“He’s wrong.”
“I believe you. But this other guy? He’s … respectable.”
“And I’m not?”
“I didn’t say that. My lieutenant–”
“This witness is wrong. Or he’s lying. Maybe he’s in on it. Or maybe he was paid off.”
Harewood shook his head. “He’s a solid citizen. He’s lived right here in town his whole life. Has a house. A wife. A job. Doesn’t gamble. Doesn’t drink or use drugs. Isn’t in debt. Never even got a parking ticket.”
“Other witnesses, then? Passengers on the bus. Someone must have seen something.”
“One passenger thinks she saw the woman jump. But she wasn’t wearing her glasses so she’s not much use either way. And another passenger saw you. Fleeing the scene. Which is one reason why my lieutenant–”
“Is there a note?”
Harewood paused. “She left one at her home. In Mississippi. On her kitchen table. We got prints from the ME, pulled her ID, and asked the local PD to check her house. They found it right away.”
“Was the note typed?”
“No. It was handwritten. And signed. No red flags there.”
“What makes you think it’s genuine?”
Harewood retrieved his file, took out two sheets of paper, and handed them to Reacher. “The first is her most recent job application. The company she works – worked – for makes all their candidates fill in these forms by hand. Supposedly that reveals all kinds of hidden stuff about people’s personalities. Helps to weed out sociopaths and other undesirable characters. The second is her note.”
Reacher started with the job form. He didn’t have much experience with employment paperwork but what he read struck him as generic and banal. The first box was headed Please state your reasons for seeking this position. Angela’s writing was large and rounded and a little childish. She had claimed she wanted to help people. To build on the skills she had developed in previous roles. To make a contribution to the community at large. There was nothing to suggest she had been a stand-out candidate. Or that she was looking to work in a prison. It could have been an application for work as a dog warden. Or at a candy store.
The second sheet had no structure. No questions to answer or information to provide. It had started life as a regular piece of blank paper. The kind that gets used in printers and copiers in homes and offices all over the country. All over the world. Pumped out of giant factories by the million. Used and filed and forgotten. Or thrown away. Or shredded. Only this one had not wound up as something ordinary. Something trivial. The words began about an eighth of the way down, close to the edge. If you’re reading this, I’m sorry, but it’s because I’m dead…
Reacher compared the samples. The way the letters were formed. The size and the shape and the spacing. The punctuation. The phrasing. He factored in the passage of time. The effect of stress. He was no expert but he had to admit they did look like the work of the same person. He tucked the note back under the form where he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore, passed both pages to Harewood and said, “OK. Motive?”
“A love affair gone bad.”
“How do you figure?”
“Angela was an admin assistant at a prison. When we notified the local PD they contacted her work. It’s a private company. They have the right to monitor their employees’ personal email. It’s a security thing. Built into their contracts. Most people don’t know it’s there. Or they forget about it. So their IT guy pulled up her account. Standard procedure in the event of a sudden death. He found a message chain going back a few weeks. Evidently Angela wanted to rekindle an old flame. With an old boyfriend who lived near here. A guy named Roth. They set a rendezvous for Tuesday. Yesterday. She implied in her last email that if it didn’t work out, she didn’t want to live anymore. A little passive-aggressive, if you ask me.”
“Lived near here?”
“What?”
“You said the boyfriend lived.”
Harewood nodded. “Roth’s DOA. He had a heart attack.”
“When?”
“Monday night. Late. Maybe around midnight.”
“So this guy Roth died less than twelve hours before Angela was killed. You buy that as a coincidence?”
Harewood shrugged.
Reacher said, “Who found the body?”
“His ex-wife.”
“Where?”
“At his apartment. Yesterday morning. He was a big guy. As in ripped. Not fat. He had a home gym. He’d been working out. Which he did regularly. And then, bang. Game over. Just like that.”
“Steroids? Or whatever the latest thing is?”
“No indication of any.”
“Why was his ex-wife at his apartment?”
“For breakfast.”
“Is that normal?”
“For them, yes, apparently.”
“How did she get inside?”
“She has a key.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“I guess.”
“Maybe the ex was trying to get back into the picture. Found out about this reunion. Got jealous.”
Harewood shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’d been divorced ten years. She moved to the apartment next door when they split. Neighbors said they got on like brother and sister. Any kind of spark fizzled out years ago. There was no bad blood.”
“Had Roth had other relationships?”
Harewood shrugged.
Reacher said, “Did the ex know about his relationship with Angela?”
“We didn’t ask her about it. We had no reason to. Roth’s body was found before Angela got killed. We didn’t know anything about her until we pulled her out from under that bus.”
“So the ex didn’t confirm the rendezvous?”
“No. That’s not to say she didn’t know about it. But we already verified it another way.”
Harewood thumbed through his file, pulled out another piece of paper, and set it on the edge of the bed. Reacher wasn’t familiar with the format but he guessed it was a transcript of the emails that the Minerva IT guys had come up with. It was certainly made up of alternating messages between two people. He assumed they were Angela and Roth but the names weren’t shown in a way he could decipher. There were just bunches of letters and numbers with @ signs in the middle and .coms at the end. There were vertical lines at the left of the page, starting at the top of each separate message and running all the way down to the end of the last one. Each successive line was one space to the right so that the lowest message was all squashed up into less than half the width of the page. It was the oldest, from Angela. She had been putting out feelers about getting back together. Reacher could sense her excitement. Her trepidation. The newest message, at the top, written on Sunday morning, was also from Angela. The tone was flat. She sounded depressed. The tentative hope had faded away. All that was left was an undercurrent of despair. Plus a bunch of hints that she couldn’t carry on alone. Just as Harewood had reported.
Reacher put the paper down. “If Angela came here to meet Roth, where is her purse? Her car?”
Harewood took the paper and slipped it back into his file. “Her purse was in her car. Her car was in a parking lot. The first one you come to if you’re coming in from the east. Like she would have done.”
“I saw the guy take her purse. They must have dumped it in her car. Was there an envelope inside it?”
Harewood checked his notes. “No. There was a wallet. Keys. Some personal stuff. But no correspondence. Why?”
“Never mind. How do you account for the blood?”
“What blood?”
“On her purse. There was blood spatter all over one side of it.”