Without Fail

insurance, no more benefits.”
    No response.
    “You might even go to jail.”
    Silence in the room.
    “Whatever happens to us will happen,” Julio said.
    “Did somebody ask you to put it there? Somebody you know in the office?”
    Absolutely no response.
    “Somebody you know outside the office?”
    “We didn’t do anything with any letter.”
    “So what did you do?” Reacher asked.
    “We cleaned. That’s what we’re there for.”
    “You were in there an awful long time.”
    Julio looked at his wife, like he was puzzled.
    “We saw the tape,” Reacher said.
    “We know about the cameras,” Julio said.
    “You follow the same routine every night?”
    “We have to.”
    “Spend that long in there every night?”
    Julio shrugged. “I guess so.”
    “You rest up in there?”
    “No, we clean.”
    “Same every night?”
    “Everything’s the same every night. Unless somebody’s spilled some coffee or left a lot of trash around or something. That might slow us up some.”
    “Was there something like that in Stuyvesant’s office that night?”
    “No,” Julio said. “Stuyvesant is a clean guy.”
    “You spent some big amount of time in there.”
    “No more than usual.”
    “You got an exact routine?”
    “I guess so. We vacuum, wipe things off, empty the trash, put things neat, move on to the next office.”
    Silence in the room. Just the faint thump of the far-off car stereo, much attenuated by the walls and the windows.
    “OK,” Neagley said. “Listen up, guys. The tape shows you going in there. Afterward, there was a letter on the desk. We think you put it there because somebody asked you to. Maybe they told you it was a joke or a trick. Maybe they told you it was OK to do it. And it was OK. There’s no harm done. But we need to know who asked you. Because this is part of the game, too, us trying to find out. And now you’ve got to tell us, otherwise the game is over and we have to figure you put it there off of your own bat. And that’s not OK. That’s real bad. That’s making a threat against the Vice President–elect of the United States. And you can go to prison for that.”
    No reaction. Another long silence.
    “Are we going to get fired?” Maria asked.
    “Aren’t you listening?” Neagley said. “You’re going to jail, unless you tell us who it was.”
    Maria’s face went still, like a stone. And Anita’s, and Julio’s. Still faces, blank eyes, stoic miserable expressions straight from a thousand years of peasant experience: sooner or later, the harvest always fails .
    “Let’s go,” Reacher said.
    They stood up and stepped through to the hallway. Climbed over the seesaw and let themselves out into the night. Made it back to the Suburban in time to see Froelich snapping her cell phone shut. There was panic in her eyes.
    “What?” Reacher asked.
    “We got another one,” she said. “Ten minutes ago. And it’s worse.”

6
    It was waiting for them in the center of the long table in the conference room. A small crowd of people had gathered around it. The halogen spots in the ceiling lit it perfectly. There was a brown nine-by-twelve envelope with a metal closure and a torn flap. And a single sheet of white letter-size paper. On it were printed ten words: The day upon which Armstrong will die is fast approaching . The message was split into two lines, exactly centered between the margins and set slightly above the middle of the paper. There was nothing else visible. People stared at it in silence. The guy in the suit from the reception desk pushed backward through the crowd and spoke to Froelich.
    “I handled the envelope,” he said. “I didn’t touch the letter. Just spilled it out.”
    “How did it arrive?” she asked.
    “The garage guard took a bathroom break. Came back and found it on the ledge inside his booth. He brought it straight up to me. So I guess his prints are on the envelope too.”
    “When, exactly?”
    “Half hour ago.”
    “How does the garage guard work his breaks?” Reacher asked.
    The room went quiet. People turned toward the new voice. The desk guy started in with a fierce who-the-hell-are-you look. But then he saw Froelich’s face and shrugged and answered obediently.
    “He locks the barrier down,” he said. “That’s how. Runs to the bathroom, runs back. Maybe two or three times a shift. He’s down there eight hours at a stretch.”
    Froelich nodded. “Nobody’s blaming him. Anybody call a forensic team yet?”
    “We