Killing Floor (Jack Reacher 1)

"Picard can't do that," Finlay said. "FBI isn't equipped to go looking for abandoned rental cars. And we can't do it ourselves, not with Teale around. "

I shrugged.

"We'll have to," I said. "No other way. You can sell Teale some story. You can double bluff him. Tell him you figure the escaped con who he says did the Morrison thing must have been in a rental car. Tell him you need to check it out. He can't say no to that, or else he's undermining his own cover story, right?"

"OK," Finlay said. "I'll try it. Might work, I guess. "

"Joe must have had phone numbers," I said. "The number you found in his shoe was torn off a computer printout, right? So where's the rest of the printout? I bet it's in his hotel room, just sitting there, covered with phone numbers, with Hubble's number torn off the top. So you find the car, then you twist Picard's arm to trace the hotel through the rental company, OK?"

"OK," he said. "I'll do my best. "

IN YELLOW SPRINGS WE SLIPPED INTO THE HOSPITAL ENTRANCE lane and slowed over the speed bumps. Nosed around to the lot in back. Parked near the morgue door. I didn't want to go inside. Joe was still in there. I started to think vaguely about funeral arrangements. I'd never had to do it before. The Marine Corps handled my father's. Joe arranged my mother's.

But I got out of the car with the two of them and we walked through the chill air to the door. Found our way back to the shabby office. The same doctor was at the desk. Still in a white coat. Still looking tired. He waved us in and we sat down. I took one of the stools. I didn't want to sit next to the fax machine again. The doctor looked at all of us in turn. We looked back at him.

"What have you got for us?" Finlay said.

The tired man at the desk prepared to answer. Like preparing for a lecture. He picked up three files from his left and dropped them on his blotter. Opened the top one. Pulled out the second one and opened that, too.

"Morrison," he said. "Mr. and Mrs. "

He glanced around the three of us again. Finlay nodded to him.

"Tortured and killed," the pathologist said. "The sequence is pretty clear. The woman was restrained. Two men, I'd say, one on each arm, gripping and twisting. Heavy bruising on the forearms and the upper arms, some ligament damage from twisting the arms up her back. Obviously the bruising continued to develop from the time she was first seized until the time she died. The bruising stops developing when the circulation stops, you understand?"

We nodded. We understood.

"I'd put it at about ten minutes," he said. "Ten minutes, beginning to end. So the woman was being held. The man was being nailed to the wall. I'd guess both were naked by then. They were in nightwear before the attack, right?"

"Robes," Finlay said. "They were having breakfast. "

"OK, the robes came off early on," the doctor said. "The man was nailed to the wall, technically to the floor also, through the feet. His genital area was attacked. The scrotum was severed. Postmortem evidence suggests that the woman was persuaded to swallow the amputated testicles. "

The office was silent. Silent as a tomb. Roscoe looked at me. Stared at me for a while. Then she looked back at the doctor.

"I found them in her stomach," the doctor said.

Roscoe was as white as the guy's coat. I thought she was going to pitch forward off her stool. She closed her eyes and hung on. She was hearing about what somebody had planned for us last night.

"And?" Finlay said.

"The woman was mutilated," the doctor said. "Breasts severed, genital area attacked, throat cut. Then the man's throat was cut. That was the last wound inflicted. You could see the arterial spray from his neck overlaying all the other bloodstains in the room. "

There was dead silence in the room. Lasted quite a while.

"Weapons?" I asked.

The guy at the desk swiveled his tired gaze toward me.

"Something sharp, obviously," he said. A slight grin. "Straight, maybe five inches long. "

"A razor?" I said.

"No," he said. "Certainly something as sharp as a razor, but rigid, not folding, and double-edged. "

"Why?" I said.

"There's evidence it was used back and forth," the guy said. He swished his hand back and forth in a tiny arc. "Like this. On the woman's breasts. Cutting both ways. Like filleting a salmon. "

I nodded. Roscoe and Finlay were silent.

"What about the other guy?" I said. "Stoller?"

The pathologist pushed the two Morrison files to one side and opened up the third. Glanced through it and looked across at me. The third file was thicker than the first two.

