Margrave. The name she still used on every official record. In an old-fashioned small town where everybody knew she was Mrs. Trent.
Kim set her coffee mug on the table between her chair and Gaspar’s. She wiped her hands. She reached into her pocket for the photograph.
“Here, let me show you,” Kim said, as she lifted her gaze directly to Roscoe’s face, watching for nuanced micro movements, lowering her voice to focus Roscoe’s full attention while she revealed the photo, and she said, “The man’s name is Jack Reacher.”
Roscoe’s face aged instantly. The formal smile she’d worn a moment before vanished along with all vitality from those enormous eyes. Her expression became both vacant and horrified.
A full second passed. Maybe two. Roscoe continued to stare at the altered photo of Jack Reacher. Her pulse was erratic, racing.
And then she started to cry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tears flooded Roscoe’s eyes. One rolled down her cheek before she grabbed a tissue. The tears kept on coming. Her chin quivered. She took a deep ragged breath, and another. Still the tears fell. She swiveled her chair around, turning her back on Kim and Gaspar, hiding her face. They could hear her rhythmic breathing, struggling to regain control.
She was like the hundreds of crime victims Kim had interviewed after unimaginable, tragic, deeply personal disasters. What the hell had Reacher done to her? Nothing in Reacher’s file reflected violence against women, although he was certainly capable of it.
Kim glanced toward Gaspar. Blatant emotion had not been on his list of expected reactions, either. What should they do now? Gaspar didn’t seem to have a clue.
Roscoe’s deep breaths continued a minute or two until she finally composed herself and turned around to face them once again. Her eyes were clear and her chin was strong. She smiled weakly and took a sip of coffee, stalling, maybe steadying her voice.
“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said, a little catch in her tone. She sipped and swallowed again, and regained her self- control.
“No, Chief Roscoe, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Kim said. “I didn’t know. Truly. I had no idea Reacher’s photograph would upset you so much. I sincerely apologize.”
Roscoe’s brows arched and she tilted her head and jutted her chin, like a dog identifying the source of a distant sound. Her lips lifted slightly at one corner, amused.
Roscoe said, “Reacher’s not here. You’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid.”
Gaspar said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a cop cry when shown a missing persons photo, Chief Roscoe. In fact, I think this is a first for me. How about you, Agent Otto?”
“A first for me, too,” Kim snapped.
Roscoe replied with a little sarcasm of her own. “Sorry. Really shocking, my behavior. Seeing as how you’ve been so upfront with me. So I should definitely have been more helpful.”
Gaspar didn’t let up. “So you’re refusing to cooperate with an FBI investigation?”
Roscoe’s back was up now, too. “Look, you barge into my town, into my office. Unannounced. Unexpected. Lie to me. You knew Reacher wasn’t here when you asked me, didn’t you? I don’t owe you anything.”
Quietly, Kim asked, “What caused you to cry? What did Reacher do to you?”
Roscoe took a breath, and another, and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got emotional because, well, I was… relieved.”
“I’m lost,” Gaspar said. “Some guy assaults you, or worse, and you’re
Roscoe said, “He didn’t assault me. And I’m relieved because the FBI thinks he’s still alive. I haven’t heard from him since he left Margrave.”
“You expected to hear from him?” Kim asked.
Gaspar seemed to get it, too. “You knew him well, then?”
Roscoe hesitated too long.
Kim could almost see her rejecting one reply after another. Why so much concern over what to say about a drifter who passed through her jurisdiction briefly more than a decade ago?
Finally, Roscoe offered a weak, “I knew him well enough.”
Which made perfect sense and no sense at all.
“Where did you meet him?” Gaspar asked.
Roscoe’s pleasant expression returned. She’d collected her poise once again. Kim felt the momentum shift to Roscoe. She would cooperate, but only on her terms. Whatever those terms might be.
“In the interview room across the hall in the old station.” Roscoe tilted her head in that direction. She grinned. “I took his fingerprints and his mug shot after he was arrested.”
Gaspar looked surprised. “Our files don’t contain any arrest records.”
“No arrest records?” Roscoe’s desk phone rang. “Hard to believe the FBI missed something like that.” She glanced down to see where the call came from and then ignored it.
“We’ll need copies,” Gaspar said. “Can we get them now, while we’re here?”
Roscoe feigned chagrin. “Afraid not. We had a fire. The station and everything in it was destroyed, unfortunately.”
Gaspar ran his hand through his hair. He looked as peeved as Kim had felt a few moments before. “What was he arrested for?”
“Something he didn’t do.”
Not likely, Kim thought. If Reacher was arrested for anything, he’d done ten times worse and not been caught. Reacher was the kind of guy who solved all problems as permanently as possible.
Roscoe’s phone kept on ringing. A low, insistent buzz. Two, three, four, five times.
Gaspar pressed on. “What didn’t he do?”
The phone kept buzzing. Someone really wanted Chief Roscoe to pick up that receiver.
“Murder,” Roscoe said.
Kim wasn’t surprised. An army-trained expert killer prowling under all available radar for fifteen solid years, invisible even to the mighty FBI. What else had Reacher been doing besides murder? That was the relevant question. Gaspar looked equally skeptical. He’d read the same file Kim had. No way would he believe Reacher innocent of murder, either.
Maybe disappointed in their reaction, Roscoe offered something that did astonish. “And then he saved my life, too.”
Roscoe smiled at their surprise. Finally she picked up her phone. She said, “Yes, Brent?” And then her smile died. She said, “What?” All business now. Short concise questions, longer periods of listening. Controlled. No tears. “He’s sure? When?” Concentration, closed eyes, deep furrows in her brow. “OK, call crime scene, paramedics and medical examiner, too. Phones only. Keep listeners out as long as we can.”
Roscoe stood up, rested the receiver against her shoulder with her chin to free her hands, patted her waist in two places, one where her gun would be holstered and the other where her badge would likely rest. She said, “Good plan. Both in the air?” She looked around for a cell phone, found it, picked it up, and dropped it into her jacket pocket. She put the phone down and picked up her car keys. She glanced across the desk and said, “My sergeant, the one who didn’t come in today? He’s been killed.” Her voice was soft, but the rest of her behavior was purely professional. “So can we pick this up later?” she asked, on her way to the door.
Gaspar moved fast. “We could ride along, like a couple of extra hands. If you like. Purely informal.”
