Read Books Novel

Without Fail

"You don’t stick around, that manager’s going to stiff us for sure," the old guy said, like getting stiffed for money was something that just happened to musicians, like flat tires and head colds. "But we get paid, we got gas money to head up to New York, maybe get us a gig from B. B. King in Times Square, resurrect our careers. Guy like you could make a big difference in that department, count on it."

Reacher said nothing.

"Of course, I can see you being worried," the old guy said. "Management like that, bound to be some unsavory characters lurking in the background."

Reacher smiled at the subtlety.

"What are you, anyway?" the old guy asked. "Some kind of a boxer?"

"No," Reacher said. "No kind of a boxer."

"Wrestler?" the old guy asked. He said it wrassler. "Like on cable television?"

"No."

"You’re big enough, that’s for damn sure," the old guy said. "Plenty big enough to help us out, if you wanted to."

He said it he’p. No front teeth. Reacher said nothing.

"What are you, anyway?" the old guy asked again.

"I was a military cop," Reacher said. "In the Army, thirteen years."

"You quit?"

"As near as makes no difference."

"No jobs for you folks afterward?"

"None that I want," Reacher said.

"You live in L.A.?"

"I don’t live anywhere," Reacher said. "I move around."

"So road folk should stick together," the old guy said. "Simple as that. Help each other. Keep it a mutual thing."

He’p each other.

"It’s very cold here," Reacher said.

"That’s for damn sure," the old guy said. "But you could buy a coat."

So he was on a windswept corner with the sea gale flattening his pants against his legs, making a final decision. The highway, or a coat store? He ran a brief fantasy through his head, La Jolla maybe, a cheap room, warm nights, bright stars, cold beer. Then: the old woman at B. B. King’s new club in New York, some retro-obsessed young A amp;R man stops by, gives her a contract, she makes a CD, she gets a national tour, a sidebar in Rolling Stone, fame, money, a new house. A new car. He turned his back on the highway and hunched against the wind and walked east in search of a clothing store.

On that particular Monday there were nearly twelve thousand FDIC-insured banking organizations licensed and operating inside the United States and between them they carried over a thousand million separate accounts, but only one of them was listed against UNSUB’s name and Social Security number. It was a simple checking account held at a branch of a regional bank in Arlington, Virginia. M. E. Froelich stared at the branch’s business address in surprise. That’s less than four miles from where I’m sitting right now. She copied the details onto her yellow paper. Picked up her phone and called a senior colleague on the other side of the organization and asked him to contact the bank in question for all the details he could get. Especially a home address. She asked him to be absolutely as fast as possible, but discreet, too. And completely off the record. Then she hung up and waited, anxious and frustrated about being temporarily hands-off. Problem was, the other side of the organization could ask banks discreet questions quite easily, whereas for Froelich to do so herself would be regarded as very odd indeed.

Reacher found a discount store three blocks nearer the ocean and ducked inside. It was narrow but ran back into the building a couple of hundred feet. There were fluorescent tubes all over the ceiling and racks of garments stretching as far as the eye could see. Seemed to be women’s stuff on the left, children’s in the center, and men’s on the right. He started in the far back corner and worked forward.

There were all kinds of coats commercially available, that was for damn sure. The first two rails had short padded jackets. No good. He went by something an old Army buddy had told him: a good coat is like a good lawyer. It covers your ass. The third rail was more promising. It had neutral-colored thigh-length canvas coats made bulky by thick flannel linings. Maybe there was some wool in there. Maybe some other stuff, too. They certainly felt heavy enough.

"Can I help you?"

He turned around and saw a young woman standing right behind him.

"Are these coats good for the weather up here?" he asked.

"They’re perfect," the woman said. She was very animated. She told him all about some kind of special stuff sprayed on the canvas to repel moisture. She told him all about the insulation inside. She promised it would keep him warm right down to a subzero temperature. He ran his hand down the rail and pulled out a dark olive XXL.

