The Affair: A Reacher Novel

them away.”
    “So then someone felt he had to withdraw Riley. You’re not going to be popular.”
    “I don’t want to be popular. I want to get the job done. This is the army, not high school.”
    “He’s a senator’s son. He’s making his name. Did you know the Marine Corps employs lobbyists?”
    I said, “I heard that.”
    “This was our version.”
    I looked out my window at the McClatchy place, at its low roof, its mud-stained siding, its mean windows, its spreading tree. I asked, “Why did you come here?”
    “Same reason you chased the yahoos away,” Munro said. “I’m trying to get the job done.”
    “In what way?”
    “I checked out the other two women you mentioned. There were FYI memos in the XO’s files. Then I cross-referenced bits and pieces of information I picked up along the way. It seems like Captain Riley is something of a ladies’ man. Since he got here he’s had a string of girlfriends longer than my dick. It’s likely both Janice Chapman and Shawna Lindsay were on the list. I want to see if Rosemary McClatchy will make it three for three.”
    “That’s why I’m here, too.”
    “Great minds think alike,” Munro said. “Or fools never differ.”
    “Did you bring his picture?”
    He unbuttoned his right breast pocket, just below his name. He pulled out a slim black notebook and opened it and slid a photograph from between its pages. He handed it to me, arm’s length across the transmission tunnel.
    Captain Reed Riley. The first time I had seen his face. The photograph was in color, possibly taken for a passport or some other civilian document that prohibited headgear or other visual obstructions. He looked to be in his late twenties. He was broad but chiseled, somewhere halfway between bulky and slender. He was tan and had very white teeth, some of which were on display behind an easy grin. He had brown hair buzzed short, and wise empty eyes creased at the corners with webs of fine lines. He looked steady, competent, hard, and full of shit. He looked exactly like every infantry captain I had ever seen.
    I handed the picture back, arm’s length across the transmission tunnel.
    I said, “We’ll be lucky to get a definitive ID. I bet all Rangers look the same to old Mrs. McClatchy.”
    “Only one way to find out,” Munro said, and opened his door. I got out on my side and waited while he looped around the stubby hood. He said, “I’ll tell you something else that came up with the cross-referencing. Something you might like to know. Sheriff Deveraux is not a lesbian. She’s a notch on Riley’s bedpost too. Apparently they were dating less than a year ago.”
    And then he walked on ahead of me, to Emmeline McClatchy’s door.
    Emmeline McClatchy opened up after Munro’s second knock. She greeted us with polite reserve. She remembered me from before. She paid close attention as Munro introduced himself, and then she invited us inside, to a small room that had two wooden wheelback chairs either side of a fireplace, and a rag rug on the floor. The ceiling was low and the dimensions were cramped and the air smelledof cooked food. There were three framed photographs on the wall. One was Martin Luther King, and one was President Clinton, and the third was Rosemary McClatchy, from the same series as the picture I had seen in the Sheriff’s Department’s file, but possibly even more spectacular. A friend with a camera, one roll of film, a sunny afternoon, a frame, a hammer, and a nail, and that was all that was left of a life.
    Emmeline and I took the chairs by the fireplace and left Munro standing on the rug. In the tiny room he looked as big as I felt, and just as awkward, and just as clumsy, and just as alien. He took the photograph from his pocket again and held it face down against his chest. He said, “Mrs. McClatchy, we need to ask you about your daughter Rosemary’s friends.”
    Emmeline McClatchy said, “My daughter Rosemary had lots of friends.”
    Munro said, “In particular one young man from the base she might have been seeing.”
    “Seeing?”
    “Stepping out with. Dating, in other words.”
    “Let me see the picture.”
    Munro bent down and handed it over. She held it this way and that in the light from the window. She studied it. She asked, “Is this man suspected of killing the white girl?”
    Munro said, “We’re not sure. We can’t rule him out.”
    “Nobody brought pictures to me when Rosemary was killed. Nobody brought pictures to Mrs.