Without Fail Read Free Page A

we got gas money to head up to New York, maybe get us a gig from B. B. King in Times Square, resurrect our careers. Guy like you could make a big difference in that department, count on it.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “Of course, I can see you being worried,” the old guy said. “Management like that, bound to be some unsavory characters lurking in the background.”
    Reacher smiled at the subtlety.
    “What are you, anyway?” the old guy asked. “Some kind of a boxer?”
    “No,” Reacher said. “No kind of a boxer.”
    “Wrestler?” the old guy asked. He said it wrassler . “Like on cable television?”
    “No.”
    “You’re big enough, that’s for damn sure,” the old guy said. “Plenty big enough to help us out, if you wanted to.”
    He said it he’p . No front teeth. Reacher said nothing.
    “What are you, anyway?” the old guy asked again.
    “I was a military cop,” Reacher said. “In the Army, thirteen years.”
    “You quit?”
    “As near as makes no difference.”
    “No jobs for you folks afterward?”
    “None that I want,” Reacher said.
    “You live in L.A.?”
    “I don’t live anywhere,” Reacher said. “I move around.”
    “So road folk should stick together,” the old guy said. “Simple as that. Help each other. Keep it a mutual thing.”
    He’p each other .
    “It’s very cold here,” Reacher said.
    “That’s for damn sure,” the old guy said. “But you could buy a coat.”
    So he was on a windswept corner with the sea gale flattening his pants against his legs, making a final decision. The highway, or a coat store? He ran a brief fantasy through his head, La Jolla maybe, a cheap room, warm nights, bright stars, cold beer. Then: the old woman at B. B. King’s new club in New York, some retro-obsessed young A&R man stops by, gives her a contract, she makes a CD, she gets a national tour, a sidebar in Rolling Stone , fame, money, a new house. A new car . He turned his back on the highway and hunched against the wind and walked east in search of a clothing store.

    On that particular Monday there were nearly twelve thousand FDIC-insured banking organizations licensed and operating inside the United States and between them they carried over a thousand million separate accounts, but only one of them was listed against UNSUB ’s name and Social Security number. It was a simple checking account held at a branch of a regional bank in Arlington, Virginia. M. E. Froelich stared at the branch’s business address in surprise. That’s less than four miles from where I’m sitting right now . She copied the details onto her yellow paper. Picked up her phone and called a senior colleague on the other side of the organization and asked him to contact the bank in question for all the details he could get. Especially a home address. She asked him to be absolutely as fast as possible, but discreet, too. And completely off the record. Then she hung up and waited, anxious and frustrated about being temporarily hands-off. Problem was, the other side of the organization could ask banks discreet questions quite easily, whereas for Froelich to do so herself would be regarded as very odd indeed.

    Reacher found a discount store three blocks nearer the ocean and ducked inside. It was narrow but ran back into the building a couple of hundred feet. There were fluorescent tubes all over the ceiling and racks of garments stretching as far as the eye could see. Seemed to be women’s stuff on the left, children’s in the center, and men’s on the right. He started in the far back corner and worked forward.
    There were all kinds of coats commercially available, that was for damn sure. The first two rails had short padded jackets. No good . He went by something an old Army buddy had told him: a good coat is like a good lawyer. It covers your ass . The third rail was more promising. It had neutral-colored thigh-length canvas coats made bulky by thick flannel linings. Maybe there was some wool in there.