Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

off.
    “You better come in,” she said. “He’s in the kitchen. Eating, I’m afraid.”
    “Who is?” said Roscoe.
    The old lady stopped and looked at her. Puzzled.
    “Sherman,” she said. “That’s who you want, isn’t it?”
    We followed her into the kitchen. There was an old guy eating supper at the table. When he saw us, he stopped and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.
    “Police officers, Sherman,” the old lady said.
    The old guy looked up at us blankly.
    “Is there another Sherman Stoller?” I asked him.
    The old guy nodded. Looked worried.
    “Our son,” he said.
    “About thirty?” I asked him. “Thirty-five?”
    The old guy nodded again. The old lady moved behind him and put her hand on his arm. Parents.
    “He don’t live here,” the old man said.
    “Is he in trouble?” the old lady asked.
    “Could you give us his address?” Roscoe said.
    They fussed around like old people do. Very deferential to authority. Very respectful. Wanted to ask us a lot of questions, but just gave us the address.
    “He hasn’t lived here for two years,” the old man said.
    He was afraid. He was trying to distance himself from the trouble his son was in. We nodded to them and backed out. As we were shutting their front door, the old man called out after us.
    “He moved out there two years ago,” he said.
    We trooped out through the gate and got back in the car. Looked on the street map again. The new address wasn’t on it.
    “What did you make of those two?” Roscoe asked me.
    “The parents?” I said. “They know their boy was up to no good. They know he was doing something bad. Probably don’t know exactly what it was.”
    “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Let’s go find this new place.”
    We drove off. Roscoe got gas and directions at the first place we saw.
    “About five miles the other way,” she said. Pulled the car around and headed away from the city. “New condominiums on a golf course.”
    She was peering into the gloom, looking for the landmarks the gas station attendant had given her. After five miles she swung off the main drag. Nosed along a new road and pulled up by a developer’s sign. It advertised condominiums, top quality, built right on the fairway. It boasted that only a few remained unsold. Beyond the billboard were rows of new buildings. Very pleasant, not huge, but nicely done. Balconies, garages, good details. Ambitious landscaping loomed up in the dark. Lighted pathways led over to a health club. On the other side was nothing. Must have been the golf course.
    Roscoe killed the motor. We sat in the car. I stretched my arm along the back of her seat. Cupped her shoulder. I was tired. I’d been busy all day. I wanted to sit like this for a while. It was a quiet, dull night. Warm in the car. I wanted music. Something with an ache to it. But we had things to do. We had to find Judy. The woman who had bought Sherman Stoller’s watch and had it engraved. To Sherman, love Judy. We had to find Judy and tell her the man she’d loved had bled to death under a highway.
    “What do you make of this?” Roscoe said. She was bright and awake.
    “Don’t know,” I said. “They’re for sale, not rental. They look expensive. Could a truck driver afford this?”
    “Doubt it,” she said. “These probably cost as much as my place, and I couldn’t make my payments without the subsidy I get. And I make more than any truck driver, that’s for sure.”
    “OK,” I said. “So our guess is old Sherman was getting some kind of a subsidy, too, right? Otherwise he couldn’t afford to live here.”
    “Sure,” she said. “But what kind of a subsidy?”
    “The kind that gets people killed,” I said.

    STOLLER’S BUILDING WAS WAY IN BACK. PROBABLY THE first phase to have been built. The old man in the poor part of town had said his son had moved out two years ago. That could be about right. This first block could be about two years old. We threaded through walkways and around raised-up flower beds. Walked up a path to Sherman Stoller’s door. The path was stepping stones set in the wiry lawn. Forced an unnatural gait on you. I had to step short. Roscoe had to stretch her stride from one flagstone to the next. We reached the door. It was blue. No shine on it. Old-fashioned paint.
    “Are we going to tell her?” I said.
    “We can’t not tell her, can we?” Roscoe said. “She’s got to know.”
    I knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked again. I heard the floor