"OK, I’ll take this one," he said.

"You don’t want to try it on?"

He paused and then shrugged into it. It fit pretty well. Nearly. Maybe it was a little tight across the shoulders. The sleeves were maybe an inch too short.

"You need the 3XLT," the woman said. "What are you, a fifty?"

"A fifty what?"

"Chest."

"No idea. I never measured it."

"Height about six-five?"

"I guess," he said.

"Weight?"

"Two-forty," he said. "Maybe two-fifty."

"So you definitely need the big-and-tall fitting," she said. "Try the 3XLT."

The 3XLT she handed him was the same dull color as the XXL he had picked. It fit much better. A little roomy, which he liked. And the sleeves were right.

"You OK for pants?" the woman called. She had ducked away to another rail and was flicking through heavy canvas work pants, glancing at his waist and the length of his legs. She came out with a pair that matched one of the colors in the flannel lining inside the coat. "And try these shirts," she said. She jumped over to another rail and showed him a rainbow of flannel shirts. "Put a T-shirt underneath it and you’re all set. Which color do you like?"

"Something dull," he said.

She laid everything out on top of one of the rails. The coat, the pants, the shirt, a T-shirt. They looked pretty good together, muddy olives and khakis.

"OK?" she said brightly.

"OK," he said. "You got underwear too?"

"Over here," she said.

He rooted through a bin of reject-quality boxers and selected a pair in white. Then a pair of socks, mostly cotton, flecked with all kinds of organic colors.

"OK?" the woman said again. He nodded and she led him to the register at the front of the store and bleeped all the tags under the little red light.

"One hundred and eighty-nine dollars even," she said.

He stared at the red figures on the register’s display.

"I thought this was a discount store," he said.

"That’s incredibly reasonable, really," she said. He shook his head and dug into his pocket and came out with a wad of crumpled bills. Counted out a hundred and ninety. The dollar change she gave him left him with four bucks in his hand.

The senior colleague from the other side of the organization called Froelich back within twenty-five minutes.

"You get a home address?" she asked him.

"One hundred Washington Boulevard," the guy said. "Arlington, Virginia. Zip code is 20310- 1500."

Froelich wrote it down. "OK, thanks. I guess that’s all I need."

"I think you might need a little more."

"Why?"

"You know Washington Boulevard?"

Froelich paused. "Runs up to the Memorial Bridge, right?"

"It’s just a highway."

"No buildings? Got to be buildings."

"There is one building. Pretty big one. Couple hundred yards off the east shoulder."

"What?"

"The Pentagon," the guy said. "This is a phony address, Froelich. One side of Washington Boulevard is Arlington Cemetery and the other side is the Pentagon. That’s it. Nothing else. There’s no number one hundred. There are no private mailing addresses at all. I checked with the Postal Service. And that zip code is the Department of the Army, inside the Pentagon."

"Great," Froelich said. "You tell the bank?"

"Of course not. You told me to be discreet."

"Thanks. But I’m back at square one."

"Maybe not. This is a bizarre account, Froelich. Six-figure balance, but it’s all just stuck in checking, earning nothing. And the customer accesses it via Western Union only. Never comes in. It’s a phone arrangement. Customer calls in with a password, the bank wires cash through Western Union, wherever."

"No ATM card?"

"No cards at all. No checkbook was ever issued, either."

"Western Union only? I never heard of that before. Are there any records?"

"Geographically, all over the place, literally. Forty states and counting in five years. Occasional deposits and plenty of nickel-and-dime withdrawals, all of them to Western Union offices in the boonies, in the cities, everywhere."

"Bizarre."

"Like I said."

"Anything you can do?"

"Already done it. They’re going to call me next time the customer calls them."

"And then you’re going to call me?"

"I might."

"Is there a frequency pattern?"

"It varies. Maximum interval recently has been a few weeks. Sometimes it’s every few days. Mondays are popular. Banks are closed on the weekend."

Chapters