Page 58 of The Secret

Smith shook her head. “It’s no mistake. My guy triple-checked. It’s Stamoran’s number. There’s no doubt. He even made sure it’s not a different Charles Stamoran.”

“It’s unbelievable.”

“You don’t want to believe it,” Reacher said. “There’s a difference.”

“The Secretary of Defense set up a murder? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Why? Only people with certain job titles can be killers? I catch murderers for a living. Believe me, they come in all different shapes and sizes.”

“You really believe it’s true?”

“I believe it’s plausible. There’s a clear sequence of events. Neilsen called thisJohn Smithguy toshake the tree, as he put it. John Smith tried to call Neilsen back but got his fax by mistake. John Smith next called Stamoran. And Neilsen wound up dead. John Smith passed it up the tree when he hit a dead end and Stamoran took no chances. It actually makes sense for the Secretary of Defense to do that. You don’t get the top job if you can’t make ruthless decisions.”

“You’re—”

Smith’s phone rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, and said, “Why?” Then, “Bullshit. Someone must be able to.” And finally, “OK, then. Thanks for trying.”

Walsh said, “That didn’t sound encouraging.”

“That was my phone records guy,” Smith said. “We can’t get any details about calls to or from the office lines. They’re some kind of special Department of Defense spec. There’s no data, incoming or outgoing.”

“So we only have one lead to go on?”

“We only need one,” Reacher said. “If it’s the right one.”

“The timing works for it,” Smith said. “Neilsen’s movements—and his drunkenness—tie together, no mistake.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Reacher stretched out, took the phone, and began to dial. “Now it’s my turn to shake the tree.”

—

Roberta Sanson foundthe way to the first address that Veronica had taken from the ambulance notice board at the firehouse. She pulled over to the curb and kept the engine running. The street number corresponded to a single green door in the long blank side of a single-story brick building. There was no sign of any activity. Not at that time of day.

“Gambling den?” Roberta said.

Veronica said, “Most likely. I don’t like it. One entrance. No way to see what’s inside. I vote,pass.”

“Agreed.” Roberta pulled smoothly away and drove to the second address on the list. Right away she could see why gunshot wounds were so frequent in that neighborhood. The windows of the house in question were painted black on the insides. There was a heap of plastic bottles by the front door. Empty cat litter sacks. A stack of buckets, all warped and twisted. And even from inside the vehicle they could smell ammonia. The place was a meth lab. That was clear. And the houses on either side must have been, as well, before they burned down.

The Suburban had been sitting for less than a minute when a man appeared from one of the neighboring houses. He approached slowly from the opposite side of the street. He was tall. Gaunt. He was wearing a Mets cap. A generic baseball jacket. Ripped jeans. And sneakers that might once have been white. Veronica opened her door a crack and slipped out. The guy didn’t notice. He only hadeyes for Roberta. He kept coming, all the way up to her window. She wound it down, just a couple of inches.

The guy sneered. “You lost, little girl?”

“Spiritually?” Roberta said. “Geographically?”

“What?”

“I’m not lost. I’m here to do business.”

“What kind of business you think we do around here?”

Roberta nodded toward the house. “I’m thinking, a little cooking?”

“You a cop?”

“I’m the opposite of a cop.”

“Whatever you are, I don’t like you. Time for you to leave.”

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