One Shot

motor and put the roof back up. Then he eased off the turnout and headed south. He repassed the Oliver place after twelve minutes, turned west on the county road, and then south again on the four-lane into town.

    Emerson went back to Bellantonio’s cell phone report.
Reacher had called Helen Rodin.
They had business. They had matters to discuss. He would go back to her, sooner or later.
Or she would go to him.
He picked up the phone. Spoke to his dispatcher.
    “Put an unmarked car on Helen Rodin’s office,” he said. “If she leaves the building, have her followed.”

    Reacher drove past the motor court. He stayed low in the seat and glanced sideways. No sign of any activity. No obvious surveillance. He passed the barbershop, and the gun store. Traffic slowed him as he approached the raised highway. Then it slowed him more, to walking speed. His face was feet away from the pedestrians on his right. Feet away from the stalled drivers on his left. Four lanes of traffic, the two inbound lanes moving slow, the two outbound lanes static.
    He wanted to get away from the sidewalk. He put his turn signal on and forced his way into the next lane. The driver behind his shoulder wasn’t happy.
Don’t sweat it,
Reacher thought.
I learned to drive in a deuce-and-a-half. Time was when I would have rolled right over you.
    The left-hand lane was moving a little faster. Reacher crept past cars on his right. Glanced ahead. There was a police cruiser three cars in front. In the right-hand lane. There was a green light in the distance. Traffic in the left-hand lane was approaching it slowly. Traffic in the right-hand lane was approaching it slower still. Each successive car reached the painted line and paused a moment and then jumped the gap. Nobody wanted to block the box. Now Reacher was two cars behind the cop. He hung back. The irritated guy behind him honked. Reacher inched forward. Now he was one car behind the cop.
    The light went yellow.
    The car in front of Reacher sprinted.
    The light went red.
    The cop stopped on the line and Reacher stopped directly alongside him.
    He put his elbow on the console and cupped his head in his hand. Spread his fingers wide and covered as much of his face as he could. Stared straight head, up under the header rail, looking at the light, willing it to change.

    Helen Rodin rode down two floors in the elevator and met Ann Yanni in the NBC reception area. NBC was paying for Franklin’s time, so it was only fair that Yanni should be at the conference. They rode down to the garage together and got into Helen’s Saturn. Came up the ramp and out into the sunshine. Helen glanced right and made a left. Didn’t register the gray Impala that moved off the curb twenty yards behind her.

    The light stayed red an awful long time. Then it went green and the guy behind Reacher honked and the cop turned to look. Reacher took off through his field of vision and didn’t look back. He filtered into a left-turn lane and the cop car swept past on his right. Reacher watched it jam up again ahead. He didn’t want to go through the side-by-side thing again so he stuck with the left turn. Found himself back in the street with Martha’s grocery on it. It was clogged with slow traffic. He shifted on the seat and checked his pants pocket. Sifted through the coins by feel. Found a quarter. Debated with himself, twenty yards, thirty, forty.
    Yes.
    He pulled into Martha’s tiny lot. Left the engine running and slid out of the seat and danced around the hood to the pay phone on the wall. He put his quarter in the slot and took out Emerson’s torn card. Chose the station house number and dialed.
    “Help you?” the desk guy said.
    “Police?” Reacher asked.
    “Go ahead, sir.”
    Reacher kept his voice fast and light, rushed and low. “That guy on the
Wanted
poster? The thing you guys were passing around?”
    “Yes, sir?”
    “He’s right here, right now.”
    “Where?”
    “In my drive-through, the one on the four-lane north of town next to the tire store. He’s inside right now, at the counter, eating.”
    “You sure it’s the guy?”
    “Looks just like the picture.”
    “Does he have a car?”
    “Big red Dodge pickup.”
    “Sir, what’s your name?”
    “Tony Lazzeri,” Reacher said.
Anthony Michael Lazzeri, batted .273 in 118 appearances at second base in 1935. Second-place finish.
Reacher figured he would need to move around the diamond soon. The Yankees hadn’t had enough second basemen,