Without Fail

be still alive.”
    Reacher nodded. “You and me both. But he ain’t.”
    “So maybe you could be the next best thing.”
    Then she was quiet again.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “That didn’t come out very well.”
    “Tell me about the Neanderthals,” Reacher said. “In your office.”
    She nodded. “That was my first thought, too.”
    “It’s a definite possibility,” he said. “Some guy gets all jealous and resentful, lays all this stuff on you and hopes you’ll crack up and look stupid.”
    “My first thought,” she said again.
    “Any likely candidates in particular?”
    She shrugged. “On the surface, none of them. Below the surface, any of them. There are six guys on my old pay grade who got passed over when I got the promotion. Each one of them has got friends and allies and supporters in the grades below. Like networks inside networks. Could be anybody.”
    “Gut feeling?”
    She shook her head. “I can’t come up with a favorite. And all their prints are on file. Condition of employment for us too. And this period between the election and the inauguration is very busy. We’re stretched. Nobody’s had time for a weekend in Vegas.”
    “Didn’t have to be a weekend. Could have been in and out in a single day.”
    Froelich said nothing.
    “What about discipline problems?” Reacher asked. “Anybody resent the way you’re leading the team? You had to yell at anybody yet? Anybody underperforming?”
    She shook her head. “I’ve changed a few things. Spoken to a couple of people. But I’ve been tactful. And the thumbprint doesn’t match anybody anyway, whether I’ve spoken to them or not. So I think it’s a genuine threat from out there in the world.”
    “Me too,” Neagley said. “But there’s some insider involvement, right? Like, who else could wander around your building and leave something on your boss’s desk?”
    Froelich nodded.
    “I need you to come see the office,” she said.

    They rode the short distance in the government Suburban. Reacher sprawled in the back and Neagley rode with Froelich in the front. The night air was damp, suspended somewhere between drizzle and evening mist. The roads were glossy with water and orange light. The tires hissed and the windshield wipers thumped back and forth. Reacher glimpsed the White House railings and the front of the Treasury Building before Froelich turned a corner and drove into a narrow alley and headed for a garage entrance straight ahead. There was a steep ramp and a guard in a glass booth and a bright wash of white light. There were low ceilings and thick concrete pillars. She parked the Suburban on the end of a row of six identical models. There were Lincoln Town Cars here and there, and Cadillacs of various vintages and sizes with awkward rebuilt frames around the windows where bulletproof glass had been installed. Every vehicle was black and shiny and the whole garage was painted glossy white, walls and ceiling and floor alike. The place looked like a monochrome photograph. There was a door with a small porthole of wired glass. Froelich led them through it and up a narrow mahogany staircase into a small first-floor lobby. There were marble pilasters and a single elevator door.
    “You two shouldn’t really be here,” Froelich said. “So say nothing, stick close to me and walk fast, OK?”
    Then she paused a beat. “But come look at something first.”
    She led them through another inconspicuous door and around a corner into a vast dark hall that felt the size of a football field.
    “The building’s main lobby,” she said. Her voice echoed in the marble emptiness. The light was dim. White stone looked gray in the gloom.
    “Here,” she said.
    The walls had giant raised panels carved out of marble, reeded at the edges in the classical style. The one they were standing under was engraved at the top: The United States Department Of The Treasury . The inscription ran laterally for eight or nine feet. Underneath it was another inscription: Roll Of Honor . Then starting in the top left corner of the panel was an engraved list of dates and names. Maybe three or four dozen of them. The next-to-last name on the list was J. Reacher, 1997 . Last was M. B. Gordon, 1997 . Then there was plenty of empty space. Maybe a column and a half.
    “That’s Joe,” Froelich said. “Our tribute.”
    Reacher looked up at his brother’s name. It was neatly chiseled. Each letter was maybe two inches high and was inlaid with