Bad Luck and Trouble

"With help from the others."

"More than help," Neagley said. "He was basically subcontracting. He had to, because his office situation was insecure."

"So he didn’t talk to Lamaison at any point?"

"Not a chance. First rule, trust no one."

"So what tripped them up?"

"I don’t know."

"How would Swan have secured Dean’s situation?"

"He’d have talked to the local cops. Asked for protection, or at least asked for a car to swing by on a regular basis."

"Lamaison is ex-LAPD. Maybe he still has buddies on the job. Maybe they tipped him off."

"Doesn’t work," Neagley said. "Swan didn’t talk to the LAPD. Dean lived over the hill. Outside of LAPD jurisdiction."

Reacher paused a beat.

"Which actually means that Swan didn’t talk to anyone," he said. "Because that’s Curtis Mauney’s kingdom up there, and he didn’t know anything about Dean or New Age. Or even anything about Swan, except through Franz."

"Swan wouldn’t leave Dean unprotected."

"So maybe Dean wasn’t the trigger. Maybe Swan didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he found a different way in."

"Which was?" Neagley asked.

"No idea," Reacher said. "Maybe Sanchez will be able to tell us."

"You think he’s alive?"

"Hope for the best."

"But plan for the worst."

They clicked off. Their lane moved a little. In a minute and a quarter of conversation they had covered about five car lengths. In the next five minutes of silence they covered about ten more, six times slower than walking. All around them people were enduring. They were talking on the phone, reading, shaving, applying makeup, smoking, eating, listening to music. Some were tanning. They were hitching up their sleeves and holding their arms out their open windows.

Reacher’s pay-as-you-go rang. Neagley again.

"More from Chicago," she said. "We’re into parts of the LAPD mainframe. Lennox and Parker were about as bad as Lamaison. The two of them were partners together. They resigned rather than face their twelfth IA inquiry in twelve years. They must have been out of work about a week before Lamaison hired them on at New Age."

"I’m glad I don’t hold New Age stock."

"You do. It’s all Pentagon money. Where do you think it comes from?"

"Not from me," Reacher said.

Two hundred yards later the freeway straightened and rose in front of them and they saw the source of the delay, in the far distance, in the haze. There was a broken-down car in the left lane. A trivial blockage, but the whole road was at a standstill. Reacher clicked off with Neagley and called Dixon.

"You there yet?" he asked.

"Maybe ten minutes away."

"We’re stuck in traffic. Call us if there’s good news. Call us if there’s bad news too, I guess."

It took another quarter of an hour to reach the stalled car and some bold lane changes to get past it. Then the flow freed up and everyone continued on their way at seventy miles an hour like nothing had happened. Reacher and Neagley were at the county facility ten minutes later. Ten miles in forty minutes. Average speed, fifteen miles an hour. Not great.

They ignored the morgue and parked in the hospital’s visitor lot. They walked through the sun to the main entrance. Reacher saw O’Donnell’s Honda in the lot, and then Dixon’s. The main entrance gave onto a lobby full of red plastic chairs. Some of them were occupied. Most of them weren’t. The place was fairly quiet. There was no sign of Dixon or O’Donnell. Or Curtis Mauney. There was a long desk with people behind it. Not nurses. Just clerks. Reacher asked one of them for Mauney and got no response. He asked for Jorge Sanchez and got no response. He asked about emergency John Doe admissions and got redirected to another desk around a corner.

The new desk reported no recent John Doe admissions and knew nothing about a patient named Jorge Sanchez or an LA County sheriff named Curtis Mauney. Reacher pulled out his phone but was asked not to use it inside the building in case its signal upset delicate medical equipment. He stepped out to the lot and called Dixon.

No reply.

He tried O’Donnell’s number.

No reply.

Neagley said, "Maybe they’re switched off. Because they’re in an ICU or something."

"Who with? They never heard of Sanchez here."

"They have to be here somewhere. They just got here."

"This feels wrong," Reacher said.

Neagley took Mauney’s card out of her pocket. Handed it over. Reacher dialed Mauney’s cell number.

No answer.

His landline.

No answer.

Then Neagley’s phone rang. Her personal cell, not her pay-as-you-go. She answered. Listened. Her face went pale. Literally bloodless, like wax.

"That was Chicago," she said. "Curtis Mauney was Allen Lamaison’s partner. They were together twelve years in the LAPD."

69

Something tripped them up. Something unpredictable. Neagley had been right, but only half-right. Dean had been a major factor, but not the original trigger. Swan had gotten to him much later in the process, some different way, after the others were already on board. No other way to explain the scale of the disaster. Reacher stood in the hospital lot and closed his eyes and pictured the scene. Saw Swan talking to Dean, the final part of the puzzle, at home, north of the mountains, out in the desert near Palmdale, a city refugee’s paradise, a sanctuary, a young girl moving silently past an open doorway, fear on Dean’s face, concern on Swan’s. Reacher saw Swan extracting the whole story, as always reassuring and solid and confident. Then Reacher saw Swan driving straight to some dusty sheriff’s office, talking to Mauney, explaining, asking for help, demanding it. Then he saw Swan leaving, and Mauney picking up a phone. Sealing Swan’s fate right there and then. And Franz’s, and Orozco’s, and Sanchez’s.

Something unpredictable.

Reacher opened his eyes and said, "We’re not going to lose another two. Not while I live and breathe."

They abandoned Neagley’s Civic in the hospital lot and used Reacher’s Prelude. They had nowhere to go. They were just moving for the sake of moving. And talking for the sake of talking. Neagley said, "They knew we’d show up sooner or later. The suspense was killing them. So they manipulated the timeline to suit themselves. Mauney pushed Angela Franz into calling me. He spun the bait story to keep Thomas Brant on board. He was tracking us every step of the way and feeding us things we already knew to keep us close and asking us what else we’d found out and waiting to see if we’d give up and get out of their hair. And when we never did, they decided to go ahead and take us out. First Vegas, and then now."

They swung back onto the 210. It was flowing fast and free.

"Plan?" Neagley asked.

"No plan," Reacher said.

The phone directory that Dixon had captured was in O’Donnell’s room at the motel, but they didn’t want to go anywhere near Sunset Boulevard. Not at that point. So they pieced together half-remembered fragments of the manufacturing plant’s Highland Park address and headed in that direction.

They found Highland Park easily enough. It was a decent place full of streets and houses and business parks and small clean hi-tech manufacturing enterprises. It was harder to find New Age’s specific location. They weren’t expecting a billboard and didn’t get one. Instead they looked for unmarked buildings and serious fences and helipads. They found several. It was that kind of a neighborhood.

"Dixon called the helicopter a Bell 222," Reacher said. "Could you recognize one of those if you saw one?"