61 Hours

uniform. They had go-cups of coffee, they were making notes, they were reading bulletins, they were getting ready to head out. There were close to thirty of them. A sixty-strong department, split equally between day and night duty. Some were young, some were old, some were neat, some were a mess. A real mixed bag.
We doubled in size
, Peterson had said.
It was hard to keep standards up
. Reacher saw the proof right there in front of him. It was easy enough to pick out the new hires from the old hands, and easy to see the friction between them. Unit cohesion had been disrupted, and professionalism had been compromised. Us and them. Reacher saw Chief Holland’s problem. He was dealing with two departments in one. And he didn’t have the energy for it. He should have retired. Or the mayor should have canned him, before the ink was dry on the prison deal.
    But new or old, all the cops were punctual. By eight thirty the room was almost completely deserted. Clearly the roadblocks were eating manpower, and presumably snow days broughtfender benders by the dozen. Only two cops stayed behind. Both were in uniform. One had a name badge that said
Kapler
. The other had a name badge that said
Lowell
. Neither one was wearing a belt. No guns, no radios, no cuffs. Both were somewhere in their mid-thirties. Kapler was dark, with the remnant of a fading tan. Lowell was fair and red-faced, like a local boy. Both looked fit and strong and active. Neither looked happy. Kapler went clockwise and Lowell went counterclockwise and they emptied out-trays all around the room and carried the resulting piles of paper away through a blank door further down the corridor.
    Reacher asked, ‘What’s that all about?’
    Peterson said, ‘Normal clerical duties.’
    ‘While you’re hurting for manpower? I don’t think so.’
    ‘So what’s your guess?’
    ‘Disciplinary. They did something wrong and they’ve been grounded. Holland took their guns away.’
    ‘I can’t talk about it.’
    ‘Are they new or old?’
    ‘Lowell has been here a spell. He’s local. An old Bolton family. Kapler’s new, but not too new. He came up from Florida two years ago.’
    ‘Why? For the weather? I thought that worked the other way around.’
    ‘He needed a job.’
    ‘Because? What went wrong for him down there?’
    ‘Why should something have gone wrong?’
    ‘Because with the greatest possible respect, if you’re in Florida law enforcement, South Dakota is the kind of place you go when you run out of alternatives.’
    ‘I don’t know the details. He was hired by Chief Holland and the mayor.’
    ‘So what did Lowell do to deserve him as a partner?’
    ‘Lowell’s an odd duck,’ Peterson said. ‘He’s a loner. He reads books.’
    ‘What did they do to get themselves grounded?’
    ‘I can’t talk about it. And you’ve got work to do. Pick any desk you like.’

    Reacher picked a desk way in the back corner. An old habit. It was a plain laminate thing, and the chair was adjusted for a small person. It was still warm. There was a keyboard and a screen on the desk, and a console telephone. The screen was blank. Switched off. The phone had buttons for six lines and ten speed dials.
    Peterson said, ‘Dial nine for a line.’
    I’m guessing there’s a number you remember, too. Maybe not for a switchboard.
    Reacher dialled. Nine for a line, then a Virginia area code, then seven more digits. A number he remembered.
    He got a recording, which was not what he remembered.
    The recording featured a man’s voice, speaking slowly and ponderously, with undue emphasis on his first three words. His message said, ‘You have reached the Bureau of Labor Statistics. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it at any time. Otherwise, please choose from the following menu.’ Then came a long droning list, press one for this, press two for that, three for the other thing, agriculture, manufacturing, non-food service industries.
    Reacher hung up.
    ‘You know another number?’ Peterson said.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Who were you calling?’
    ‘A special unit. An investigative department. Kind of elite. Like the army’s own FBI, but much smaller.’
    ‘Who did you get instead?’
    ‘Some government office. Something about labour statistics.’
    ‘I guess things change.’
    ‘I guess they do,’ Reacher said.
    Then he said, ‘Or maybe they don’t. At least, not fundamentally.’
    He dialled again. The same number. He got the same recording.
If you