“That depends.”
“Let’s go at it differently. Why are you here?”
“To help.”
“Me?”
“I believe you’re going to need it.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I have.”
“That’s why you’ve agreed to work for Luong.”
“I’m doing it for the money.”
Brennan didn’t laugh.
“Being employed by Luong legitimizes my presence,” Reacher said.
“I didn’t fudge data or make a mistake,” Brennan said. “Massee shot himself.”
Their food arrived. They peppered and salted and accepted refills on the disappointing coffee. Which was pretty good.
“How did you learn about Yeow’s murder?” Brennan asked, when Marsha had again withdrawn.
“A radio news report.”
“A Washington station?”
“No.”
She waited for Reacher to elaborate. He didn’t. But she grasped the implication. Media coverage wasn’t just local. Not good. The story would catch fire, the press would go raw dog and she would end up their meat.
“You really think the DOD plans to make me a scapegoat?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“To hide the fact that it ordered Massee’s execution.”
“To stop people talking about it.”
“Did the report say I’d been arrested?”
“It implied that was coming.”
“Now that you’ve heard the evidence against me, will you move on?”
“Do you think I should?”
A man wove toward the table beside theirs. Brennan and Reacher both tracked him. Same reflex. Same discreet eyes.
“What if the radio hadn’t been on?” Brennan asked, voice even lower than before.
“I read yesterday’s papers.”
“And you felt duty bound to come.”
“Yes.”
Brennan chewed on that. And her eggs. Reacher dabbed yolk with his toast. Around them people argued chain of custody and DNA and bitemark analysis. Some consulted programs. Some talked on cell phones.
“You said you were in the army in March of 1987. Stationed in Germany.”
“I was,” Reacher said.
“Did you know Calder Massee?”
“I knew of him.”
“I don’t like drama, Mr. Reacher.” A note of something. Annoyance. Frustration. Unease.
“I don’t do drama.”
“There are things you are unwilling or unable to share.”
Reacher nodded.
“Yet here you are.”
“I am.”
“What can you share?”
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“Massee shot himself.”
“How could you know?” Dubious.
Reacher laid down his fork, bunched his napkin, and leaned into his chair back.
He said, “I was there.”
Over more plain coffee, Brennan and Reacher agreed on three main points.
A media frenzy would destroy Brennan’s career. Maybe get her charged, perhaps convicted.
Dupreau and Szewczk were under pressure from forces far up the pay scale. She could expect no help from that quarter.
To clear her name, and avoid jail, she needed to find Yeow’s killer on her own.
Reacher repeated his desire to help. Brennan admitted her skill set was better suited to the lab than the streets. Reacher assured her he had that end covered. That her analytical thinking would be their biggest asset.
For the first time that day, Brennan smiled. She liked Reacher. She accepted his offer.
That made four points.
They debated options. Concurred that a logical starting point was Yeow’s editor.
Five points.
She ordered an Uber and they headed for the lobby.
BRENNAN AND REACHER PUSHED THROUGH the glass doors and stepped out under the portico. The air was cold and heavy with moisture off the Potomac. The clouds, though darker and more bloated than earlier, still refused to commit.
A babble of voices and car horns caught their attention.
To their left, portable barriers stretched across the drive sweeping up from Woodley Road. Hotel personnel were checking vehicles before waving them on to the broad paved area used for loading and unloading guests.
Brennan and Reacher glanced right.
Same improv security.
A nanosecond of surprise, then understanding.
Beyond the barriers, a Barnum and Bailey scrum of cameras, mikes, booms, and journalists was expressing its discontent at being denied access to the hotel.
Figuring the sharks were sniffing the blood of some politician caught banging his intern, or a starlet not A-list enough to be at the Ritz, and that their driver hadn’t a chance of reaching them, Brennan and Reacher decided to head downhill on foot.
“That’s her!” As they approached the barrier. “That’s Brennan.”
Word spread through the scrum. Cameras popped onto shoulders. Lights ignited. Booms shot toward their mouths.
“Dr. Brennan. Ted Sanders, CNN.”
“Would you care to make a statement?”
“Did you kill him?”
“Did you go along with the fake suicide? Or did you just blow it?”
“Are you about to be arrested?”
Brennan stopped short, face saying she’d shoot if she had a gun. Reacher took her arm and steered her back up the drive. Though bristling, she let him. Questions hammered their retreat.
“We’ll wait thirty minutes, then go out through the kitchen,” Reacher said when they were in the lobby.
“Bastards,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s all bullshit,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I expected calls from the press, but this—” Arm arcing toward the door. “This is insane.”
“Yeow was a journalist,” Reacher said.
“They have the sensitivity of lice.”
“Lice don’t avenge their own.”
“That must be it,” she agreed.
They were both very wrong.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1345 EST
FOR DECADES THE WASHINGTON POST loomed like a giant gray hive at the corner of Fifteenth and L. Its new address was 1301 K Street. Or One Franklin Square. The paper and the postal service were still hashing that out.
Yeow’s editor was a guy named Albert Thorsten. A directory told them Thorsten’s office was seven floors above the lobby with its zillion-inch screen. Brennan and Reacher ascended in a noiseless elevator and proceeded down a corridor flanking a newsroom the length of the U.S.-Canada border.
Five yards, then they saw Thorsten through an expanse of glass, seated at a desk that matched everything else in the building. The door was open. Brennan and Reacher entered. Both did their habitual scan.
The room wasn’t big, wasn’t small, wasn’t drab, wasn’t bright. Despite the fish tank wall, an overabundance of papers, printouts, files, and books made the unexceptional space feel tight and claustrophobic. A warehouse print hung behind Thorsten’s head—a wooden pier, gulls, and a boat. It blended well with the blah.
Thorsten looked about fifty going on heart failure. Gray hair, saggy eyes, saggy gut. He raised skeptical brows on seeing Brennan. Apparently Luong had mentioned only her paralegal. Or maybe it was Reacher’s size. Or gender.
“The lady of the hour,” Thorsten guessed. Or knew, from press photos. Then the questioning eyes slid to Reacher.
“I’m the paralegal.”
“Sure you are.” Thorsten pointed at the two chairs facing him. They looked like the desk, except they were chairs.