‘Plenty.’
He got back in the car and headed for the police station. Found Peterson in the squad room. Reacher said, ‘Holland was right. They weren’t coming over here. They were bluffing. Or someone was bluffing on their behalf. We have no idea who actually called here. Could have been the shooter himself, trying to create time and space, trying to point you in the wrong direction.’
‘Well, whoever, they failed. And now we’re going to bust them all.’
‘Then you better do it quickly. They’re about to move out.’
‘They told you that?’
‘Think back to that call from the DEA. Have you ever sold a house?’
‘Once.’
‘You cleaned it up, right? Made it look real good?’
‘I painted the siding.’
‘They’ve got the snow all ploughed. Everything is immaculate. They’ve got their stuff in shipping boxes. They’ve run down their food supplies to nothing. Whoever owns the place is selling it out from under them.’
‘When are they going?’
‘Soon.’
‘Did they give you any trouble?’
‘Not really.’
‘Did they believe you were from the army?’
‘Not for a minute. But they’ve been told to keep their noses clean, as of right now. The place needs to be a controversy-free zone. Whoever owns the place doesn’t want the title damaged. So they didn’t give me a hard time.’
‘Nobody owns that place. It’s all public land.’
‘It makes a profit for somebody. Therefore somebody thinks he owns it. The bikers are his employees, that’s all. Worker bees. And now they’ve got their marching orders. They’re moving on to the next project.’
‘Plato the Mexican.’
‘Whoever.’
Peterson asked, ‘Did you find a lab?’
Reacher said, ‘I want to see the product from the restaurant parking lot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the way my mind works. One step at a time.’ Peterson shrugged and led the way back to the corridor, around a corner, to an evidence room. There was a half-width counter outside it, unoccupied. Peterson stepped past it and took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
‘Wait there,’ he said.
He went in and came out ten seconds later with a clear plastic evidence bag. It was big. Stapled to it was a chain-of-custody form with four separate dates and times and locations and signatures on it. Inside it was the package that Janet Salter had described. The brick of white powder, hard and smooth under the wax paper wrap. The picture stencilled on it, the crown, the headband, the three points, the three balls representing jewels.
Reacher asked, ‘Did you test it?’
‘Of course,’ Peterson said. ‘It’s meth. No question. Just short of a kilo, very high purity, almost clinical. Good stuff, if you like that kind of thing.’
‘Two hundred grand’s worth, right there.’
‘A million on the streets of Chicago, after they cut it and retail it.’
‘Any idea what the picture means?’
‘No. They always put some kind of logo on. This is a brand-conscious market.’
‘You got the money in there too, that the Chicago guy paid?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘I just like looking at stuff like that.’
So Peterson ducked back in and came back out with another evidence bag. Same size. Same kind of form stapled to it. Full of bricks of bills, all banded together.
‘OK?’ Peterson asked.
‘How long would it take you to earn that much?’
‘After taxes? I don’t want to think about it.’
‘Is that really wax paper on the dope?’
‘No, it’s some kind of cellophane or glassine. It’s a little yellowed because it’s old stock. But it’s proper pharmaceutical quality. This is a very high-end operation.’
‘OK.’
‘So did you find their lab?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see the stone building?’
‘Only from the outside.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘No, but I know what it isn’t.’
Reacher headed for the squad room. For the desk in the back corner. He picked up the phone, dialled nine for a line, and then the number he remembered.
‘Yes?’
‘Amanda, please.’
A click. A purr. The voice. It sounded tired. A little frustrated. It said, ‘I could be in Afghanistan right now. In fact if you don’t stop calling me I might just put in for a transfer.’
Reacher said, ‘The food might be better. Can’t beat a goat’s eyeballs in yogurt.’
‘You ever been there?’
‘No, but I met someone who had.’
‘I’ve got no news for you.’
‘I know. You can’t see the money hitting the Department of the Army.’
‘I tried and failed.’
‘You didn’t. The money never went to the army.’
‘Why not?’
‘Garbage in, garbage out.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We started with a false assumption. They told me about an army facility. A small stone building with a two-mile road. I just went out there. It’s not a road. It’s a runway. It’s an air force place, not army.’
TWENTY-FOUR
THE VOICE FROM VIRGINIA SAID, ‘WELL, THAT CHANGES THINGS A little.’
Reacher said, ‘There’s another local rumour about prosthetic faces.’
‘Yes, I saw a note about that. There’s a file. Apparently the Pentagon got some calls from local folks in South Dakota. County and state government. But it’s bullshit. The plastic face places were always nearer the metro areas. Why put one out in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Why have them at all? If everyone is burned the same, why would anyone care?’
No reply.
Reacher asked, ‘Do you know anyone in the air force?’
‘Not for secrets.’
‘Might not be a secret. Could be entirely routine. We’re back at square one, as far as assumptions are concerned.’
‘OK, I’ll make some calls. But first I’m going to take a nap.’
‘You can sleep when you’re dead. This is urgent. The runway is ploughed. Two whole miles. Nobody does that for fun. Therefore someone or something is due to show up. And I saw a fuel tanker. Maybe for the return trip. Maybe someone’s planning on some heavy lifting.’
Silence for a beat. ‘Anything else?’
He asked, ‘Are you married?’
She asked, ‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Were you ever?’
‘No.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
She hung up.
Five minutes to ten in the morning.
