Bad Luck and Trouble

new.”
    “We have to find them. They must have a physical plant somewhere. At least an office, so Uncle Sam can send them checks.”
    “OK, we’ll add that to the list. After the visit to Mrs. Franz.”
    “No, before,” Reacher said. “Offices close. Widows are always around.”
    So Neagley called her guy in Chicago and told him to track down a physical address for New Age Defense Systems. From the half of the conversation Reacher could hear it seemed like the best way to proceed was to hack into FedEx’s computer. Or UPS’s, or DHL’s. Everyone received packages, and couriers needed street addresses. They couldn’t use post office boxes. They had to hand stuff across the transom to actual people and get signatures in return.
    “Get cell phone numbers, too,” Reacher called. “For the others.”
    Neagley covered the phone. “He’s been on that for three days. It isn’t easy.” Then she hung up and walked to the window. Looked out and down at the people parking cars.
    “So now we wait,” she said.
    They waited less than twenty minutes and then one of Neagley’s laptops pinged to announce an e-mail incoming from Chicago.

10
    The e-mail from Neagley’s guy in Chicago contained New Age’s address, courtesy of UPS. Or actually, two addresses. One in Colorado, one in East LA.
    “Makes sense,” she said. “Distributed manufacture. Safer that way. In case of attack.”
    “Bullshit,” Reacher said. “It’s about two lots of senators. Two lots of pork. Republicans up there, Democrats down here, they get their snouts in the trough both ways around.”
    “Swan wouldn’t have gone there if that was all they were into.”
    Reacher nodded. “Maybe not.”
    Neagley opened a map and they checked the East LA address. It was out past Echo Park, past Dodger Stadium, somewhere in the no man’s land between South Pasadena and East LA proper.
    “That’s a long way,” Neagley said. “It could take forever. Rush hour has started.”
    “Already?”
    “Rush hour in LA started thirty years ago. It’ll finish when the oil runs out. Or the oxygen. But whatever, we won’t make it over there before they close. So it might be better to save New Age for tomorrow and go see Mrs. Franz today.”
    “Like you said in the first place. You’re playing me like a violin.”
    “She’s closer, is all. And important.”
    “Where is she?”
    “Santa Monica.”
    “Franz lived in Santa Monica?”
    “Not on the ocean. But still, I bet it’s nice.”

    It was nice. Way nicer than it could have been. It was a small bungalow on a small street trapped halfway between the 10 and the Santa Monica airport, about two miles inland. On the face of it, not a prime real estate location. But it was a beautifully presented house. Neagley drove past it twice, looking for a place to park. It was a tiny symmetrical structure. Two bay windows with the front door between them. An overhanging roof with a front porch below. Twin rocking chairs on the porch. Some stone, some Tudor beams, some Arts and Crafts influences, some Frank Lloyd Wright, Spanish tiles. A real confusion of styles in one very small building, but it worked. It had a lot of charm. And it was totally immaculate. The paint was perfect. It gleamed. The windows were clean. They shone. The yard was tidy. Green lawn, clipped. Bright flowers, no weeds. Short blacktop driveway, smooth as glass and swept clean. Calvin Franz had been a thorough and meticulous man, and Reacher felt he could see an expression of his old friend’s whole personality displayed right there in a little piece of real estate.
    Eventually a pretty lady two streets away pulled her Toyota Camry out of a curbside spot and Neagley swerved the Mustang right in after her. She locked it up and they walked back together. It was late afternoon but still faintly warm. Reacher could smell the ocean.
    He asked, “How many widows have we been to see?”
    “Too many,” Neagley said.
    “Where do you live?”
    “Lake Forest, Illinois.”
    “I’ve heard of that. It’s supposed to be a nice place.”
    “It is.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “I worked hard for it.”
    They turned together into Franz’s street, and then into his driveway. They slowed a little on the short walk to the door. Reacher wasn’t sure what they were going to find. In the past he had dealt with widows a lot fresher than one of seventeen days’ vintage. Very often they hadn’t even known they were widows until he had shown up and told