rubber. And cars, rivers of cars, floods of cars. He saw a new Rolls-Royce and an old Citroën DS, both black. A bloodred MGA and a pastel blue ’57 Thunderbird, both open. A yellow 1960 Corvette nose-to-tail with a green 2007 model. He figured if you watched LA traffic long enough you would see one of every automobile ever manufactured.
The driver took the 101 north and exited a block from Sunset. Reacher got out on the off-ramp and paid the fare. Hiked south and turned left and faced east. He knew Sunset had a dense knot of cheap places right there, both sides of the boulevard, covering about three-quarters of a mile. The air was southern California warm and smelled of dust and gasoline fumes. He stood still. He had a potential mile-and-a-half walk ahead of him, down and back, and a dozen motel desks to canvass. An hour-long task, maybe more. He was hungry. He could see a Denny’s sign ahead and on the right. A chain diner. He decided to eat first and work later.
He walked past parked cars and vacant lots boxed in by hurricane fencing. Stepped over trash and softball-sized tumbleweeds. Recrossed the 101 on a long bridge. Entered the Denny’s lot by cutting across a grass shoulder and the drive-through lane. Walked past a long line of windows.
Saw Frances Neagley inside, sitting alone in a booth.
5
Reacher stood for a moment in the parking lot and watched Neagley through the window. She hadn’t changed much in the four years since he had last seen her. She had to be nearer forty than thirty now, but it wasn’t showing. Her hair was still long and dark and shiny. Her eyes were still dark and alive. She was still slim and lithe. Still spending serious time in the gym. That was clear. She was wearing a tight white T-shirt with tiny cap sleeves and it would have taken an electron microscope to find any body fat on her arms. Or anyplace else.
She was a little tan, which looked good with her coloring. Her nails were done. Her T-shirt looked like a quality item. Overall she looked richer than he remembered her. Comfortable, at home in her world, successful, accustomed to the civilian life. For a moment he felt awkward about his own cheap clothes and his scuffed shoes and his bad barbershop haircut. Like she was making it, and he wasn’t. Then the pleasure of seeing an old friend swamped the thought and he walked on through the lot to the door. Went in and stepped past the Please Wait to Be Seated sign and slid straight into her booth. She looked up at him across the table and smiled.
“Hello,” she said.
“To you, too,” he said.
“Want lunch?”
“That was my plan.”
“So let’s order, now you’re finally here.”
He said, “You sound like you were waiting for me.”
“I was. And you’re about on time.”
“Am I?”
Neagley smiled again. “You called my office guy from Portland, Oregon. He saw the caller ID. Traced it to a pay phone at the bus depot. We figured you’d head straight for the airport. Then I figured you’d take United. You must hate Alaska Airlines. Then a cab ride here. Your ETA was easy enough to predict.”
“You knew I would come here? To this diner?”
“Like you taught me, back in the day.”
“I didn’t teach you anything.”
“You did,” Neagley said. “Remember? Think like them, be them. So I was being you being me. You’d figure I’d head for Hollywood. You’d start right here on Sunset. But there’s no meal on United from Portland, so I figured you’d be hungry and want to eat first. There are a couple of possible places on the block but this one has the biggest sign and you’re no gourmet. So I decided to meet you here.”
“Meet me here? I thought I was tracking you.”
“You were. And I was tracking you tracking me.”
“ Are you staying here? In Hollywood?”
She shook her head. “Beverly Hills. The Wilshire.”
“So you came out here just to scoop me up?”
“I got here ten minutes ago.”
“The Beverly Wilshire? You’ve
Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath