One Shot

violence to protect a case that was already watertight? First question:
Was
the case already watertight? He trawled through the day in his head and heard Alex Rodin say:
It’s as good as it gets. The best I’ve ever seen.
Emerson had said:
It’s the best done deal I ever saw.
The morticianlike Bellantonio had said:
It’s the best crime scene I ever worked. I love it all.
Those guys all had professional self-interest in play, of course. And pride, and expediency. But Reacher himself had seen Bellantonio’s work. And had said:
It’s a cast-iron solid-gold slam dunk. It’s Willie Mays under a fly ball.
    Was it?
    Yes, it was. It was Lou Gehrig with the bases loaded. It was as close to a certainty as human life offers.
    But that wasn’t the fundamental question.
    He rinsed his shirt and wrung it out hard and spread it on the room heater. Turned the heater on high and opened the window. There was no noise outside. Just silence. New York City it wasn’t. It sounded like they rolled up the sidewalks at nine o’clock.
I went to Indiana, but it was closed.
He lay down on the bed. Stretched out. Damp heat came off his shirt and filled the room with the smell of wet cotton.
    What was the fundamental question?
    Helen Rodin’s cassette tape was the fundamental question. James Barr’s voice, low, hoarse, frustrated. His demand:
Get Jack Reacher for me.
    Why would he say that?
    Who was Jack Reacher, in James Barr’s eyes?
    Fundamentally?
    That was the basic question.
    The best crime scene I ever worked.
    The best I’ve ever seen.
    Why did he pay to park?
    Will you keep an open mind?
    Get Jack Reacher for me.
    Jack Reacher stared at his hotel room ceiling. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Then he rolled over one way and pulled the cocktail napkin out of his back pocket. Rolled the other way and dialed the phone. Helen Rodin answered after eight rings. She sounded sleepy. He had woken her up.
    “It’s Reacher,” he said.
    “Are you in trouble?”
    “No, but I’ve got some questions. Is Barr awake yet?”
    “No, but he’s close. Rosemary went back to the hospital. She left me a message.”
    “What was the weather like last Friday at five?”
    “The weather? Friday? It was kind of dull. Cloudy.”
    “Is that normal?”
    “No, not really. It’s usually sunny. Or else raining. This time of year it’s usually one or the other. More likely sunny.”
    “Was it warm or cold?”
    “Not cold. But not
hot.
It was comfortable, I guess.”
    “What did you wear to work?”
    “What is this, a dirty phone call?”
    “Just tell me.”
    “Same as I wore today. Pantsuit.”
    “No coat?”
    “Didn’t need one.”
    “Have you got a car?”
    “A car? Yes, I’ve got a car. But I use the bus for work.”
    “Use your car tomorrow. I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in your office.”
    “What’s this about?”
    “Tomorrow,” he said. “Eight o’clock. Go back to sleep now.”
    He hung up. Rolled off the bed and checked his shirt. It was warm and wet. But it would be dry by morning. He hoped it wouldn’t shrink.

CHAPTER 5
    Reacher woke at six. Took a long cold shower, because the room was hot. But his shirt was dry. It was as stiff as a board, and still the right size. There was no room service. He went out for breakfast. The roads were full of trucks, hauling gravel, hauling fill, mixing concrete, feeding the work zones’ appetites. He dodged them and walked south toward the waterfront. Through the gentrification frontier. He found a workingman’s diner with a basic menu. He drank coffee and ate eggs. He sat at a window and watched the street for aimless doorway lurkers or men in parked cars. Because if he had been followed the night before it was logical to assume he would be followed again. So he kept his eyes open. But he saw nobody.
    Then he walked the length of First Street, north. The sun was up on his right. He used store windows as mirrors and watched his back. Plenty of people were going his way, but none of them was following him. He guessed whoever it was would be waiting for him in the plaza, ready to confirm what he expected to see:
The witness went to the lawyer’s office.
    The fountain was still going. The pool was nearly half full. The tributes were still there, neatly lined up, another day older, a little more faded, a little more wilted. He figured they would be there for a week or so. Until after the last of the funerals. Then they would be removed, discreetly, maybe in the middle of the night,