Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers Read online

  “And?”

  Audition time. First duty of a number two was to make his number one feel confident in his competence. Second duty was to get a little competition going. He said, “I’m not sure why we got the call at four in the morning. Seven would have been OK. Flights into Atlanta from other major U.S. cities are not rare. So what’s the rush? And the target file asks more questions than it answers. No IRS, nothing from the banks, no debts or loans or liens, no titles to houses or cars or boats or trailers, no arrest record, no convictions major or minor, no rent rolls, no landline or cell, ever, no ISP data, and he’s not in prison. He’s not in witness protection or undercover for any of the other three-letter agencies, or why would we be looking for him? We’d already know where he is. So either his file is mostly redacted, or he’s the most under-the-radar guy who ever lived.”

  Otto was quiet for a moment. Bull’s-eye, Gaspar thought. Home run. He’d seen everything she had. He’d missed nothing.

  “I’m not sure I like him,” she said.

  “We don’t have to like him.”

  They drove onward into the heartland. The Traverse was an underpowered piece of shit, and the tires were all wrong for concrete. Gaspar wished Otto had asked for a sedan. He would have.

  She asked, “Can a person be so far under the radar?”

  He said, “It’s difficult. But if you put your mind to it, I imagine it’s possible.”

  “You think he’s a good candidate?”

  “Ideal. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m not sure I like that either.”

  “Above our pay grade,” Gaspar said.

  He came off the Interstate, down the ramp, around the cloverleaf. Fourteen miles to town. On the right, a burned-out warehouse. It had been that way for years, for as long as Gaspar could remember. Then on the left, much later, a diner. Then the police station, rebuilt quick and dirty after a fire. He pulled in and parked. They went inside. There was a sergeant behind a desk. Gaspar stepped up and said, “We need to speak with Chief Roscoe. Or Trent. I’m not sure what she goes by now.”

  Behind him, Otto tapped her foot. Quietly, but he heard it. She was annoyed. She had wanted to speak first. But tough shit. It was the number two’s job to clear the way. Everyone knew that.

  The guy behind the desk asked, “Who are you?”

  Gaspar said, “FBI.” He pulled his badge and held it out.

  The guy behind the desk said, “Down the hall, second on the right.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kim Otto watched Carlos Gaspar’s retreating back as he hustled toward Chief Roscoe’s office, widening the physical distance between them. The big clock on the wall above the sergeant’s head showed ten past eleven. Their first objective had been precise: arrive in Roscoe’s office before 11:30 a.m. Done. With twenty minutes to spare.

  So now what? Build the Reacher file, obviously, but aside from the boss’s order to start with Roscoe, they didn’t know what they were looking for, or how they might find it, and it was always a mistake to get ahead of the intel. But given Reacher’s talent for trouble, it was likely Chief Roscoe possessed not only relevant but potentially important knowledge about him, which she might reveal in a well conducted personal interview, but not otherwise. These things needed patience. And thought. But long before Kim even reached the office door, Gaspar rapped his knuckles on the wood and opened it up without waiting for a reply.

  “Chief Roscoe? Sorry to barge in,” he said, as he barreled across the threshold sounding not the least bit sorry. “I’m Carlos Gaspar, FBI.”

  Kim got there just as Margrave Police Chief Beverly Roscoe was rising from the oversized brown leather chair behind her desk. She was taller than Kim, but then, who wasn’t? And she was more attractive than the headshot in her file, but again, who wasn’t? She was slim and not at all flat-chested. She had a caramel complexion. She had dark curly hair cut with a big-city style, falling all over her face. She had remarkable dark eyes. They were accented like a child’s drawing of the sun by whiter skin dashing out toward her temples. Maybe some Native American or African-American heritage. Roscoe’s family was said to have lived in north Georgia for more than a hundred years; either ethnicity was plausible.

  Kim said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Otto.” She handed over her ID. She said, “We’d appreciate a few minutes of your time if you can spare them, Chief Roscoe.”

  “OK,” Roscoe said. She took Kim’s wallet and waited while Gaspar dug his out. She examined both sets of credentials carefully and used her phone to summon the sergeant from the front desk. He came in and she said, “Brent, make copies of these and bring them back to me.”

