Can't say a word, Reacher thought. But this has got to be real fast.
Then he thought: Which one? Rodin? Or Emerson? Rodin was wearing a suit. Blue, summer weight, expensive, maybe the same one as on Monday. Emerson was in shirtsleeves. Playing with a pen. Bouncing it off his blotter, one end, then the other.
Get on with it, Reacher thought.
"You weren't so hard to find," Emerson said.
Reacher said nothing. He was still handcuffed.
"Tell us about the night Alexandra Dupree was killed," Rodin said.
Reacher said nothing.
"Tell us how it felt," Emerson said. "When her neck snapped."
Reacher said nothing.
"The jury's going to hate you," Rodin said.
Reacher said, "Phone call."
"You want to lawyer up?" Emerson said.
Reacher said nothing.
"Who's your lawyer?" Rodin asked.
"Your daughter," Reacher said.
"Want us to call her?" Emerson asked.
"Maybe. Or maybe Rosemary Barr instead."
He watched their eyes.
"The sister?" Rodin said.
"You want us to call the sister?" Emerson said.
One of you knows she ain't going to answer, Reacher thought.
Which one?
Nothing in their eyes.
"Call Ann Yanni," he said.
"From the TV?" Rodin said. "Why her?"
"I get a phone call," Reacher said. "I don't have to explain anything. I say who, you dial the number."
"She'll be getting ready to go on the air. The local news is at six o'clock."
"So we'll wait," Reacher said. "I've got all the time in the world."
Which one of you knows that isn't true?
They waited, but it turned out the wait wasn't long. Emerson placed the call to NBC and told Ann Yanni's assistant that the police department had arrested Jack Reacher and that Reacher was requesting Yanni's presence, reason unknown. It was a bizarre message. But Yanni was in Emerson's office less than thirty minutes later. She was a journalist on the scent of a story. She knew that network tomorrow was better than local today.
"How can I help?" she asked.
She had presence. She was a star in her market. And she was media. Both Emerson and Rodin looked a little intimidated. Not by her as an individual. But by what she represented.
"I'm sorry," Reacher said to her. "I know you won't want to, and I know I said I would never tell, but under the circumstances you're going to have to confirm an alibi for me. No choice, I'm afraid."
He glanced at her. Saw her following his words. Saw confusion cross her face. She had no reaction. He kept his eyes on hers. No reaction.
Help me out here, girl.
One second.
Two seconds.
No reaction.
Reacher held his breath. Get with the damn program, Yanni. One more second and it's all going to fall apart.
No reaction.
Then she nodded. She had caught on. Reacher breathed out. Good call. Professional skill. She was a person accustomed to hearing breaking news in her earpiece and repeating it live on air half a second later like she had known about it all her life.
"What alibi?" Emerson said.
Yanni glanced at him. Then at Rodin.
"I thought this was about Jack Reacher," she said.
"It is," Emerson said.
"But this is Joe Gordon," she said. "At least, that's what he told me."
"He told you his name was Gordon?"
"When I met him."
"Which was when?"
"Two days ago."
"You've been running his picture on your show."
"That was his picture? It looked nothing like him. The hair was totally different. No similarity at all."
"What alibi?" Emerson said again.
"For when?" Yanni asked.
"The night the girl was killed. That's what we're talking about here."
Yanni said nothing.
Rodin said, "Ma'am, if you know something, you need to tell us now."
"I'd rather not," Yanni said.
Reacher smiled to himself. The way she said it absolutely guaranteed that Emerson and Rodin were a minute away from begging to hear the story. She was standing there, blushing on command all the way up to her temples, her back straight, her blouse open three buttons. She was a hell of an actress. Reacher figured maybe all news anchors were.
"It's a question of evidence," Emerson said.
"Obviously," Yanni said. "But can't you just take my word?"
"For what?"
"That he didn't do it."
"We need details," Rodin said.
"I have to think of my reputation," Yanni said.
"Your statement won't be made public if we drop the charges."
"Can you guarantee dropping the charges?"
"Not before we hear your statement," Emerson said.
"So it's a Catch- 22," Yanni said.
"I'm afraid it is."
Don't push too far, Reacher thought. We don't have time.
Yanni sighed. Looked down at the floor. Looked up, straight into Emerson's eyes, furious, embarrassed, magnificent.
"We spent that night together," she said.
"You and Reacher?"
"Me and Joe Gordon."
Emerson pointed. "This man?"
Yanni nodded. "That man."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"From when to when?"
"From about eleven-forty. When the news was over. Until I got paged the next morning when you guys found the body."
"Where were you?"
Reacher closed his eyes. Recalled the conversation the night before in the parking garage. The car window, open an inch and a half. Had he told her?
"The motor court," Yanni said. "His room."
"The clerk didn't say he saw you."
"Of course the clerk didn't see me. I have to think about things like that."
"Which room?"
Had he told her?
"Room eight," Yanni said.
"He didn't leave the room during the night?"
"No, he didn't."
"Not at all?"
"No."
"How can you be sure?"
Yanni looked away. "Because we didn't actually sleep a wink."
The office went quiet.
"Can you offer any corroboration?" Emerson asked.
"Like what?" Yanni asked back.
"Distinguishing marks? That I can't see right now but that someone who had been in your position would have seen?"
"Oh, please."
"It's the last question," Emerson said.
Yanni said nothing. Reacher recalled switching on the Mustang's dome light and lifting his shirt to reveal the tire iron. He moved his cuffed hands and laid them across his waistband.
"Anything?" Emerson said.
"It's important," Rodin said.
"He has a scar," Yanni said. "Low down on his stomach. A horrible big thing."
Emerson and Rodin both turned and looked at Reacher. Reacher got to his feet. Grabbed a fold of fabric in both hands and pulled his shirt out of his pants. Lifted it.
"OK," Emerson said.
"What was that?" Rodin asked.
"Part of a Marine sergeant's jawbone," Reacher said. "The medics figured it must have weighed about four ounces. It was traveling at five thousand feet per second away from the epicenter of a trinitrotoluene explosion. Just surfing along on the pressure wave, until it hit me."
He dropped his shirt back down. Didn't try to tuck it in. The handcuffs would have made that difficult.