Bad Luck and Trouble

here,” Dixon said. “Not LA.”
    “He probably made a connection. He’s probably in LA right now.”
    “Why not fly direct?”
    “Why carry four false passports? He’s cautious, whoever he is. He lays false trails.”
    “We were attacked here,” Dixon said. “Not in LA. Makes no sense.”
    “It was a collective decision to come here,” O’Donnell said. “Nobody argued.”
    Reacher heard a siren on the Strip. Not the bass bark of a fire truck, not the frantic yelp of an ambulance. A cop car, moving fast. He glanced up, toward the construction zone a half-mile away. He stood up and moved right and shaded his eyes and watched the short length of the Strip he could see. One cop was nothing, he thought. If some construction foreman had finally showed up for work and found something, there would be a whole convoy.
    He waited.
    Nothing happened. No more sirens. No more cops. No convoy. Just a routine traffic stop, maybe. He took one step more, to widen his view, to be certain. Saw a wink of red and blue beyond the corner of a grocery store. A car, parked in the sun. A red plastic lens over the tail light. Dark blue paint on a fender.
    A car.
    Dark blue paint.
    He said, “I know where I saw that guy before.”

52
    They stood around the Chrysler at a cautious and respectful distance, like it was a roped-off exhibit in a modern art museum. A 300C, dark blue, California plates. It was parked tight to the curb, locked up, still and cold, a little travel-stained. Neagley took out the keys that Reacher had found in the dying guy’s pocket and held them at arm’s length like the guy had held the gun, and pressed the remote button once.
    The blue Chrysler’s lights flashed and its doors unlocked with a ragged thunk.
    “It was behind the Chateau Marmont,” Reacher said. “Just waiting. That same guy was in it. His suit matched the sheet metal exactly. I took it for a car service with a gimmick.”
    “The others told them we would come,” O’Donnell said. “At first as a threat, I suppose. And then later as a consolation. So they sent the guy to take us out. He spotted us on the sidewalk, I guess, just after he hit town. We were right there in front of him. He got lucky.”
    “Real lucky,” Reacher said. “May all our enemies have the same kind of extreme good fortune.”
    He opened the driver’s door. The car smelled of new leather and plastic. The interior was unmarked. There were maps in the door pocket, crisp and folded. That was all. Nothing else on show. He slid in and stretched a long arm over to the glove-box lid. Opened it up. Came out with a wallet and a cell phone. That was all that was in there. No registration, no insurance. No instruction manuals. Just a wallet and a phone. The wallet was a slim thing designed to be carried in a trouser pocket. It was a stiff rectangle made of black leather with a money clip built in on one side and a credit card pocket built in on the other. There was a wad of folded cash in the clip. More than seven hundred dollars, mostly fifties and twenties. Reacher took it all. Just pulled it out of the clip and stuffed it in his own pants pocket.
    “That’s two more weeks before I need to find a job,” he said. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”
    He turned the wallet over. The credit card section was jammed. There was a current California driver’s license and four credit cards. Two Visas, an Amex, and a MasterCard. Expiration dates all far in the future. The license and all four cards were made out to a guy by the name of Saropian. The address on the license had a five-digit house number and a Los Angeles street name and a zip that meant nothing to Reacher.
    He dropped the wallet on the passenger seat.
    The cell phone was a small silver folding item with a round LCD window on the front. It was getting great reception but its battery was low. Reacher opened it up and a larger window lit up in color. There were five voice messages waiting.
    He handed the phone to Neagley.
    “Can you retrieve those messages?” he asked.
    “Not without his code number.”
    “Look at the call log.”
    Neagley scrolled through menus and selected options.
    “All the calls in and out are to and from the same number,” she said. “A 310 area code. Which is Los Angeles.”
    “Landline or cell?”
    “Could be either.”
    “A grunt calling his boss?”
    Neagley nodded. “And vice versa. A boss issuing orders to a grunt.”
    “Could your guy in Chicago get a name and address