"His name was Stoller?" he said. "We've got him down as John Doe. "

Roscoe looked up.

"We sent you a fax," she said. "Yesterday morning. We traced his prints. "

The pathologist rooted around on the messy desk. Found a curled-up fax. Read it and nodded. Crossed out "John Doe" on the folder and wrote in "Sherman Stoller. " Gave us his little grin again.

"I've had him since Sunday," he said. "Been able to do a more thorough job, you know? A bit chewed up by the rats, but not pulped like the first guy, and altogether a lot less mess than the Morrisons. "

"So what can you tell us?" I said.

"We've talked about the bullets, right?" he said. "Nothing more to add about the exact cause of death. "

"So what else do you know?" I asked him.

The file was too thick for just the shooting and running and bleeding to death bits. This guy clearly had more to tell us. I saw him put his fingers on the pages and press lightly. Like he was trying to get vibrations or read the file in Braille.

"He was a truck driver," he said.

"He was?" I said.

"I think so," the guy said. Sounded confident.

Finlay looked up. He was interested. He loved the process of deduction. It fascinated him. Like when I'd scored with those long shots about Harvard, his divorce, quitting smoking.

"Go on," he said.

"OK, briefly," the pathologist said. "I found certain persuasive factors. A sedentary job, because his musculature was slack, his posture poor, flabby buttocks. Slightly rough hands, a fair bit of old diesel fuel ingrain

ed in the skin. Also traces of old diesel fuel on the soles of his shoes. Internally, a poor diet, high in fat, plus a bit too much hydrogen sulfide in the blood gases and the tissues. This guy spent his life on the road, sniffing other people's catalytic converters. I make him a truck driver, because of the diesel fuel. "

Finlay nodded. I nodded. Stoller had come in with no ID, no history, nothing but his watch. This guy was pretty good. He watched us nod our approval. Looked pleased. Looked like he had more to say.

"But he's been out of work for a while," he said.

"Why?" Finlay asked him.

"Because all that evidence is old," the doctor said. "Looks to me like he was driving a lot for a long period, but then he stopped. I think he's done very little driving for nine months, maybe a year. So I make him a truck driver, but an unemployed truck driver. "

"OK, doc, good work," Finlay said. "You got copies of all that for us?"

The doctor slid a large envelope across the desk. Finlay stepped over and picked it up. Then we all stood up. I wanted to get out. I didn't want to go back to the cold store again. I didn't want to see any more damage. Roscoe and Finlay sensed it and nodded. We hustled out like we were ten minutes late for something. The guy at the desk let us go. He'd seen lots of people rushing out of his office like they were ten minutes late for something.

We got into Roscoe's car. Finlay opened the big envelope and pulled out the stuff on Sherman Stoller. Folded it into his pocket.

"That's ours, for the time being," he said. "It might get us somewhere. "

"I'll get the arrest report from Florida," Roscoe said. "And we'll find an address for him somewhere. Got to be a lot of paperwork on a trucker, right? Union, medical, licenses. Should be easy enough to do. "

We rode the rest of the way back to Margrave in silence. The station house was deserted, apart from the desk guy. Lunch break in Margrave, lunch break in Washington, D. C. Same time zone. Finlay handed me a scrap of paper from his pocket and stood guard on the door to the rosewood office. I went inside to call the woman who may have been my brother's lover.

THE NUMBER FINLAY HAD HANDED ME REACHED MOLLY Beth Gordon's private line. She answered on the first ring. I gave her my name. It made her cry.

"You sound so much like Joe," she said.

I didn't reply. I didn't want to get into a whole lot of reminiscing. Neither should she, not if she was stepping out of line and was in danger of being overheard. She should just tell me what she had to tell me and get off the line.

"So what was Joe doing down here?" I asked her.

I heard her sniffing, and then her voice came back clear.

"He was running an investigation," she said. "Into what, I don't know specifically. "

"But what sort of a thing?" I asked her. "What was his job?"

"Don't you know?" she said.

"No," I said. "We found it very hard to keep in touch, I'm afraid. You'll have to start from the beginning for me. "

There was a long pause on the line.

