Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

smiling. But I could see him combing backward and forward through her theory, looking for loose ends. He only found two.
    “What about Hubble?” he asked. “Where did he fit in? They wouldn’t recruit a bank executive just to load trucks, would they?”
    I shook my head.
    “Hubble used to be a currency manager,” I said. “He was there to get rid of the fake money. He was feeding it into the system. He knew where it could be slipped in. Where it was needed. Like his old job, but in reverse.”
    He nodded.
    “What about the air conditioners?” he asked. “Sherman Stoller was hauling them to Florida. That woman told you. We know that’s for real because you saw two old cartons in her garage. And his truck was full of them when the Jacksonville PD searched it. What was that all about?”
    “Legitimate business, I guess,” I said. “Like a decoy. It concealed the illegal part. Like camouflage. It explained the truck movements up and down to Florida. They would have had to run south empty otherwise.”
    Finlay nodded.
    “Smart move, I guess,” he said. “No empty run. Makes sense. Sell a few air conditioners, it makes money both ways, right?”
    He nodded again and let go of Roscoe’s hand.
    “We need samples of the money,” he said.
    I smiled at him. I had suddenly realized something.
    “I’ve got samples,” I said. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my thick roll of hundreds. Pulled one off the back of the roll and one off the front. Gave the two banknotes to Finlay.
    “These are their counterfeits?” he said.
    “Got to be,” I said. “Charlie Hubble gave me a wad of hundreds for expense money. She probably got them from Hubble. Then I took another wad from those guys who were out looking for me Tuesday.”
    “And that means they’re counterfeit?” Finlay said. “Why?”
    “Think about it,” I said. “Kliner needs operating cash, why should he use real money? I bet he paid Hubble in counterfeit money. And I bet he gave those Jacksonville boys counterfeit money for their operating expenses, too.”
    Finlay held the two hundreds right up to the bright light in the window. Roscoe and I crowded him for a look.
    “Are you sure?” Roscoe said. “They look real to me.”
    “They’re fakes,” I said. “Got to be. Stands to reason, right? Hundreds are what fakers like to print. Anything bigger is hard to pass, anything smaller isn’t worth the effort. And why should they spend real bucks when they’ve got truckloads of forgeries available?”
    We took a good look at them. Peered at them, felt them, smelled them, rubbed them between our fingers. Finlay opened up his billfold and pulled out a hundred of his own. We compared the three notes. Passed them back and forth. Couldn’t see any difference at all.
    “If these are fakes, they’re damn good,” Finlay said. “But what you said makes sense. Probably the whole of the Kliner Foundation is funded with fakes. Millions every year.”
    He put his own hundred back in his billfold. Slid the fakes into his pocket.
    “I’m going back to the station house,” he said. “You two come in tomorrow, about noon. Teale will be gone for lunch. We’ll take it from there.”

    ROSCOE AND I DROVE FIFTY MILES SOUTH, TO MACON. I wanted to keep on the move. It’s a basic rule for safety. Keep moving around. We chose an anonymous motel on the southeastern fringe. As far from Margrave as you can get in Macon, with the city sprawl between us and our enemies. Old Mayor Teale had said a motel in Macon would suit me. Tonight, he was right.
    We showered in cold water and fell into bed. Fell into a restless sleep. The room was warm. We tossed around fitfully most of the night. Gave it up and got up again with the dawn. Stood there yawning in the half light. Thursday morning. Felt like we hadn’t slept at all. We groped around and got dressed in the dark. Roscoe put her uniform on. I put my old things on. I figured I’d need to buy some new stuff soon. I’d do it with Kliner’s forgeries.
    “What are we going to do?” Roscoe said.
    I didn’t answer. I was thinking about something else.
    “Reacher?” she said. “What are we going to do about all this?”
    “What did Gray do about it?” I said.
    “He hung himself,” she said.
    I thought some more.
    “Did he?” I asked her.
    There was a silence.
    “Oh God,” Roscoe said. “You think there’s some doubt about that?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “Think about it. Suppose he confronted one