He walked a circuit of the truck. I lay there and listened to the crack of his footsteps below. He checked the Cadillac again. Then he went back inside. The room door slammed. The light snapped off. The yellow square of light died.
I waited five minutes. Just lay there up on the roof and waited. Then I hauled myself up onto my elbows. Reached for the slot in the fiberglass that I'd just cut. Forced the flap down and hooked my fingers in. Dragged myself over and peered through.
The truck was empty. Totally empty. Nothing in it at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IT WAS OVER FOUR HUNDRED MILES BACK TO THE MARGRAVE station house. I drove all of them as fast as I dared. I needed to see Finlay. Needed to lay out a brand-new theory for him. I slotted the old Cadillac into a space right next to Teale's brand-new model. Went inside and nodded to the desk guy. He nodded back.
"Finlay here?" I asked him.
"In back," he told me. "The mayor's with him."
I skirted the reception counter and ran through the squad room to the rosewood office. Finlay was in there with Teale. Finlay had bad news for me. I could see it in the slope of his shoulders. Teale looked at me, surprised.
"You back in the army, Mr. Reacher?" he said.
Took me a second to catch on. He was talking about my fatigues and the camouflage jacket. I looked him up and down. He was in a shiny gray suit with embroidered patterns all over it. Bootlace tie with a silver clasp.
"Don't you be talking to me about clothes, asshole," I said.
He looked down at himself in surprise. Brushed off a speck that hadn't been there. Glared up at me.
"I could have you arrested for language like that," he said.
"And I could tear your head off," I said to him. "And then I could stick it up your ratty old ass."
We stood and glared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Teale gripped his heavy cane like he wanted to raise it up and hit me with it. I could see his hand tightening around it and his glance darting toward my head. But in the end he just stalked out of the office and slammed the door. I reopened it a crack and peered out after him. He was picking up a phone at one of the squad room desks. He was going to call Kliner. He was going to ask him when the hell he was going to do something about me. I shut the door again and turned to Finlay.
"What's the problem?" I asked him.
"Serious shit," he said. "But did you get a look in the truck?"
"I'll get to that in a minute," I said. "What's the problem here?"
"You want the small problem first?" he said. "Or the big problem?"
"Small first," I said.
"Picard's keeping Roscoe another day," he said. "No option."
"Shit," I said. "I wanted to see her. She happy with that?"
"According to Picard she is," he said.
"Shit," I said again. "So what's the big problem?"
"Somebody's ahead of us," he whispered.
"Ahead of us?" I asked him. "What do you mean?"
"Your brother's list?" he said. "The initials and the note about Sherman Stoller's garage? First thing is there's a telex in from the Atlanta PD this morning. Stoller's house burned down in the night. Out by the golf course, where you went with Roscoe? Totally destroyed, garage and all. Torched. Somebody threw gasoline all over the place."
"Christ," I said. "What about Judy?"
"Neighbor says she bailed out Tuesday night," he said. "Right after you spoke to her. Hasn't been back. The house was empty."
I nodded.
"Judy's a smart woman," I said. "But that doesn't put them ahead of us. We already saw the inside of the garage. If they were trying to hide something, they were too late. Nothing to hide anyway, right?"
"The initials?" he said. "The colleges? I identified the Princeton guy this morning. W.B. was Walter Bartholomew. Professor. He was killed last night, outside his house."
"Shit," I said. "Killed how?"
"Stabbed," he said. "Jersey police are calling it a mugging. But we know better than that, right?"
"Any more good news?" I asked him.
He shook his head.
"Gets worse," he said. "Bartholomew knew something. They got to him before he could talk to us. They're ahead of us, Reacher."
"He knew something?" I said. "What?"
"Don't know," Finlay said. "When I called the number, I got some research assistant guy, works for Bartholomew. Seems Bartholomew was excited about something, stayed at his office late last night, working. This assistant guy was ferrying him all kinds of old material. Bartholomew was checking it through. Late on, he packed up, e-mailed Joe's computer and went home. He ran into the mugger, and that was that."
"What did the e-mail say?" I asked him.
"It said stand by for a call in the morning," he told me. "The assistant guy said it felt like Bartholomew had hit on something important."
"Shit," I said again. "What about the New York initials? K.K.?"
"Don't know yet," he said. "I'm guessing it's another professor. If they haven't gotten to him yet."
"OK," I said. "I'm going to New York to find him."
"Why the panic?" Finlay asked. "Was there a problem with the truck?"
"There was one major problem," I said. "The truck was empty."
There was silence in the office for a long moment.
"It was going back empty?" Finlay said.
"I got a look inside just after I called you," I said. "It was empty. Nothing in it at all. Just fresh air."