Without Fail

consider a ninety-five percent success rate a triumph.”
    “Ninety-four percent,” Reacher said. “You’ve lost one President out of eighteen since you guys took over. Six percent failure rate. That’s not too bad.”
    “Ninety-four, ninety-five,” she said. “Whatever, I guess he was right.”
    “Joe was right about a lot of things, the way I recall it.”
    “But we’ve never lost a Vice President,” she said. “Not yet.”
    She put the files under one arm and stacked the photographs on the credenza and butted them around with her fingertips until they were neatly piled. Picked them up and put them in her bag. Then she glanced at each of the four walls in turn, like she was memorizing their exact details. A distracted little gesture. She nodded at nothing in particular and headed for the door.
    “Got to go,” she said.
    She walked out of the room and the door sucked shut behind her. There was silence for a spell. Then Neagley stood up straight at the end of one of the beds and clamped the cuffs of her sweatshirt in her palms and stretched her arms high above her head. She tilted her head back and yawned. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. The hem of her shirt rode up and Reacher saw hard muscle above the waistband of her jeans. It was ridged like a turtle’s back.
    “You still look good,” he said.
    “So do you, in black.”
    “Feels like a uniform,” he said. “Five years since I last wore one.”
    Neagley finished stretching. Smoothed her hair and pulled the hem of her shirt back down into place.
    “Are we done here?” she asked.
    “Tired?”
    “Exhausted. We worked our butts off, ruining that poor woman’s day.”
    “What did you think of her?”
    “I liked her. And like I told her, I think she’s got an impossible job. And all in all, I think she’s pretty good at it. I doubt if anybody else could do it better. And I think she kind of knows that too, but it’s burning her up that she’s forced to settle for ninety-five percent instead of a hundred.”
    “I agree.”
    “Who’s this guy Joe she was talking about?”
    “An old boyfriend.”
    “You knew him?”
    “My brother. She dated him.”
    “When?”
    “They broke up six years ago.”
    “What’s he like?”
    Reacher glanced at the floor. Didn’t correct the is to a was .
    “Like a civilized version of me,” he said.
    “So maybe she’ll want to date you, too. Civilized can be an overrated virtue. And collecting the complete set is always fun for a girl.”
    Reacher said nothing. The room went quiet.
    “I guess I’ll head home,” Neagley said. “Back to Chicago. Back to the real world. But I got to say, it was a pleasure working with you again.”
    “Liar.”
    “No, really, I mean it.”
    “So stick around. A buck gets ten she’ll be back inside an hour.”
    Neagley smiled. “What, to ask you out?”
    Reacher shook his head. “No, to tell us what her real problem is.”

4
    Froelich walked across the sidewalk to her Suburban. Spilled the files onto the passenger seat. Started the engine and kept her foot hard on the brake. Pulled her phone from her bag and flipped it open. Entered Stuyvesant’s home number digit by digit and then paused with her finger resting on the call button. The phone waited patiently with the number displayed on the tiny green screen. She looked ahead through the windshield, fighting with herself. She looked down at the phone. Back out at the street. Her finger rested on the button. Then she flipped the phone shut and dropped it on top of the files. Pulled the transmission lever into drive and took off from the curb with a loud chirp from all four tires. Hung a left and a right and headed for her office.

    The room-service guy came back to collect the coffee tray and left with it. Reacher took his jacket off and hung it in the closet. Pulled the T-shirt out of the waistband of his jeans.
    “Did you vote in the election?” Neagley asked him.
    He shook his head. “I’m not registered anywhere. Did you?”
    “Sure,” she said. “I always vote.”
    “Did you vote for Armstrong?”
    “Nobody votes for Vice President. Except his family, maybe.”
    “But did you vote for that ticket?”
    She nodded. “Yes, I did. Would you have?”
    “I guess so,” he said. “You ever hear anything about Armstrong before?”
    “Not really,” she said. “I mean, I’m interested in politics, but I’m not one of those people who can name all hundred senators.”
    “Would you run for