"Start talking," Reacher said.
The Zec stayed silent.
"I can send these guys away again," Reacher said. "Just as easily as I brought them here. Then I'll start counting again. At the seventeenth."
The Zec sighed. Started talking. Slowly at first, and then faster. He told a long story. So much length and so much complexity that it got confusing. He spilled details of earlier unconnected crimes. Then he got to the bidding process for the city contracts. He named the official he had suborned. It wasn't just about money. There had been girls too, supplied in small groups in a Caribbean villa. Some of them very young. He talked about Ted Archer's fury, his two-year search, his close approach to the truth. He described the ambush, one Monday morning. Jeb Oliver had been used. The red Dodge Ram had been his payoff. Then the Zec paused, decided, moved on. He described the fast decision to get rid of Oline Archer two months later, when she became dangerous. He described Chenko's subterfuge, the hasty but thorough planning, how they lured James Barr out of the way with a promise of a date with Sandy Dupree. He described the end of Jeb Oliver's usefulness. He told them where to find his body. He told them about Vladimir killing Sandy in an effort to stop Reacher in his tracks. Altogether he talked for thirty-two minutes, hands tied behind him, then he stopped suddenly and Reacher saw calculation in his eyes. He was already thinking about the next move. The next roll of the dice. A mistrial. A jailbreak. A ten-year appeals process.
The room went quiet.
Donna Bianca said, "Unbelievable."
Reacher said, "Keep talking."
The Zec just looked at him.
"Something you left out," Reacher said. "You need to tell us about your inside man. That's what we're all waiting for."
The Zec switched his gaze. He looked at Emerson. Then at Donna Bianca. Then at Alex Rodin. Right to left, along the line. Then he glanced back at Reacher.
"You're a survivor," Reacher said. "But you're not an idiot. There won't be a mistrial. There won't be a jailbreak. You're eighty years old and you won't survive a ten-year appeals process. You know all that. But still you agreed to talk. Why?"
The Zec said nothing.
"Because you knew sooner or later you'd be talking to a friend. Someone you own. Someone you bought and paid for. Am I right?"
The Zec didn't move.
"Someone right here, right now, in fact," Reacher said.
The Zec said nothing.
"One thing always bothered me," Reacher said. "From the start. At first I didn't know if I was right or if I was letting my ego get in the way. I went back and forth with it. Finally I decided I was right. The thing is, when I was in the service I was a hell of a good investigator. I was maybe the best they ever had. I would have put myself up against anyone. And you know what?"
"What?" Helen Rodin asked.
"I would never have thought of emptying that parking meter. Not in a million years. It would never have occurred to me to do that. So I was facing a question. Was Emerson a better investigator than me? Or did he know that quarter was there?"
Nobody spoke.
"Emerson is not better than I was," Reacher said. "That's just not possible. That's what I decided." Then he turned to the Zec. "The coin was one clue too many. You see that now? It was unnatural. Was it Chenko's idea?"
The Zec nodded.
"You should have overruled him," Reacher said. He turned to Emerson. "Or you should have left it there. It wasn't like you needed it to make the case."
"This is bullshit," Emerson said.
Reacher shook his head. "A lot of things clicked into place after that. I read the 911 transcripts and the squad car call log. Right at the start you were awful quick to make up your mind. You had a bunch of incoherent panic calls but within twenty seconds you were on the radio telling your guys that this was a lone nutcase with an automatic rifle. There was no basis for that conclusion. Six shots fired, ragged sequence, it could have been six kids with a handgun each, firing once. But you knew it wasn't."
"Bullshit," Emerson said again.
Reacher shook his head again. "Final proof was when I was negotiating with your boss here. I said he'd have to tell the truth to a detective called Emerson. I could have said the cops generically, or Alex Rodin the DA. But I didn't. I said your name specifically, and a little light came on in his eyes. He sparred around for a minute more, for form's sake, but basically he agreed real fast because he figured he'd be OK as long as you were in charge."
Silence. Then Cash said, "But Oline Archer went to Alex Rodin here. He buried it. That's what you found out."
Reacher shook his head again. "We found out that Oline went to the DA's office. I went there myself, first thing after I got to town. And you know what? Alex here has got himself a couple of real dragon ladies working the door. They know he doesn't like walk-ins. Dollars to doughnuts they sent Oline on her way. That's a matter for the police, they'll have told her. Her co-worker said she was gone most of the afternoon. My guess is the dragon ladies sent her trekking all across town to the station house, where she sat down with Emerson here."
Silence in the room.
The Zec struggled on the sofa. "Emerson, do something, for Christ's sake."
"Nothing he can do," Reacher said. "I'm not dumb. I think ahead. I'm sure he's got a Glock under his arm, but he's got me behind him with a.38 and a knife, and he's got Cash facing him with a sniper rifle hidden behind the sofa, and what can he do anyway? I guess he could try to kill us all and say there was some kind of a big massacre here, but how would that help him with NBC?"
Emerson stared at him.
"NBC?" Cash repeated.
"I saw Yanni fiddling with her phone earlier. I'm assuming she's transmitting all of this back to the studios."
Yanni pulled out her Nokia.
"Open channel," she said. "Digital audio recording on three separate hard discs, plus two analog tapes as backup. They've all been running since well before we got in the Humvee."
Cash stared at her. "That's why you asked me that dumb question about the night scope. That's why you were talking to yourself like a sports announcer."
"She's a journalist," Reacher said. "She's going to win an Emmy."
He stepped forward and leaned over the back of Emerson's chair and slid his hand under his coat. Came back out with a Glock nine. Handed it to Bianca.
"You've got arrests to make," he said.
Then the Zec smiled, and Chenko walked into the room.
Chenko was covered in mud and his right arm was broken, or his shoulder, or his collarbone, or maybe all three. His wrist was jammed into his shirt like a sling. But there was nothing wrong with his left arm. Nothing at all. Reacher turned around to face him and saw the sawn-off rock-steady in his left hand. He thought, irrelevantly: Where did he get that from? His car? Were the cars parked to the east?
Chenko glanced at Bianca.
"Put the gun down, lady," he said.
Bianca laid Emerson's Glock on the floor. No sound as it touched the carpet.
"Thank you," Chenko said.
Nobody spoke.
"I guess I was out for a little while," Chenko said. "But I got to tell you, I feel a whole hell of a lot better now."
"We survive," the Zec said from across the room. "That's what we do."
Reacher didn't look back at the old man. He looked at Chenko's gun instead. It had been a Benelli Nova Pump. The stock had been cut off behind the pistol grip. The barrel had been hacked off ahead of the slide. Twelve-gauge. Four-shot magazine. A handsome weapon, butchered.