Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

said to myself. “Can you believe that?”
    I needed to know where Hubble had spent his time for the last year and a half. Charlie might have given me some idea. The time he left home in the morning, the time he got home at night, toll receipts, restaurant bills, things like that. And she might have remembered something about Sunday or something about Pluribus. It was possible she might have come up with something useful. And I needed something useful. I needed it very badly. And she’d switched the damn phone off.
    “Reacher?” Roscoe said. “I got the stuff on Sherman Stoller.”
    She was holding a couple of fax pages. Densely typed.
    “Great,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”
    Finlay got off the phone and stepped over.
    “State guys are calling back,” he said. “They may have something for us.”
    “Great,” I said again. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere.”
    We all went back into the rosewood office. Spread the Sherman Stoller stuff out on the desk and bent over it together. It was an arrest report from the police department in Jacksonville, Florida.
    “Blind Blake was born in Jacksonville,” I said. “Did you know that?”
    “Who’s Blind Blake?” Roscoe asked.
    “Singer,” Finlay said.
    “Guitar player, Finlay,” I said.
    Sherman Stoller had been flagged down by a sector car for exceeding the speed limit on the river bridge between Jacksonville and Jacksonville Beach at a quarter to midnight on a September night, two years ago. He had been driving a small panel truck eleven miles an hour too fast. He had become extremely agitated and abusive toward the sector car crew. This had caused them to arrest him for suspected DUI. He had been printed and photographed at Jacksonville Central and both he and his vehicle had been searched. He had given an Atlanta address and stated his occupation as truck driver.
    The search of his person produced a negative result. His truck was searched by hand and with dogs and produced a negative result. The truck contained nothing but a cargo of twenty new air conditioners boxed for export from Jacksonville Beach. The boxes were sealed and marked with the manufacturer’s logo, and each box was marked with a serial number.
    After being Mirandized, Stoller had made one phone call. Within twenty minutes of the call, a lawyer named Perez from the respected Jacksonville firm of Zacarias Perez was in attendance, and within a further ten minutes Stoller had been released. From being flagged down to walking out with the lawyer, fifty-five minutes had elapsed.
    “Interesting,” Finlay said. “The guy’s three hundred miles from home, it’s midnight, and he gets lawyered up within twenty minutes? With a partner from a respected firm? Stoller was some kind of a truck driver, that’s for sure.”
    “You recognize his address?” I asked Roscoe.
    She shook her head.
    “Not really,” she said. “But I could find it.”
    The door cracked open and Baker stuck his head in again.
    “State police on the line,” he said. “Sounds like they got a car for you.”
    Finlay checked his watch. Decided there was time before Teale got back.
    “OK,” he said. “Punch it through here, Baker.”
    Finlay picked up the phone on the big desk and listened. Scribbled some notes and grunted a thank-you. Hung the phone up and got out of his chair.
    “OK,” he said. “Let’s go take a look.”
    We all three filed out quickly. We needed to be well clear before Teale got back and started asking questions. Baker watched us go. Called out after us.
    “What should I tell Teale?” he said.
    “Tell him we traced the car,” Finlay said. “The one the crazy ex-con used to get down to Morrison’s place. Tell him we’re making some real progress, OK?”

    THIS TIME FINLAY DROVE. HE WAS USING AN UNMARKED Chevy, identical to Roscoe’s issue. He bounced it out of the lot and turned south. Accelerated through the little town. The first few miles I recognized as the route down toward Yellow Springs, but then we swung off onto a track which struck out due east. It led out toward the highway and ended up in a kind of maintenance area, right below the roadway. There were piles of asphalt and tar barrels lying around. And a car. It had been rolled off the highway and it was lying on its roof. And it was burned out.
    “They noticed it Friday morning,” Finlay said. “Wasn’t here Thursday, they’re sure about that. It could have been Joe’s.”
    We looked it over very carefully.