"OK," she said. "I shouldn't tell you this. Not without clearance. But I will. It was counterfeiting. He ran the Treasury's anticounterfeiting operation. "

"Counterfeiting?" I said. "Counterfeit money?"

"Yes," she said. "He was head of the department. Ran the whole show. He was an amazing guy, Jack. "

"But why was he down here in Georgia?" I asked her.

"I don't know," she said. "I really don't. What I aim to do is find out for you. I can copy his files. I know his computer password. "

There was another pause. Now I knew something about Molly Beth Gordon. I'd spent a lot of time on computer passwords. Any military cop does. I'd studied the pyschology. Most users make bad choices. A lot of them write the damn word on a Post-it note and stick it on the monitor case. The ones who are too smart to do that use their spouse's name, or their dog's name, or their favorite car or ball player, or the name of the island where they took their honeymoon or balled their secretary. The ones who think they're really smart use figures, not words, but they choose their birthday or their wedding anniversary or something pretty obvious. If you can find something out about the user, you've normally got a better than even chance of figuring their password.

But that would never work with Joe. He was a professional. He'd spent important years in Military Intelligence. His password would be a random mixture of numbers, letters, punctuation marks, upper and lower case. His password would be unbreakable. If Molly Beth Gordon knew what it was, Joe must have told her. No other way. He had really trusted her. He had been really close to her. So I put some tenderness into my voice.

"Molly, that would be great," I said. "I really need that information. "

"I know you do," she said. "I hope to get it tomorrow. I'll call you again, soon as I can. Soon as I know something. "

"Is there counterfeiting going on down here?" I asked her. "Is that what this could be all about?"

"No," she said. "It doesn't happen like that. Not inside the States. All that stuff about little guys with green eye-shades down in secret cellars printing dollar bills is all nonsense. Just doesn't happen. Joe stopped it. Your brother was a genius, Jack. He set up procedures years ago for the special paper sales and the inks, so if somebody starts up, he gets nailed within days. One hundred percent foolproof. Printing money in the States just doesn't happen anymore. Joe made sure of that. It all happens abroad. Any fakes we get here are shipped in. That's what Joe spent his time chasing. International stuff. Why he was in Georgia, I don't know. I really don't. But I'll find out tomorrow, I promise you that. "

I gave her the station house number and told her to speak to nobody except me or Roscoe or Finlay. Then she hung up in a hurry like somebody had just walked in on her. I sat for a moment and tried to imagine what she looked like.

TEALE WAS BACK IN THE STATION HOUSE. AND OLD MAN Kliner was inside with him. They were over by the reception counter, heads together. Kliner was talking to Teale like I'd seen him talking to Eno at the diner. Foundation business, maybe. Roscoe and Finlay were standing together by the cells. I walked over to them. Stood between them and talked low.

"Counterfeiting," I said. "This is about counterfeit money. Joe was running the Treasury Department's defense for them. You know anything about that sort of a thing down here? Either of you?"

They both shrugged and shook their heads. I heard the glass door suck open. Looked up. Kliner was on his way out. Teale was starting in toward us.

"I'm out of here," I said.

I brushed past Teale and headed for the door. Kliner was standing in the lot, next to the black pickup. Waiting for me. He smiled. Wolf's teeth showing.

"Sorry for your loss," he said.

His voice had a quiet, cultured tone. Educated. A slight hiss on the sibilants. Not the voice to go with his sunbaked appearance.

"You upset my son," he said.

He looked at me. Something burning in his eyes. I shrugged.

"The kid upset me first," I said.

"How?" Kliner asked. Sharply.

"He lived and breathed?" I said.

I moved on across the lot. Kliner slid into the black pickup. Fired it up and nosed out. He turned north. I turned south. Started the walk down to Roscoe's place. It was a half mile through the new fall chill. Ten minutes at a brisk pace. I got the Bentley out of the garage. Drove it back up the slope to town. Made the right onto Main Street and cruised along. I was peering left and right in under the smart striped awnings, looking for the clothes store. Found it three doors north of the barbershop. Left the Bentley on the street and went in. Paid out some of Charlie Hubble's expenses cash to a sullen middle-aged guy for a pair of pants, a shirt and a jacket. A light fawn color, pressed cotton, as near to formal as I was prepared to go. No tie. I put it all on in the changing cubicle in the back of the store. Bagged up the old stuff and threw it in the Bentley's trunk as I passed.

