Running Blind

“There’s a million people in the service,” Reacher said. “I was in thirteen years. Turnover during that period was what? Maybe twice over? So there’s two million people out there who used to be in with me. Stands to reason a few of them will be getting killed, just like a few of them will be winning the lottery. I can’t worry about all of them.”

“You knew Callan and Cooke. You liked them.”

“I liked Callan.”

“So help us catch her killer.”

“No.”

“Without somebody like you, we’re just running blind.”

“No.”

“I’m asking for your help here.”

“No.”

“You son of a bitch,” Lamarr said.

Reacher looked at Blake. “You seriously think I would want to work with her? And can’t she think of anything else to call me except son of a bitch?”

“Julia, go fix some more coffee,” Blake said.

She colored red and her mouth set tight, but she struggled up out of the sofa and walked through to the kitchen. Blake sat forward and talked low.

“She’s real uptight,” he said. “You need to cut her a little slack.”

“I do?” Reacher said. “Why the hell should I? She’s sitting here drinking my coffee, calling me names.”

“Victim category is pretty specific here, right? And maybe smaller than you think. Female harassment complainants who subsequently quit the service? You said hundreds, maybe thousands, but Defense Department says there’s only ninety-one women who fit those parameters.”

“So?”

“We figure the guy might want to work his way through all of them. So we have to assume he’s going to, until he’s caught. If he’s caught. And he’s done three already.”

“So?”

“Julia’s sister is one of the other eighty-eight.”

Silence again, apart from domestic noises in the kitchen.

“So she’s worried,” Blake said. “Not really panicked, I guess, because one in eighty-eight isn’t bad odds, but it’s bad enough for her to be taking it real personal.”

Reacher nodded, slowly.

“Then she shouldn’t be working the case,” he said. “She’s too involved.”

Blake shrugged. “She insisted. It was my judgment call. I’m happy with it. Pressure can produce results.”

“Not for her. She’s a loose cannon.”

“She’s my lead profiler. She’s effectively driving this case. So I need her, involved or not. And she needs you as a go-between, and I need results, so you need to cut her a little slack.”

He sat back and stared at Reacher. A fat old man, uncomfortable in his suit, sweating in the nighttime chill, with something uncompromising in his face. I need results. Reacher had no problem with people who needed results. But he said nothing. There was a long silence. Then Lamarr came back into the room, carrying the pot from the machine. Her face was pale again. She had recovered her composure.

“I’m standing by my profile,” she said. “The guy’s somebody exactly like you. Maybe somebody you used to know. Maybe somebody you worked with.”

Reacher looked up at her. “I’m sorry about your personal situation.”

“I don’t need your sympathy. I need to catch the guy.”

“Well, good luck.”

She bent and poured coffee into Blake’s mug, and then walked over to Reacher’s.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You going to help us?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

“What about an advisory role?” Blake asked. “Purely consultative? Deep background?”

Reacher shook his head again. “No, not interested.”

“What about something entirely passive?” Blake asked. “Just brainstorming? We feel you could be close to the guy. At least maybe close to the type of guy.”

“Not my bag,” Reacher said.

There was silence.

“Would you agree to be hypnotized?” Blake asked.

“Hypnotized? Why?”

“Maybe you could recall something buried. You know, some guy making some threats, some adverse comments. Something you didn’t pay too much attention to at the time. Might come back to you. Might help us piece something together.”

“You still do hypnotism?”

“Sometimes,” Blake said. “It can help. Julia’s an expert. She’d do it.”

“In that case, no thanks. She might make me walk down Fifth Avenue naked.”

Silence again. Blake looked away, then he turned back.

“Last time, Reacher,” he said. “The Bureau is asking for your help. We employ advisers all the time. You’d get paid and everything. Yes or no?”

“This is what hauling me in was all about, right?”

Blake nodded. “Sometimes it works.”

“How?”

Blake paused, and then he decided to answer. Reacher saw a guy prepared to be frank, in the interests of being persuasive.

“It shakes people up,” Blake said. “You know, make them feel they’re the prime suspect, then tell them they’re not, the emotional flip-flop can make them feel a sort of gratitude toward us. Makes them want to help us out.”

“That’s your experience?”

Blake nodded again. “It works, more often than not.”

Reacher shrugged. “I never studied much psychology. ”

“Psychology is our trade, manner of speaking,” Blake said.

“Kind of cruel, don’t you think?”

“The Bureau does what it has to do.”

“Evidently.”

“So, yes or no?”

“No.”

Silence in the room.

“Why not?”

“Because your emotional flip-flop didn’t work on me, I guess.”

“Can we have a formal reason, for the record?”

“Ms. Lamarr is the formal reason. She pisses me off.”

Blake spread his hands, helplessly. “But she’s only pissing you off to make the flip-flop work. It’s a technique. ”

Reacher made a face.

“Well, she’s a little too convincing,” he said. “Take her off the case and I might consider it.”

Lamarr glowered and Blake shook his head.

“I won’t do that,” he said. “That’s my call and I won’t be dictated to.”

“Then my answer is no.”

Silence. Blake turned the corners of his mouth down.

“We talked with Deerfield before we came up here,” he said. “You can understand we’d do that, right? As a courtesy? He authorized us to tell you Cozo will drop the racketeering charge if you play ball.”