“Day after tomorrow, I hope. I have to go to D.C. Just for a night, maybe.”
“Why?”
“I got on a line I knew to be tapped and said I knew a name. So now I have to go hang out up there and walk the walk and see what comes out of the woodwork.”
“You made yourself the bait in a trap?”
“It’s like a theory of relativity. Same difference if I go to them or they come to me.”
“Especially when you don’t even know who they are, let alone which one of them is guilty.”
I said nothing.
She said, “I agree. It’s time to shake something loose. If you want to know if the stove is hot, sometimes the only way to find out is to touch it.”
“You must have been a pretty good cop.”
“I still am a pretty good cop.”
“So when did your light go out? With the Marines, I mean. When did you stop enjoying it?”
“About where you are now,” she said. “For years you’ve laughed off the small things, but they come so thick and fast that eventually you realize an avalanche is made up of small things. Snowflakes, right? Things don’t get much smaller than that. Suddenly you realize that small things
“No single specific thing?”
“No, I got through fine. I never had any trouble.”
“What, all sixteen years?”
“I had some minor speed bumps here and there. I dated the wrong guy once or twice. But nothing worth talking about. I made it to CWO5, after all, which is as high as it goes for some of us.”
“You did well.”
“Not bad for a country girl from Carter Crossing.”
“Not bad at all.”
She asked, “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning, I guess. It will take me all day to get there.”
“I’ll have Pellegrino drive you to Memphis.”
“No need,” I said.
“Agree for my sake,” she said. “I like to get Pellegrino out of the county as often as possible. Let him wreck his car and kill a pedestrian in some other jurisdiction.”
“Has he done that here?”
“We don’t have pedestrians here. This is a very quiet town. Quieter than ever right now.”
“Because of Kelham?”
“This place is dying, Reacher. We need that base open, and fast.”
“Maybe I’ll make some headway in D.C.”
“I hope you do,” she said. “We should have lunch now.”
“That’s why I came in.”
Deveraux’s lunch staple was chicken pie. We ordered a matched pair and were halfway through eating them when the old couple from the hotel came in. The woman had a book, and the man had a newspaper. A routine pit stop, like dinner. Then the old guy saw me and detoured to our table. He told me my wife’s brother had just called. Something very urgent. I looked blank for a second. The old guy must have thought my wife came from a very large family. “Your brother-in-law Stanley,” he said.
“OK,” I said. “Thanks.”
The old guy shuffled off and I said, “Major Stan Lowrey. A friend of mine. He and I have been TDY at the same place for a couple of weeks.”
Deveraux smiled. “I think the verdict is in. Marines were better comedians.”
I started eating again, but she said, “You should call him back if it’s very urgent, don’t you think?”
I put my fork down.
“Probably,” I said. “But don’t eat my pie.”
I went back to the phone for the third time and dialed. Lowrey answered on the first ring and asked, “Are you sitting down?”
I said, “No, I’m standing up. I’m on a pay phone in a diner.”
“Well, hold on tight. I have a story for you. About a girl called Audrey.”
Chapter 55
I leaned on the wall next to the phone. Not because I was necessarily worried about falling down with shock or surprise. But because Lowrey’s stories were usually very long. He fancied himself a raconteur. And he liked background. And context. Deep background, and deep context. Normally he liked to trace everything back to a seminal point just before random swirls of gas from the chartless wastes of the universe happened to get together and form the earth itself.
He said, “Audrey is a very ancient name, apparently.”
The only way to knock Lowrey off his discursive stride was to get your retaliation in first. I said, “Audrey was an Anglo-Saxon name. It’s a diminutive of Aethelthryt or Etheldreda. It means noble strength. There was a Saint Audrey in the seventh century. She’s the patron saint of throat complaints.”
“How do you know shit like this? I had to look it up.”
“I know a guy whose mother is called Audrey. He told me.”
“My point is, it’s no longer a very common name.”
“It was number 173 on the hit parade at the last census. It’s slightly more popular in France, Belgium, and Canada. Mostly because of Audrey Hepburn.”
“You know this because of a guy’s mother?”
“His grandmother too, actually. They were both called Audrey.”
“So you got a double ration of knowledge?”
“It felt like a double ration of something.”
“Audrey Hepburn wasn’t from Europe.”
“Canada isn’t in Europe.”
“They speak French there. I’ve heard them.”
“Of course Audrey Hepburn was from Europe. English father, Dutch mother, born in Belgium. She had a U.K. passport.”
“Whatever, what I’m saying is, if you would ever let a guy get a word in edgewise, if you search for Audreys you don’t get too many hits.”
“So you found Audrey Shaw for me?”
“I think so.”
“That was fast.”
“I know a guy who works at a bank. Corporations have the best information.”
“Still fast.”
“Thank you. I’m a diligent worker. I’m going to be the most diligent unemployed guy in history.”
“So what do we know about Audrey Shaw?”
“She’s an American citizen,” Lowrey said.
“Is that all we know?”
“Caucasian female, born in Kansas City, Missouri, educated locally, went to college at Tulane in Louisiana. The Southern Ivy League. She was a liberal arts student and a party girl. Middling GPA. No health problems, which I imagine means slightly more than it says, for a party girl from Tulane. She graduated on schedule.”
“And?”
“After graduation she used family connections to get an intern’s job in D.C.”
“What kind of intern’s job?”
“Political. In a Senate office. Working for one of her home-state Missouri guys. Probably just carrying coffee, but
