Make Me

The man south of Mother’s Rest was quiet for a very long time.

Then he said, “But no real progress?”

“That’s for you to decide. They got three possibles. I’m sure one of them was Keever’s client, and I’m sure you know which. They got phone data, which can be checked. I’ve seen things go bad from less.”

“I need to know if they contact the phone companies. Like a distant early warning system. And if they do, I need to know what the phone companies tell them.”

“That would cost extra, I’m afraid. Phone companies can be secretive. Palms would need to be greased.”

“Do it.”

“OK.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then it got a little comical.”

“How so?”

“Westwood stayed inside and Reacher and Chang left.”

“Where did they go?”

“That’s where it got comical. Hackett lost them. He was posing as a cab driver. No better cover in a city. But Reacher tried to hail him, so he had to take off fast.”

“That’s not good.”

“He has Chang’s phone in his system. As soon as she makes a call, he’ll know exactly where they are.”

Chapter 28

The address in West Hollywood that Chang chose was a motel, not unlike the one in Mother’s Rest, except its more glamorous location made it hip and ironic rather than old and sad. Reacher paid cash for a room, which had a desk and a chair and a choice of wired or wireless connection. But best of all it had a king-size bed, flat and wide and firm. They both looked at it, and kissed, meaning it, but only briefly, like people who knew they had work to do first. Chang sat down and plugged in her laptop. She unfolded the paper Westwood had printed. Three names, three numbers. She said, “Are you a gambling man?”

Reacher said, “Louisiana is right next to Arkansas, which could explain why the guy has those two area codes. But so is Mississippi, just the same. Chicago isn’t, but a guy with the real name McCann might choose Maloney for an alias. Maybe it was his mother’s name. So at this point I would say it’s even money.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“With the current 501. It might be a recent contract. It might have a real name on it.”

“If it isn’t a burner.”

She opened a search page just as ugly as Westwood’s, and typed in the number, 501 and seven more digits.

The screen said: refer.

Reacher said, “What does that mean?”

She said, “It means it isn’t in the reverse directory, but there’s information to be had. At a price, from a source in the phone company.”

“How big of a price?”

“A hundred bucks, probably.”

“Can you afford it?”

“If it comes to anything I’ll bill the LA Times.”

“Check the others first. In case you need a quantity discount.”

Which turned out to be a possibility. The Chicago number came back exactly as advertised, one of a dozen lines into the Lincoln Park branch of the city library, but both the Louisiana cell and the Mississippi cell came back as refer.

Information to be had.

Reacher said, “How exactly do we get it?”

Chang said, “We used to e-mail. But not now. Too vulnerable. Too risky for the source. Worse than a paper trail. Now we have to call.”

She picked up her phone and dialed. The call was answered fast. There was no small talk. Chang was all business. She gave her name, and explained what she needed, and read out the three numbers, slowly and distinctly, and listened to them repeated back, and said “OK,” and hung up.

“Two hundred bucks,” she said. “He’ll get back to me later today.”

Reacher said, “How much later?”

“Could be hours.”

There was only one thing to do, to fill the time.

Ten minutes later, twenty miles south of Mother’s Rest, the man with the ironed jeans and the blow-dried hair took a fourth call on his land line. His contact said, “Hackett says Chang just made a call. He says they’re in a motel in West Hollywood.”

“Who did she call?”

“The phone company. She wanted information on three numbers. She paid two hundred dollars for it.”

“What information did she get?”

“None yet. Her source said he’d call back later today.”

“How much later?”

“Could be hours.”

“Can you get it faster?”

“Save your money. Hackett is listening. You’ll know when she knows.”

“How far away is he?”

“He’s heading to West Hollywood now. I’m sure he’ll be in place before the guy calls back.”

The motel bed was indeed flat and wide and firm. Reacher lay on his back, filmed with sweat, the AC not really cold, the ceiling fan busted. Chang lay beside him, breathing deep. Reacher’s theory had always been the second time was by far the best. No more tiny inhibitions, and no more first-time fumbles, yet still plenty of novelty and excitement. But that theory had been shattered. It had been blown apart. All theories should be tested, Westwood had said. That’s a central part of the scientific method. And tested it they had. The second time, an hour ago, had been sensational. But the third time had been better. Way better. Reacher lay there, drained, empty, his bones turned to rubber, relaxed in a way that made any previous notion of repose seem like furious agitation.