The Hard Way

photograph of a pretty woman.
    “This is the witness,” Gregory said.
    No reply.
    “He saw the driver,” Gregory said.
    The man at the table glanced down at the phone and then moved away from it, toward Reacher, looking him up and down, assessing, evaluating. He stopped a yard away and offered his hand.
    “Edward Lane,” he said. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.” His accent was American, originally from some hardscrabble place far from the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Arkansas, maybe, or rural Tennessee, but in either case overlaid by long exposure to the neutral tones of the military. Reacher said his own name and shook Lane’s hand. It was dry, not warm, not cold.
    “Tell me what you saw,” Lane said.
    “I saw a guy get in a car,” Reacher said. “He drove it away.”
    “I need detail,” Lane said.
    “Reacher is ex–U.S. Army CID,” Gregory said. “He described the Benz to perfection.”
    “So describe the driver,” Lane said.
    “I saw more of the car than the driver,” Reacher said.
    “Where were you?”
    “In a café. The car was a little north and east of me, across the width of Sixth Avenue. Maybe a twenty-degree angle, maybe ninety feet away.”
    “Why were you looking at it?”
    “It was badly parked. It looked out of place. I guessed it was on a fireplug.”
    “It was,” Lane said. “Then what?”
    “Then a guy crossed the street toward it. Not at a crosswalk. Through gaps in the traffic, at an angle. The angle was more or less the same as my line of sight, maybe twenty degrees. So most of what I saw was his back, all the way.”
    “Then what?”
    “He stuck the key in the door and got inside. Took off.”
    “Going north, obviously, this being Sixth Avenue. Did he turn?”
    “Not that I saw.”
    “Can you describe him?”
    “Blue jeans, blue shirt, blue baseball cap, white sneakers. The clothing was old and comfortable. The guy was average height, average weight.”
    “Age?”
    “I didn’t see his face. Most of what I saw was his back. But he didn’t move like a kid. He was at least in his thirties. Maybe forty.”
    “How exactly did he move?”
    “He was focused. He headed straight for the car. Not fast, but there was no doubt where he was going. The way he held his head, I think he was looking directly at the car the whole way. Like a definite destination. Like a target. And the way he held his shoulder, I think he might have had the key out in front of him, horizontally. Like a tiny lance. Focused, and intent. And urgent. That’s how he moved.”
    “Where did he come from?”
    “From behind my shoulder, more or less. He could have been walking north, and then stepped off the sidewalk at the café, north and east through the traffic.”
    “Would you recognize him again?”
    “Maybe,” Reacher said. “But only by his clothes and his walk and his posture. Nothing that would convince anyone.”
    “If he crossed through the traffic he must have glanced south to see what was coming at him. At least once. So you should have seen the right side of his face. Then when he was behind the wheel, you should have seen the left side.”
    “Narrow angles,” Reacher said. “And the light wasn’t great.”
    “There must have been headlight beams on him.”
    “He was white,” Reacher said. “No facial hair. That’s all I saw.”
    “White male,” Lane said. “Thirty-five to forty-five. I guess that eliminates about eighty percent of the population, maybe more, but it’s not good enough.”
    “Didn’t you have insurance?” Reacher asked.
    “This is not about the car,” Lane said.
    “It was empty,” Reacher said.
    “It wasn’t empty,” Lane said.
    “So what was in it?”
    “Thank you, Mr. Reacher,” Lane said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
    He turned and walked back to where he had started, next to the table with the phone and the photograph. He stood erect beside it and spread his fingers again and laid the tips lightly on the polished wood, right next to the telephone, like his touch might detect an incoming call before the electronic pulse started the bell.
    “You need help,” Reacher said. “Don’t you?”
    “Why would you care?” Lane asked.
    “Habit,” Reacher said. “Reflex. Professional curiosity.”
    “I’ve got help,” Lane said. He gestured with his free hand around the room. “Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines, Green Berets, SAS from Britain. The best in the world.”
    “You need a different kind of help.