One Shot

case?”
    “I knew James Barr in the army.”
    “That must have been some time ago.”
    “A long time ago,” Reacher said.
    “May I have your name?”
    “Jack Reacher.”
    The receptionist dialed a phone and spoke. Reacher guessed she was speaking to a secretary, because both he and Rodin were referred to in the third person, like abstractions.
Can he see a Mr. Reacher about the case?
Not the Barr case. Just
the
case. The conversation continued. Then the receptionist covered the phone by clamping it to her chest, below her collarbone, above her left breast.
    “Do you have information?” she asked.
    The secretary upstairs can hear your heart beating,
Reacher thought.
    “Yes,” he said. “Information.”
    “From the army?” she asked.
    Reacher nodded. The receptionist put the phone back to her face and continued the conversation. It was a long one. Mr. A. A. Rodin had an efficient pair of gatekeepers. That was clear. No way of getting past them without some kind of an urgent and legitimate reason. That was clear, too. Reacher checked his watch. Nine-forty in the morning. But there was no rush, under the circumstances. Barr was in a coma. Tomorrow would do it. Or the next day. Or maybe he could get to Rodin through the cop, if need be. What was his name? Emerson?
    The receptionist hung up the phone.
    “Please go straight up,” she said. “Mr. Rodin is on the third floor.”
    I’m honored,
Reacher thought. The receptionist wrote his name on a visitor pass and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. He clipped it on his shirt and headed for the elevator. Rode it to the third floor. The third floor had low ceilings and internal corridors lit by fluorescent tubes. There were three doors made of painted fiberboard that were closed and one set of double doors made of polished wood that were open. Behind those was a secretary at a desk. The second gatekeeper. She was younger than the downstairs lady but presumably more senior.
    “Mr. Reacher?” she asked.
    He nodded and she came out from behind her desk and led him to where the windowed offices started. The third door they came to was labeled
A. A. Rodin.
    “What’s the
A. A.
for?” Reacher asked.
    “I’m sure Mr. Rodin will tell you if he wants to,” the secretary said.
    She knocked on the door and Reacher heard a baritone reply from inside. Then she opened the door and stood aside for Reacher to go in past her.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “You’re most welcome,” she said.
    Reacher went in. Rodin was already on his feet behind his desk, ready to welcome his visitor, full of reflexive courtesy. Reacher recognized him from the TV. He was a guy of about fifty, fairly lean, fairly fit, gray hair cut short. In person he looked smaller. He was maybe an inch under six feet and a pound under two hundred. He was dressed in a summer-weight suit, dark blue. He had a blue shirt on, and a blue tie. His eyes were blue. Blue was his color, no doubt about it. He was immaculately shaved and wearing cologne. He was a very squared-away guy, no question.
As opposed to me,
Reacher thought. It was like a study in contrasts. Next to Rodin, Reacher was an unkempt giant. He was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. His hair was two inches longer and his clothes were a thousand dollars cheaper.
    “Mr. Reacher?” Rodin said.
    Reacher nodded. The office was government-basic, but neat. It was cool and quiet. No real view from the window. Just the flat roofs of the off-brand stores and the DMV office, with all the ductwork showing. The black glass tower was visible in the distance. There was a weak sun in the sky. At a right angle to the window there was a trophy wall behind the desk, with college degree certificates and photographs of Rodin with politicians. There were framed newspaper headlines reporting guilty verdicts in seven different cases. On another wall was a photograph of a blonde girl wearing a mortarboard and a gown and holding a degree scroll. She was pretty. Reacher looked at her for a moment longer than he needed to.
    “That’s my daughter,” Rodin said. “She’s a lawyer, too.”
    “Is she?” Reacher said.
    “She just opened her own office here in town.”
    There was nothing in his tone. Reacher wasn’t sure whether he was proud, or disapproving.
    “You’re due to meet with her, I think,” Rodin said.
    “Am I?” Reacher said. “Why?”
    “She’s defending James Barr.”
    “Your daughter? Is that ethical?”
    “There’s no law against it. It