Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

was a teetotaler, so he would never come out for a beer or anything. He was quiet, messy, a little overweight. No hair and a big straggly beard. A very self-contained, comfortable type of a guy. A loner, really. But he was as close to me as he was ever going to get to anybody. We liked each other, in a quiet sort of a way.”
    “And he never said anything?” I asked her. “Just hanged himself one day?”
    “That’s how it was,” she said. “A total shock. I’ll never understand it.”
    “Why did you have his gun in your desk?” I said.
    “He asked if he could keep it in there,” she said. “He had no space in his own desk. He generated a lot of paper-work. He just asked if I could keep a box for him with the gun hidden in it. It was his private weapon. He said he couldn’t get it approved by the department because the caliber was too big. He made it feel like some kind of a big secret.”
    I put the dead man’s secret gun down on the carpet again and the silence was shattered by the phone ringing. I sprinted for the nightstand and answered it. Heard Finlay’s voice. I gripped the phone and held my breath.
    “Reacher?” Finlay said. “Picard got what we need. He traced the car.”
    I breathed out and nodded to Roscoe.
    “Great, Finlay,” I said. “So what’s the story?”
    “Go to his office,” he said. “He’ll give you the spread, face to face. I didn’t want too much conversation on the phones down here.”
    I closed my eyes for a second and felt a surge of energy.
    “Thanks, Finlay,” I said. “Speak to you later.”
    “OK,” he said. “Take care, right?”
    Then he hung up and left me sitting there holding the phone, smiling.
    “I thought he’d never call,” Roscoe laughed. “But I guess eighteen hours isn’t too bad, even for the Bureau, right?”

    THE ATLANTA FBI WAS HOUSED IN A NEW FEDERAL BUILDING downtown. Roscoe parked at the curb outside. The Bureau reception called upstairs and told us Special Agent Picard would come right down to meet with us. We waited for him in the lobby. It was a big hall, with a brave stab at decoration, but it still had the glum atmosphere government buildings have. Picard came out of an elevator within three minutes. He loped over. He seemed to fill the whole hall. He nodded to me and took Roscoe’s hand.
    “Heard a lot about you from Finlay,” he said to her.
    His bear’s voice rumbled. Roscoe nodded and smiled.
    “The car Finlay found?” he said. “Rental Pontiac. Booked out to Joe Reacher, Atlanta airport, Thursday night at eight.”
    “Great, Picard,” I said. “Any guess about where he was holed up?”
    “Better than a guess, my friend,” Picard said. “They had the exact location. It was a prebooked car. They delivered it right to his hotel.”
    He mentioned a place a mile the other way from the hotel we were using.
    “Thanks, Picard,” I said. “I owe you.”
    “No problem, my friend,” he said. “You take care now, OK?”
    He loped off back to the elevator and we raced back south to the airport. Roscoe swung onto the perimeter road and accelerated into the flow. Across the divider, a black pickup flashed by. Brand-new. I spun around and caught a glimpse of it disappearing behind a raft of trucks. Black. Brand-new. Probably nothing. They sell more pickups down here than anything else.

    ROSCOE PULLED HER BADGE AT THE DESK WHERE PICARD said Joe had checked in on Thursday. The clerk did some keyboard work and told us he had been in 621, sixth floor, far end of the corridor. She said a manager would meet us up there. So we went up in the elevator and walked the length of a dark corridor. Stood waiting outside the door to Joe’s room.
    The manager came by more or less straight away and opened the room up with his passkey. We stepped in. The room was empty. It had been cleaned and tidied. It looked like it was ready for new occupants.
    “What about his stuff?” I said. “Where is it all?”
    “We cleared it out Saturday,” the manager said. “The guy was booked in Thursday night, supposed to vacate by eleven Friday morning. What we do is we give them an extra day, then if they don’t show, we clear them out, down to housekeeping.”
    “So his stuff is in a closet somewhere?” I asked.
    “Downstairs,” the manager said. “You should see the stuff we got down there. People leave things all the time.”
    “So can we go take a look?” I said.
    “Basement,” he said. “Use the stairs from the lobby. You’ll