‘Yet here you are at his house.’
‘The woman I’m looking for was here, at least for a few months. I’m trying to figure out where she went next.’
‘Porterfield lived alone.’
‘Not always.’
Connelly said, ‘Have you been inside the house?’
‘Yes,’ Reacher said.
‘How?’
‘There was a previous break-in here, a year or more ago. We went in the same hole.’
‘What break-in?’
‘You searched this place when he died. You found what you found, and you locked up and drove away. Then someone else came by and went in the window.’
‘Show me,’ Connelly said.
They got out of their cars and trooped back to the far corner of the house. Connelly took a good long look. He unfolded the torn-out insect screen and held it in place, as if recreating the original scene. He rubbed the mildew between finger and thumb, and sniffed it.
He said, ‘Could be a year and a half.’
Then he said, ‘How are things inside?’
Reacher said, ‘No mess, no damage, nothing pulled out or overturned. This wasn’t a burglary, or squatters.’
Connelly said, ‘Why do you think there was a woman living up here?’
They moved to the porch rail, facing the rear view, all lined up, looking straight ahead at trees and mountains. Bramall talked through the boots, and the comb, and the soap, and the towels, and the small pink socks.
Connelly said, ‘The boots don’t mean much, or the comb or the socks. They could be historic. Twenty years ago there could have been nieces and cousins here every summer and winter. That kind of stuff stays lost a long time.’
‘But?’ Reacher said.
‘I’m prepared to admit when I make a mistake. I like the soap and the towels. Two sinks in use always means a couple, and if one soap is smelly, it’s a man and a woman. And soap and towels is real-time evidence. That’s exactly how the room looked the morning Porterfield died. I guess I missed it. But no one came forward at the time. No one ever has. All the evidence said Porterfield was a loner and no one else had barely even met him. So where was the woman then, and where is she now?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out.’
‘If it’s the same woman.’
‘Nothing says it isn’t.’
Connelly said, ‘The ring you showed me was pretty small.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Reacher said.
‘Are you judging this thing by the size of the socks? Because maybe they shrunk.’
‘The boots didn’t. They’re small, too.’
‘Where did she serve?’
‘Iraq and Afghanistan, five times.’
‘A tough character.’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘If it’s the same woman.’
‘It might be.’
‘Would such a woman come home and use smelly soap and wear pink socks?’
‘I’m sure she would do exactly that. Stuff like that is the whole point of coming home.’
Connelly turned around and looked back at the house.
At the broken window.
Reacher said, ‘I know.’
‘You know what?’
‘We can’t figure out who would have done that either. It’s good clean professional work. A neat break-in, and nothing disturbed inside. Feels like training and experience were involved. Feels like government work. Except that’s ridiculous.’
Connelly said, ‘Mostly because what would the government want with Porterfield? Whatever he was, he was small-time. And a government agency would have called me first. As a courtesy, at least, and for practical assistance too. Which I could have given them in this case. I had the keys.’
‘Then regular petty criminals are getting neater these days.’
‘That hasn’t been my experience.’
‘Then who was it?’
‘Fancy criminals, maybe. The kind who can afford the best.’
‘What would they want with small-time Porterfield?’
Connelly didn’t answer.
Bramall said, ‘We apologize for trespassing. We intended no disrespect to the laws of the county.’
Connelly said, ‘I can’t help you with the woman. There’s no evidence of a crime. I can’t take soap and towels to a county board budget hearing. I’m sorry. I have no manpower.’
‘Who could help us?’ Bramall said. ‘Neighbours?’
‘They might. I’m their sheriff, but I don’t know any of them. In fact this is only the second time I’ve ever been out here. It’s a quiet corner. The squeaky wheels get all my attention.’
‘We should get going,’ Bramall said. ‘Sheriff, thank you for your time.’
At that moment three hundred miles away in Rapid City, South Dakota, Gloria Nakamura was sitting in her blue car, on the cross street, artfully positioned, this time watching Scorpio’s back door, not his front. She had been there close to two hours, and she had seen nothing of interest.
Until.
A Harley with a Montana plate pulled into the alley. The sound beat back off the walls. Then it shut down. The rider got off, and the back door opened, and the rider went in.
Nakamura made a note.
Four minutes on her watch later, the rider came out again. He got on his bike, and started the noise again, and rode away.
Nakamura made a note.
Then she drove back to the station.
Bramall and Reacher drove the ranch track back to the dirt road, and turned west, which was where they thought they would find the bulk of the local neighbourhood population, such as it was. Bramall watched the left-hand shoulder, and Reacher watched the right. They agreed they would take the first track they saw, whichever side of the road it was on, because by definition whatever dwelling lay at the end of it was Sy Porterfield’s nearest next-door neighbour.
The first track came eleven miles later. On the left. They nearly missed it. It was a plain and inconspicuous entry. After which it twisted and rose through the trees, steep and tight in places, but better maintained than Porterfield’s. The Land Cruiser rolled on, implacably, more than three miles, and then all of a sudden the trees opened up and gave out on a flat acre with a long view east. There was a one-storey house up on a stone foundation. It was made of brown boards, in places twisted and silvery. It had a front porch, with ancient millwork holding up the rail. On the porch was an old church pew, pressed into service as a place to sit and take the air in the morning sun.
Bramall parked a respectful distance from the house.
He checked his phone.
‘Two bars,’ he said. ‘Coverage is actually pretty good here. She could have called from anywhere.’
They made to get out of the car, but before they could the house door opened and a woman stepped out. She must have heard their tyres. She looked lean and strong and tanned by wind and sun. She was wearing a faded red dress, over bare legs and cowboy boots. She was maybe forty, but it was hard to tell. Reacher would not have ventured an opinion. If forced, he would have said thirty, just to be safe, and wouldn’t have been surprised if the truth was fifty. She stood there, hands on hips, just watching. Not hostile. Not yet.