Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

under the cardboard. He wouldn’t say a damn word. He just kept looking around. After a while I realized he was thinking like crazy. Trying to decide what to tell me. He just kept silent, thinking like mad, must have been forty minutes. The tape was running the whole time. Recorded forty minutes of silence.”
    Finlay stopped again. This time for effect. He looked at me.
    “Then he confessed,” he said. “I did it, he said. I shot him, he said. The guy is confessing, right? On the tape.”
    “Go on,” I said.
    “I ask him, do you want a lawyer?” he said. “He says no, keeps repeating he killed the guy. So I Mirandize him, loud and clear, on the tape. Then I think to myself maybe he’s crazy or something, you know? So I ask him, who did you kill? He says the tall guy with the shaved head. I ask him, how? He says, shot him in the head. I ask him, when? He says last night, about midnight. I ask him who kicked the body around? Who was the guy? What does Pluribus mean? He doesn’t answer. Goes rigid with fright all over again. Refuses to say a damn word. I say to him, I’m not sure you did anything at all. He jumps up and grabs me. He’s screaming I confess, I confess, I shot him, I shot him. I shove him back. He goes quiet.”
    Finlay sat back. Folded his hands behind his head. Looked a question at me. Hubble as the shooter? I didn’t believe it. Because of his agitation. Guys who shoot somebody with an old pistol, in a fight or in a temper, a messy shot to the chest, they get agitated afterward. Guys who put two bullets in the head, with a silencer, then collect up the shell cases, they’re a different class of person. They don’t get agitated afterward. They just walk away and forget about it. Hubble was not the shooter. The way he had been dancing around in front of the reception counter proved it. But I just shrugged and smiled.
    “OK,” I said. “You can let me go now, right?”
    Finlay looked at me and shook his head.
    “Wrong,” he said. “I don’t believe him. There were three guys involved here. You persuaded me of that yourself. So which one is Hubble claiming to be? I don’t think he’s the maniac. I can’t see enough strength in him for that. I don’t see him as the gofer. And he’s definitely not the shooter, for God’s sake. Guy like that couldn’t shoot pool.”
    I nodded. Like Finlay’s partner. Worrying away at a problem.
    “Got to throw his ass in the can for now,” he said. “No option. He’s confessed, couple of plausible details. But it definitely won’t hold up.”
    I nodded again. Sensed there was something more to come. “Go on,” I said. With resignation.
    Finlay looked at me. A level gaze.
    “He wasn’t even there at midnight,” he said. “He was at some old couple’s anniversary party. A family thing. Not far from where he lives. Got there around eight last night. He’d walked down with his wife. Didn’t leave until after two o’clock in the morning. Two dozen people saw him arrive, two dozen people saw him leave. He got a ride home from his sister-in-law’s brother-in-law. He got a ride because it was already pouring rain by then.”
    “Go on, Finlay,” I said. “Tell me.”
    “His sister-in-law’s brother-in-law?” he said. “Drove him home, in the rain, two o’clock in the morning? Officer Stevenson.”

5
    FINLAY LEANED RIGHT BACK IN HIS CHAIR. HIS LONG ARMS were folded behind his head. He was a tall, elegant man. Educated in Boston. Civilized. Experienced. And he was sending me to jail for something I hadn’t done. He levered himself upright. Spread his hands on the desk, palms up.
    “I’m sorry, Reacher,” he said to me.
    “You’re sorry?” I said. “You’re sending two guys who couldn’t have done it to jail and you’re sorry?”
    He shrugged. Looked unhappy about it.
    “This is the way Chief Morrison wants it,” he said. “He’s calling it a done deal. Closing us down for the weekend. And he’s the boss man, right?”
    “You got to be joking,” I said. “He’s an asshole. He’s calling Stevenson a liar. His own man.”
    “Not exactly,” Finlay shrugged. “He’s saying it’s maybe a conspiracy, you know, maybe Hubble wasn’t literally there, but he recruited you to do it. A conspiracy, right? He reckons the confession is exaggerated because maybe Hubble’s afraid of you and is scared to finger you right away. Morrison figures you were on your way down to Hubble’s place to get paid when we hauled you in.