  The sergeant said, “Yes, ma’am,” and closed the door behind him. Roscoe waved Kim and Gaspar toward two green leather chairs across the desk. Roscoe pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. She rested both forearms on one knee, hands loosely clasped. She was wearing a platinum wedding ring. Fourteen years married, her file said. The ceremony had taken place the year after Reacher presumably passed through Margrave.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  The words were appropriate but the vibe was part annoyance, part worry. No small town police chief appreciated a surprise visit from the FBI, especially on a Monday morning. Agents in her office meant unexpected trouble on the way, or maybe right there in her jurisdiction already. Neither the FBI nor the trouble was welcome at any time, but especially not on Mondays.

  “We won’t take up too much of your day, Chief,” Gaspar said, a long sentence, spoken slowly. He was stalling. He didn’t know what they were looking for any more than Kim did.

  Roscoe said, “I’m busy. This is a small shop and my day sergeant didn’t show up this morning. Sergeant Brent is on overtime as it is.”

  “When Sergeant Brent gets back, we’ll get started,” Gaspar said. “We don’t want to be interrupted.”

  Still stalling.

  Roscoe looked at the round-faced silver watch on her left wrist. It had numbers big enough to read from Kim’s position on the opposite side of the desk. It showed 11:15 a.m.

  “How late is he?” Gaspar asked.

  “Who?” Roscoe asked.

  “Your sergeant who didn’t come in today. What time did his shift start?”

  “Seven thirty this morning. My budget being what it is, I don’t have a backup. So I really don’t have a lot of time to spare. Let’s risk the interruption. What’s up?”

  Gaspar didn’t reply to that. Neither did Kim. Something about the office was nagging at her. Something odd. What was it? She scanned the room, unobtrusively, observing each detail.

  She noticed the scents first. A familiar but faded memory. Ahhh. Lingering traces of Old Spice and the faint wisp of Irish Spring bath soap. Both from the private bathroom in the corner behind the door. The office smelled like her father’s den, a dark-paneled man-cave. In fact, everything about Roscoe’s home away from home screamed Boston Brahmin instead of Margrave Top Cop.

  Not just odd, Kim decided. Downright weird.

  In the man’s world of law enforcement’s upper ranks, females in the top spot were as scarce as an innocent felon. Even in small towns like Margrave close to big cities like Atlanta. Roscoe had no doubt achieved her status through years of hard work and sheer grit. She’d never have made it otherwise. Roscoe had every right to be proud of herself.

  Yet, she’d owned the office for eight years without making it hers? Under the same circumstances, Kim would have redecorated in eight minutes. Of course, Kim wouldn’t have stayed in any job for eight years, either. Up or out was a better career strategy. Yet Roscoe was still here. Had she topped out?

  Kim double checked. Scanned the entire room again. Confirmed she’d been right the first time. The room contained nothing personal except one photograph of a younger Roscoe with a Navy man in uniform. The husband, probably. No pictures of her kids. The file said she had a girl of fourteen and a boy of eleven.

  The rest of the photo wall was
all grip-and-grins: Roscoe with the Governor; Roscoe with the current Mayor of Atlanta and the prior one as well; Roscoe with Jimmy Carter. But the last one was the money shot: Roscoe with a large, attractive black guy dressed in a tweed sport-coat and sweater vest.

  Bingo.

  Kim recognized him immediately, from his file photo: Lamont Finlay, Ph.D. Interview subject number two. A Harvard man. The guy who had decorated this office, clearly. Roscoe’s predecessor as chief. Maybe her mentor, too. Were they still connected? Such that she couldn’t bear to erase his presence?

  Weird, but good to know. A possible angle. Kim hadn’t pegged Roscoe as the sentimental type. A clearer picture of the woman was emerging.

  She said, “Nice office, Chief Roscoe.”

  “Thank you,” Roscoe said. She didn’t invite Kim to dispense with the formal title.

  Sergeant Brent came back with the ID wallets. He was lanky, with red hair and a freckled face. He seemed young for his job. He put the photocopies on Roscoe’s desk and handed the originals back to their owners. His forearms below his uniform shirt’s short sleeves were covered by a wild tangle of red hair. Even his fingers were freckled.

