“Can’t hurt, I suppose. But I still don’t think he’ll come.”
“Assume he will. The question is, how? He doesn’t have a car. He can’t rent one because he doesn’t have a license.”
“He could steal one.”
“That’s possible. What else?”
“Someone he knows could drive him. Or he could hitch a ride with a stranger.”
“Possible. What else?”
“He could go old school. Take the bus. If he could afford a ticket. There’s a Greyhound station in Jackson. That must be the closest.”
“He could do that, I guess. In a pinch. Time would be tight if he hasn’t already set off. What else?”
Brockman was quiet for a moment. “That’s all I got.”
“OK. So here’s what I need you to do. Put two men on the Greyhound station in Jackson. Have them check every bus that comes in from anywhere west of here. Also put two men at the truck stop on I-20. If the guy tries to hitch a ride, what are the chances of finding one driver going all the way from Colorado to Winson? Zero. He’ll need to get multiple rides. The final pickup would have to be quite a distance away. Everyone knows better than to stop for hitchhikers near a prison. Put two more men at the intersection with US 61, in case he tries his luck there instead. And two more where there’s construction on US 87, halfway from Jackson. In case the guy stole a car or got a ride with a friend. It’s down to one lane, right there. And it’s slow. Easy to see who’s driving. Or being driven.”
“That’s a lot of manpower.”
“There’s a lot at stake.”
“What about the prison? And Angela’s house? Do we still watch them?”
“Of course. There’s no guarantee the guy won’t slip through.”
“That’s even more manpower.”
“We don’t have a choice. Pull a couple of guards out of each unit. Minerva people only. No legacy grunts. Cancel days off and double enough other shifts to pick up the slack. And find the biggest man we’ve got. Hold him in reserve. The idiots we sent to Colorado as well. If anyone calls in a sighting have them check it. If the ID is positive, dispatch them. Make sure the guy is properly neutralized this time.”
“If they get there fast enough. And if our guys spot him. They’re going to be stretched pretty thin.”
“I have an idea about that. Some insurance, in case he does somehow get through. Something that’ll throw him off the scent. I’ll take care of it while you handle the other logistics.”
“Understood. And I’ll tell Moseley to send out extra patrols. And make sure all his units have this Reacher guy’s description.”
“OK. But I want the cops on a watching brief only. We need to handle this ourselves. No official record. And, Damon? Double-check everything. Triple-check it. Make sure everyone is at the top of their game. You know what will happen if anything gets screwed up on Friday.”
Chapter 15
Sam Roth’s apartment building looked just like all the others on its block. Two stories. Stone fronted. Solid but plain. Nice but ordinary. There was nothing to suggest a man had died there within the last thirty-six hours.
Maybe from natural causes.
Maybe not.
Detective Harewood said Roth’s death was caused by a heart attack. There was nothing suspicious about that. People die from heart disease all the time. Nearly seven hundred thousand people every year in the United States. More than the population of Vermont. More than one every forty-six seconds.
If heart disease had been the only factor Reacher might not have been so skeptical. If Roth had not been fit and accustomed to exercise. If Harewood’s lieutenant had not been lazy. If Roth had not died hours before he was due to meet Angela St. Vrain. If Angela had not been murdered…
Too many ifs, Reacher thought. And too few answers.
The buildings fronted onto a wide, leafy street but the entrances were around back on a strip that was too small to be called a road but too nice to be called an alley. It was neatly paved. Clean and tidy. There were trees and shrubs. Most of the homes had sun terraces or decks on that side. Roth’s building had two terraces, covered for shade, with a pair of doors between them. Both were painted blue. The same shade of navy. There was a parking space on each side. Both were occupied. One by a truck, all red paint and chrome and black glass. The other by a small hatchback. It was silver and sleek and a thick cable snaked from a flap on its rear wing to a box on the wall by the left-hand door.
Roth’s apartment was on the right, according to the address Harewood had provided. Reacher knocked on the door to the left. He almost hoped no one would answer. Breaking the news that somebody’s loved one was dead was a miserable job. Reacher knew from experience. He also knew that suggesting somebody’s loved one might have been murdered was almost as bad.
The door jerked open after two long minutes. A woman stood in the entrance. She was wearing three-quarter-length white pants and a plain blue T-shirt. She had nothing on her feet. Her hair was blond, streaked with a little gray, maybe shoulder length. She had it pulled back and tied in a ponytail with a plain elastic band. Her face was ghostly pale except for the deep red circles under her eyes. Reacher figured she would be in her mid-forties, although the circumstances made it hard to judge.
The woman took a moment to size Reacher up then said, “Sam’s not here. He’s…”
“I know,” Reacher said. “I’m not looking for Sam. I need to talk to you.”
The woman looked blank. “About Sam. You see, something happened and, Sam, he’s…”
“It’s OK. I know about Sam. Are you Hannah? Hannah Hampton?”
The woman blinked, then nodded. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Reacher.”
“What do you want?”
“Do you know a woman called Angela St. Vrain?”
“Angela? Oh God. I should tell her about Sam.”
“You do know her?”
“Know her? Knew her? Haven’t seen her for years. She moved to Mississippi. Oh God, Danny. I should tell him, too.”
“Danny?”
“Danny Peel. He moved out there, too. He got Angela her job.”
“Did Sam know Angela?”
“Of course. They worked together. A few years ago. Sam was her boss. More of a mentor, really.”
“Did Sam know Danny?”
Hannah nodded.
Reacher said, “Did they keep in touch?”
“Danny, not so much. Angela, off and on. She sometimes reaches out to Sam for advice. With work, mainly. Why all these questions?”
“Had Sam and Angela been in touch recently?”
Hannah paused. “Over the weekend. She sent him some stuff on email.”
“Work stuff? Or personal?”
“Work.”
“Did Sam say what it was?”
“Some dumb accounting thing. Angela didn’t know what to do about it. She was in a state. She was often in a state. Sam shouldn’t have gotten involved this time. I said to him, tell her to figure it out for herself. He had more than enough on his plate. But no. That was Sam. He would never turn his back on a friend.”
“What kind of accounting thing?”
“I don’t know. Something about a number that didn’t add up. Sam didn’t go into detail.” Hannah was silent for a moment. “Wait. What’s all this about? You’re starting to freak me out. What’s going on with Angela? And what’s it to you? Tell me or I’m done answering questions.”
Reacher paused. “Hannah, I have some news. About Angela. It’s not good news. Is there somewhere we could sit?”
Hannah took a step back. “Who are you, again?”
“My name’s Reacher. Do you remember Detective Harewood? You spoke with him yesterday after you found Sam. I’m sure he left you a card. Call him. He’ll vouch for me.”