The Affair: A Reacher Novel

write it down.
    He said, “Call me back in ten minutes. Don’t speak to a soul before that. No one, OK? Not a word.”
    I ignored the letter of the law by speaking to the waitress. I thanked her for my pie and coffee. She hung around a beat longer than she needed to. She had something on her mind. Turned out she was worried she might have gotten me in trouble by telling a stranger she had seen me. She was prepared to feel guilty about it. I got the impression Carter Crossing was the kind of place where private business stayed private. Where a small slice of the population didn’t want to be found.
    I told her not to worry. By that point I was pretty sure who the mystery woman was. A process of elimination. Who else had the information and the imagination to find me?
    The pie was good. Blueberries, pastry, sugar, and cream. Nothing healthy. No vegetable matter. It hit the spot. I took the full ten minutesto eat it, a little at a time. I finished my coffee. Then I walked over to the phone again and called Garber back.
    He said, “We traced the car.”
    I said, “And?”
    “And what?”
    “Whose is it?”
    He said, “I can’t tell you that.”
    “Really?”
    “Classified information, as of five minutes ago.”
    “Bravo Company, right?”
    “I can’t tell you that. I can’t confirm or deny. Did you write the number down?”
    “No.”
    “Where’s the plate?”
    “Where I found it.”
    “Who have you told?”
    “Nobody.”
    “You sure?”
    “Completely.”
    “OK,” Garber said. “Here are your orders. Firstly, do not, repeat, do
not
give that number to local law enforcement. Not under any circumstances. Secondly, return to the wreck and destroy that plate immediately.”

Chapter
22
    I obeyed the first part of Garber’s order, by not immediately rushing around to the Sheriff’s Department and passing on the news. I disobeyed the second part, by not immediately rushing back to the debris field. I just sat in the diner and drank coffee and thought. I wasn’t even sure how to destroy a license plate. Burning it would conceal the state of origin, but not the number itself, which was embossed. In the end I figured I could fold it twice and stamp it flat and bury it.
    But I didn’t go do that. I just sat there. I figured if I sat in a diner long enough, drinking coffee, my mystery woman would surely find me.
    Which she did, five minutes later.
    I saw her before she saw me. I was looking out at a bright street, and she was looking in at a dim room. She was on foot. She was wearing black pants and black leather shoes, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket the color and texture of an old baseball glove. She was carrying a briefcase made of the same kind of material. She was lean and lithe and limber, and she seemed to be moving slower than the rest of the world, like fit strong people always do. Her hair was still dark, still cut short, and her face was still full of fast intelligence andrapid glances. Frances Neagley, First Sergeant, United States Army. We had worked together many times, tough cases and easy, long hauls and short. She was as close to a friend as I had, back in 1997, and I hadn’t seen her in more than a year.
    She came in scanning for the waitress, ready to ask for an update. She saw me at my table and changed course immediately. No surprise in her face. Just fast assimilation of new information, and satisfaction that her method had worked. She knew the state and she knew the town, and she knew I drank a lot of coffee, and therefore a diner was where she would find me.
    I used my toe and poked the facing chair out, like Deveraux had twice done for me. Neagley sat down, smooth and easy. She put her briefcase on the floor by her feet. No greeting, no salute, no handshake, no peck on the cheek. There were two things people needed to understand about Neagley. Despite her personal warmth she couldn’t bear to be physically touched, and despite her considerable talents she refused to become an officer. She had never given reasons for either thing. Some folks thought she was smart, and some folks thought she was crazy, but all agreed that with Neagley, no one would ever know for sure.
    “Ghost town,” she said.
    “The base is closed,” I said.
    “I know. I’m up to speed. Closing the base was their first mistake. It’s as good as a confession.”
    “Story is, they were worried about tension with the town.”
    Neagley nodded. “Wouldn’t take much to start some, either way around.