One Shot

up with a square arrangement, sofa, dining chairs, armchairs off to the sides.
    His clothes were nearly dry. Just a little dampness where the seams were thick. He ran his fingers through his hair. Patted it down. Checked his watch. Nearly four in the morning.
Least resistance. A biorhythm thing.
    “Now we wait,” he said.

    They waited less than thirty minutes. Then they heard cars on the road far away in the distance. Tires on the blacktop, engine noise, exhaust pipes. The sounds grew louder. The cars slowed. They crunched onto the limestone driveway. There were four of them. Reacher went downstairs and opened the door. Saw Franklin’s black Suburban. Saw Emerson sliding out of a gray Crown Vic. Saw a compact woman with short dark hair getting out of a blue Ford Taurus. Donna Bianca, he assumed. He saw Alex Rodin climbing out of a silver BMW. Rodin locked it with his remote. He was the only one who did.
    Reacher stood aside and let them gather in the hallway. Then he led them upstairs. He put Alex Rodin and Donna Bianca and Emerson in the dining chairs, left to right. He put Franklin in an armchair next to Yanni. Rosemary Barr and Helen Rodin were in armchairs on the other side of the room. Helen was looking at her father. He was looking at her. Cash was on the windowsill. Reacher stepped away and leaned up in the doorway.
    “Start talking,” Reacher said.
    The Zec stayed silent.
    “I can send these guys away again,” Reacher said. “Just as easily as I brought them here. Then I’ll start counting again. At the seventeenth.”
    The Zec sighed. Started talking. Slowly at first, and then faster. He told a long story. So much length and so much complexity that it got confusing. He spilled details of earlier unconnected crimes. Then he got to the bidding process for the city contracts. He named the official he had suborned. It wasn’t just about money. There had been girls too, supplied in small groups in a Caribbean villa. Some of them very young. He talked about Ted Archer’s fury, his two-year search, his close approach to the truth. He described the ambush, one Monday morning. Jeb Oliver had been used. The red Dodge Ram had been his payoff. Then the Zec paused, decided, moved on. He described the fast decision to get rid of Oline Archer two months later, when she became dangerous. He described Chenko’s subterfuge, the hasty but thorough planning, how they lured James Barr out of the way with a promise of a date with Sandy Dupree. He described the end of Jeb Oliver’s usefulness. He told them where to find his body. He told them about Vladimir killing Sandy in an effort to stop Reacher in his tracks. Altogether he talked for thirty-two minutes, hands tied behind him, then he stopped suddenly and Reacher saw calculation in his eyes. He was already thinking about the next move. The next roll of the dice.
A mistrial. A jailbreak. A ten-year appeals process.
    The room went quiet.
    Donna Bianca said, “Unbelievable.”
    Reacher said, “Keep talking.”
    The Zec just looked at him.
    “Something you left out,” Reacher said. “You need to tell us about your inside man. That’s what we’re all waiting for.”
    The Zec switched his gaze. He looked at Emerson. Then at Donna Bianca. Then at Alex Rodin. Right to left, along the line. Then he glanced back at Reacher.
    “You’re a survivor,” Reacher said. “But you’re not an idiot. There won’t be a mistrial. There won’t be a jailbreak. You’re eighty years old and you won’t survive a ten-year appeals process. You know all that. But still you agreed to talk. Why?”
    The Zec said nothing.
    “Because you knew sooner or later you’d be talking to a friend. Someone you own. Someone you bought and paid for. Am I right?”
    The Zec didn’t move.
    “Someone right here, right now, in fact,” Reacher said.
    The Zec said nothing.
    “One thing always bothered me,” Reacher said. “From the start. At first I didn’t know if I was right or if I was letting my ego get in the way. I went back and forth with it. Finally I decided I was right. The thing is, when I was in the service I was a hell of a good investigator. I was maybe the best they ever had. I would have put myself up against anyone. And you know what?”
    “What?” Helen Rodin asked.
    “I would never have thought of emptying that parking meter. Not in a million years. It would never have occurred to me to do that. So I was facing a question. Was Emerson a better investigator than me? Or