The Hard Way

thought.
So that’s what it looks like.
Lane dropped the bag on the floor at the entrance to the foyer. It thumped down on the hardwood and settled like the carcass of a small fat animal.
    “I need to see a picture of Jade,” Reacher said.
    “Why?” Lane asked.
    “Because you want me to pretend I’m a cop. And pictures are the first things cops want to see.”
    “Bedroom,” Lane said.
    So Reacher fell in behind him and followed him to a bedroom. It was another tall square space, painted a chalky off-white, as serene as a monastery and as quiet as a tomb. There was a cherrywood king-sized bed with pencil posts at the corners. Matching tables at each side. A matching armoire that might have held a television set. A matching desk, with a chair standing in front of it and a framed photograph sitting on it. The photograph was a ten-by-eight, rectangular, set horizontal, not vertical, on the axis that photographers call landscape, not portrait. But it was a portrait. That was for sure. It was a portrait of two people. On the right was Kate Lane. It was the same shot as in the living room print. The same pose, the same eyes, the same developing smile. But the living room print had been cropped to exclude the object of her affection, which was her daughter Jade. Jade was on the left of the bedroom picture. Her pose was a mirror-image of her mother’s. They were about to look at each other, love in their eyes, smiles about to break out on their faces like they were sharing a private joke. In the picture Jade was maybe seven years old. She had long dark hair, slightly wavy, as fine as silk. She had green eyes and porcelain skin. She was a beautiful kid. It was a beautiful photograph.
    “May I?” Reacher asked.
    Lane nodded. Said nothing. Reacher picked the picture up and looked closer. The photographer had caught the bond between mother and child perfectly and completely. Quite apart from the similarity in appearance there was no doubt about their relationship. No doubt at all. They were mother and daughter. But they were also friends. They looked like they shared a lot. It was a great picture.
    “Who took this?” Reacher asked.
    “I found a guy downtown,” Lane said. “Quite famous. Very expensive.”
    Reacher nodded. Whoever the guy was, he was worth his fee. Although the print quality wasn’t quite as good as the living room copy. The colors were a little less subtle and the contours of the faces were a little plastic. Maybe it was a machine print. Maybe Lane’s budget hadn’t run to a custom hand-print where his stepdaughter was concerned.
    “Very nice,” Reacher said. He put the photograph back on the desk, quietly. The room was totally silent. Reacher had once read that the Dakota was the most soundproof building in New York City. It had been built at the same time that Central Park was landscaped. The builder had packed three feet of excavated Central Park clay and mud between the floors and the ceilings. The walls were thick, too. All that mass made the building feel like it was carved from solid rock.
Which must have been a good thing,
Reacher figured,
back when John Lennon lived here.
    “OK?” Lane said. “Seen enough?”
    “You mind if I check the desk?”
    “Why?”
    “It’s Kate’s, right?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “So it’s what the cops would do.”
    Lane shrugged and Reacher started with the bottom drawers. The left-hand drawer held boxes of stationery and notepaper and cards engraved simply with the name
Kate Lane.
The right-hand drawer was fitted with file hangers and the contents related exclusively to Jade’s education. She was enrolled at a private school nine blocks north of the apartment. It was an expensive school, judging by the bills and the canceled checks. The checks were all drawn on Kate Lane’s personal account. The upper drawers held pens and pencils, envelopes, stamps, self-stick return address labels, a checkbook. And credit card receipts. But nothing very significant. Nothing recent. Nothing from Staples, for instance.
    The center drawer at the top held nothing but two American passports, one for Kate and one for Jade.
    “Who is Jade’s father?” Reacher asked.
    “Does it matter?”
    “It might. If this was a straightforward abduction, we’d definitely have to look at him. Estranged parents are who usually snatch kids.”
    “But this is a kidnap for ransom. And it’s Kate they’re talking about. Jade was just there by chance.”
    “Abductions can be