  “Any chance we could get a cup of coffee?” Gaspar asked him.

  Brent looked to his boss. Roscoe nodded.

  “How do you like it?” Brent asked.

  “Four sugars,” Gaspar said.

  Brent looked horrified, as if no real man, let alone an FBI Special Agent, would so pollute a cup of joe.

  “What?” Gaspar said. “I have a sweet tooth. Something wrong with that?”

  Brent seemed to realize Gaspar was baiting him. He grinned, and Gaspar added, “And maybe a couple of jelly donuts?”

  Brent laughed out loud. Roscoe sat quiet. Brent turned to Kim for her order. She said, “You wouldn’t have chicory coffee, would you?”

  His freckled face reflected genuine sorrow. “I wish we did, ma’am,” he said. “I haven’t had chicory since my Louisiana grandma died.”

  “Don’t worry. Regular black will be fine for me.”

  As if to compensate for his chicory failure, Brent asked, “Want a jelly donut, too?”

  “You’re a bad influence, I can tell,” she said. He bowed his head shyly. He was just a kid. Early twenties, max. She said, “But if only all men were so thoughtful,” and shot a mock glare at Gaspar.

  “You’re killing me, boss,” Gaspar said.

  Brent left, and Roscoe said, “OK, you made a friend there. Mission accomplished. Nicely done. But I’m older and wiser. How can I help you?”

  No one spoke, and Brent brought the coffee and donuts and left again, closing the door quietly behind him. Kim lifted her mug and took a deep, appreciative whiff before she sipped and held on for a second sip.

  “How can I help you?” Roscoe asked again.

  “This is great coffee,” Kim said, still stalling. She flashed through what she knew about Roscoe, searching for a non-threatening opening.

  Gaspar picked the wrong one.

  He asked, “You got kids?”

  The question pushed Roscoe’s hot button. Kim saw it happen. Roscoe’s carotid pulse thumped hard on the side of her neck. Kim counted twenty-five beats in ten seconds, 150 beats a minute. Fast, like she was sprinting toward a fire.

  Professional tone steady, Roscoe said, “Look, if you’re going to be in town a while, you can take me out for a drink after work one day and try your very best bonding techniques. But until then, I’m busy, as I believe I mentioned. So don’t try to butter me up. If you’ve got some bad news, just hop right to it, OK?”

  Kim responded before Gaspar could jump the rails again. She said, “This is not a law enforcement visit, Chief. We’re hoping you can give us some direction, that’s all. Because we don’t know where to start, actually. We’re looking for information.”

  As bland as possible, just a favor, one officer to another.

  Roscoe asked, “What kind of information do you need?”

  Kim saw wariness in those big, dark eyes. Pulse still pounding. But tone not so hostile. Maybe a little progress.

  “Agent Gaspar and I are assigned to the FBI Specialized Personnel Task Force.”

  “Which is what?”

  Roscoe’s pulse slowed a few beats. Kim counted twenty in ten seconds. Still rapid, but better. Like calming any wild thing, Kim sought to lull through non-threatening routine. Since 9/11, law enforcement personnel never resisted any halfway plausible FBI request, whether they understood its basis or not. Few outside the agency knew its inner workings or expected transparency in the relentless war on terror.

  “We conduct candidate background investigations. It’s our job to build the file. Supplement sketchy records. Get a clear picture. So the folks upstairs can make informed decisions.”

  “I was asking what kind of specialized personnel you’re dealing with.”

  Still wary. Had this woman been burned before? Kim counted fifteen pulse beats in ten seconds. Better.

  “Potential candidates to serve in situations where no current FBI expertise exists.”

  “Such as?”

  Roscoe was pressing harder than cops usually did. Kim might have done the same, but only if she had something to hide. She said, “I can’t speak for the entire SPTF, but I’ve worked up files for interpreters of uncommon languages, for example. Or forensic accountants in niche businesses. Or scientists who can identify obscure chemicals. Things that don’t require permanent expertise inside the bureau.”

  “Routine, then.”