I walked the t

hree doors south to the barbershop. The younger of the two old guys was on his way out of the door. He stopped and put his hand on my arm.

"What's your name, son?" he asked me.

No reason not to tell him. Not that I could see.

"Jack Reacher," I said.

"You got any Hispanic friends in town?"

"No," I said.

"Well, you got some now," he said. "Two guys, looking all over for you. "

I looked at him. He scanned the street.

"Who were they?" I asked him.

"Never saw them before," the old guy said. "Little guys, brown car, fancy shirts. Been all over, asking for Jack Reacher. We told them we never heard of no Jack Reacher. "

"When was this?" I said.

"This morning," he said. "After breakfast. "

I nodded.

"OK," I said. "Thanks. "

The guy held the door open for me.

"Go right in," he said. "My partner will take care of you. But he's a bit skittish this morning. Getting old. "

"Thanks," I said again. "See you around. "

"Sure hope so, son," he said.

He strolled off down Main Street and I went inside his shop. The older guy was in there. The gnarled old man whose sister had sung with Blind Blake. No other customers. I nodded to the old guy and sat down in his chair.

"Good morning, my friend," he said.

"You remember me?" I said.

"Sure do," he said. "You were our last customer. Nobody in between to muddle me up. "

I asked him for a shave and he set about whipping up the lather.

"I was your last customer?" I said. "That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. Business always that bad?"

The old guy paused and gestured with the razor.

"Been that bad for years," he said. "Old Mayor Teale won't come in here, and what the old mayor won't do, nobody else white will do neither. Except old Mr. Gray from the station house, came in here regular as clockwork three, four times a week, until he went and hung himself, God rest his soul. You're the first white face in here since last February, yes sir, that's for sure. "

"Why won't Teale come in here?" I asked him.

"Man's got a problem," the old guy said. "I figure he don't like to sit all swathed up in the towel while there's a black man standing next to him with a razor. Maybe worried something bad might happen to him. "

"Might something bad happen to him?" I said.

He laughed a short laugh.

"I figure there's a serious risk," he said. "Asshole. "

"So you got enough black customers to make a living?" I asked him.

He put the towel around my shoulders and started brushing on the lather.

"Man, we don't need customers to make a living," he said.

"You don't?" I said. "Why not?"

"We got the community money," he said.

"You do?" I said. "What's that?"

"Thousand dollars," he said.

"Who gives you that?" I asked him.

He started scraping my chin. His hand was shaking like old people do.

"Kliner Foundation," he whispered. "The community program. It's a business grant. All the merchants get it. Been getting it five years. "

I nodded.

"That's good," I said. "But a thousand bucks a year won't keep you. It's better than a poke in the eye, but you need customers too, right?"

I was just making conversation, like you do with barbers. But it set the old guy off. He was shaking and cackling. Had a whole lot of trouble finishing the shave. I was staring into the mirror. After last night, it would be a hell of a thing to get my throat cut by accident.

"Man, I shouldn't tell you about it," he whispered. "But seeing as you're a friend of my sister's, I'm going to tell you a big secret. "

He was getting confused. I wasn't a friend of his sister's. Didn't even know her. He'd told me about her, was all. He was standing there with the razor. We were looking at each other in the mirror. Like with Finlay in the coffee shop.

"It's not a thousand dollars a year," he whispered. Then he bent close to my ear. "It's a thousand dollars a week. "

He started stomping around, chuckling like a demon. He filled the sink and dabbed off the spare lather. Patted my face down with a hot wet cloth. Then he whipped the towel off my shoulders like a conjurer doing a trick.

"That's why we don't need no customers," he cackled.

I paid him and got out. The guy was crazy.

"Say hello to my sister," he called after me.