in the morning. Then she clicked the phone off.
"There's a cop outside her door," Reacher said.
"She told me that," Yanni said. "But they're looking for you, not me."
"What exactly are you going to do?"
"I haven't decided yet."
Reacher said nothing.
"I guess I need to understand where you're coming from first," Yanni said. "Obviously you don't care anything about James Barr himself. So is this all for the sister? Rosemary?"
Reacher watched her watching him. A woman, a journalist.
"Partly for Rosemary," he said.
"But?"
"Mostly for the puppet master. He's sitting there thinking he's as smart as a whip. I don't like that. Never have. Makes me want to show him what smart really is."
"Like a challenge?"
"He had a girl killed, Yanni. She was just a dumb sweet kid looking for a little fun. He pushed open the wrong door there. So he deserves to have something come out at him. That's the challenge."
"You hardly knew her."
"That doesn't make her any less innocent."
"OK."
"OK what?"
"NBC will spring for Franklin. Then we'll see where that takes us."
"Thanks," Reacher said. "I appreciate it."
"You should."
"I apologize again. For scaring you."
"I nearly died of fright."
"I'm very sorry."
"Anything else?"
"Yes," Reacher said. "I need to borrow your car."
"My car?"
"Your car."
"What for?"
"To sleep in and then to go to Kentucky in."
"What's in Kentucky?"
"Part of the puzzle."
Yanni shook her head. "This is nuts."
"I'm a careful driver."
"I'd be aiding and abetting a fugitive criminal."
"I'm not a criminal," Reacher said. "A criminal is someone who has been convicted of a crime after a trial. Therefore I'm not a fugitive, either. I haven't been arrested or charged. I'm a suspect, that's all."
"I can't lend you my car after running your picture all night."
"You could say you didn't recognize me. It's a sketch, not a photograph. Maybe it isn't totally accurate."
"Your hair is different."
"There you go. I had it cut this morning."
"But I would recognize your name. I wouldn't lend my car to a stranger without at least knowing his name, would I?"
"Maybe I gave you a false name. You met a guy with a different name who didn't look much like the sketch, that's all."
"What name?"
"Joe Gordon," Reacher said.
"Who's he?"
"Yankees' second baseman in 1940. They finished third. Not Joe's fault. He had a decent career. He played exactly one thousand games and got exactly one thousand hits."
"You know a lot."