Never Go Back

‘I need you to check two more names with HRC. Almost certainly from the same logistics company at Fort Bragg, but I need confirmation. The first is Jason Kenneth Rickard, and the second is a guy called Shrago. I don’t know if that’s his first or last name. Try to get some background on him. Apparently he has mutilated ears.’

‘Ears?’

‘The things on the side of his head.’

‘I spoke with Major Sullivan earlier this evening. The office of the Secretary of the Army is pushing for a fast resolution of the Rodriguez issue.’

‘Dropping the charges would be pretty fast.’

‘It’s not going to happen that way.’

‘OK, leave it with me,’ Reacher said. He clicked off the call, and put his phone in his pocket, and went back to driving two-handed. Laurel Canyon Boulevard was a dumb name for the road they were on. It was in Laurel Canyon, for sure, winding its narrow, hilly way through a very desirable and picturesque neighbourhood, but it wasn’t a boulevard. A boulevard was a wide, straight, ceremonial thoroughfare, often planted with rows of specimen trees or other formal landscaping features. From the old French boullewerc, meaning bulwark, because that was where the idea came from. A boulevard was the landscaped top of a rampart, long, wide, and flat, ideal for strolling.

Then they came out on Ventura Boulevard, which was not the same thing as the Ventura Freeway, but was at least wide and straight. The Ventura Freeway lay ahead, and Universal City was to the right, and Studio City was to the left.

Reacher said, ‘Wait.’

Turner said, ‘For what?’

‘The Big Dog’s lawyer was in Studio City. Right on Ventura Boulevard. I remember from the affidavit.’

‘And?’

‘Maybe his locks and his alarm aren’t so great either.’

‘That’s a big step, Reacher. That’s a whole bunch of extra crimes right there.’

‘Let’s at least go take a look.’

‘I’ll be an accessory.’

‘You can have a veto,’ Reacher said. ‘Two thumbs on the button, like a nuclear launch.’

He turned left, and rolled down the road. Then a phone rang. A loud, electronic trill, like a demented songbird. Not his phone, and not Turner’s, but Rickard’s, from the back seat, next to his empty wallet.

FIFTY-FIVE

REACHER PULLED OVER and squirmed around and picked up the phone. It was trilling loud, and vibrating in his hand. The screen said Incoming Call, which was superfluous information, given all the trilling and vibrating, but it also said Shrago, which was useful. Reacher opened the phone and held it to his ear and said, ‘Hello?’

A voice said, ‘Rickard?’

‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘Not Rickard.’

Silence.

Reacher said, ‘What were you thinking? A bunch of ware-housemen against the 110th MP? We’re three for three. It’s like batting practice. And you’re all that’s left. And you’re all alone now. And you’re next. How does that even feel?’

Silence.

Reacher said, ‘But they shouldn’t have put you in this position. It was unfair. I know that. I know what Pentagon people are like. I’m not unsympathetic. I can help you out.’

Silence.

Reacher said, ‘Tell me their names, go straight back to Bragg, and I’ll leave you alone.’

Silence. Then a fast beep-beep-beep in the earpiece, and Call Ended on the screen. Reacher tossed the phone back on the rear seat and said, ‘I’ll ask twice, but I won’t ask three times.’

They drove on, and then Studio City came at them, thick and fast. The boulevard was lined with enterprises, some of them in buildings all their own, some of them huddled together in strip malls, like the place in North Hollywood, with some of the buildings and some of the malls approached by shared service roads, and others standing behind parking lots all their own. Numbers were hard to see, because plenty of storefronts were dark. They made two premature turns, in and out of the wrong parking lots. But they found the right place soon enough. It was a lime-green mall, five units long. The Big Dog’s lawyer was in the centre unit.

Except he wasn’t.

The centre unit was occupied by a tax preparer. Se Habla Español, plus about a hundred other languages.

Turner said, ‘Things change in sixteen years. People retire.’

Reacher said nothing.

She said, ‘Are you sure this is the right address?’

‘You think I’m mistaken?’

‘You could be forgiven.’

‘Thank you, but I’m sure.’ Reacher moved closer, for a better look. The style of the place was not cutting edge. The signage and the messages and the boasts and the promises were all a little dated. The lawyer had not retired recently.

There was a light on in back.

‘On a timer,’ Turner said. ‘For security. No one is in there.’

‘It’s winter,’ Reacher said. ‘Tax time is starting. The guy is in there.’

‘And?’

‘We could talk to him.’

‘What about? Are you due a refund?’

‘He forwards the old guy’s mail, at least. Maybe he even knows him. Maybe the old guy is still the landlord.’

‘Maybe the old guy died ten years ago. Or moved to Wyoming.’