  “Mostly.”

  Roscoe nodded. She didn’t ask why the FBI had failed to make an appointment to see her. There should have been an appointment, if the meeting was routine. Instead she said, “I gather these candidates don’t have security clearances already?”

  Which was an astute question. Reacher had a security clearance once, according to his file. Beverly Roscoe and Lamont Finlay had one, too. As did Daniel Trent, Roscoe’s husband, for that matter.

  “Usually not,” Kim replied. She watched the pulse in Roscoe’s neck now at a steady five to six beats in ten seconds. Resting pulse rate lower than fifty-five under normal conditions. Good for a woman of Roscoe’s age.

  As a test, Kim added, “When an existing security clearance is available, it makes our job easier, of course. Then all we need to do is update.”

  The pulse jumped to one-twenty again. Whatever Roscoe concealed burrowed deep into its hiding place, but it didn’t feel safe there.

  “As I said, I’m happy to help if I can,” Roscoe said. Then she hesitated, just slightly, but Kim noticed the held breath before the question. “Who is it you’re interested in?”

  Kim glanced at Gaspar. He signaled agreement with a slight nod. They’d get nowhere with Chief Roscoe today unless they could shake her loose a little. If they had to come back another time, she’d have her answers sanded to smooth uselessness.

  Now or never.

  “We’ve been asked to conduct a background check on an army veteran,” Kim said, slowly, watching Roscoe’s demeanor closely. Almost like the children’s game of hot, hot, cold, but the method depended less on what Roscoe said and more on how she reacted. Standard interview techniques Kim had applied a thousand times. If Roscoe was worried about anyone not an army veteran, she should relax a bit.

  But she didn’t relax.

  Gaspar bluffed. “We know he came to Margrave about fifteen years ago. Maybe he lives here now. Law enforcement might have had some contact with him.”

  Pulse elevated and steady at one-twenty. Something Gaspar had said had alarmed Chief Roscoe further. Good.

  Roscoe said, “Our population has grown quite a bit because of sprawl out of Atlanta. But I’d know anyone who’s lived here more than a few months. What’s his name?”

  The way she inquired, the tension she carried in her eyes and shoulders, the timing, her failure to breathe. Pulse at one-twenty-five. Very concerned. But the greater Atlanta area boasted a significant veteran
population. She could be worried about someone else entirely.

  But Kim had noted that fifteen men were referenced in the materials received from the boss. And only two women: Reacher’s mother, now dead two decades.

  And the first source: Beverly Roscoe.

  Not identified by her married name, either. Roscoe, not Trent. The name she had when Reacher swept through Margrave. The name she still used on every official record. In an old-fashioned small town where everybody knew she was Mrs. Trent.

  Kim set her coffee mug on the table between her chair and Gaspar’s. She wiped her hands. She reached into her pocket for the photograph.

  “Here, let me show you,” Kim said, as she lifted her gaze directly to Roscoe’s face, watching for nuanced micro movements, lowering her voice to focus Roscoe’s full attention while she revealed the photo, and she said, “The man’s name is Jack Reacher.”

  Roscoe’s face aged instantly. The formal smile she’d worn a moment before vanished along with all vitality from those enormous eyes. Her expression became both vacant and horrified.

  A full second passed. Maybe two. Roscoe continued to stare at the altered photo of Jack Reacher. Her pulse was erratic, racing.

  And then she started to cry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tears flooded Roscoe’s eyes. One rolled down her cheek before she grabbed a tissue. The tears kept on coming. Her chin quivered. She took a deep ragged breath, and another. Still the tears fell. She swiveled her chair around, turning her back on Kim and Gaspar, hiding her face. They could hear her rhythmic breathing, struggling to regain control.

  She was like the hundreds of crime victims Kim had interviewed after unimaginable, tragic, deeply personal disasters. What the hell had Reacher done to her? Nothing in Reacher’s file reflected violence against women, although he was certainly capable of it. The bastard. Why hadn’t she considered that Reacher might have hurt this woman?

  Kim glanced toward Gaspar. Blatant emotion had not been on his list of expected reactions, either. What should they do now? Gaspar didn’t seem to have a clue.