Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (8 page)

Kim headed straight for the restroom, feeling her shoes squeak as each step pressed water through the soles. Noxious fumes from a pine scented air freshener assaulted her when she pushed the door open. She flipped on the harsh overhead florescent and a roaring fan started up. She performed her tasks briskly while forcing herself to ignore the rust stains and broken toilet seat. She pulled a bit of toilet paper to protect her fingers when she flushed and held the handle down, as the note taped to the tank instructed.

Then she checked her reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. “You’re hopeless,” she told the face. “Be careful or you’ll scare small children.” She pressed the water out of her hair with her hands and washed without touching the nasty soap cake and refused to use the wrinkled pull-down cloth towel hanging from its dispenser near the door. She shook her hands by her sides to dry them as best she could, and then drew her fingers up inside her sleeve and pulled the door open to escape.

She slid onto the bench opposite Gaspar. He was full-on focused watching the diner, the parking lot, everything, like a predatory bird. God, she was tired. What she wouldn’t give for eight hours solid sleep. She’d be a new woman. But food first. She pulled napkins from a chrome holder and used them to dry her hands and pat the rain off her face. There was a two-foot round mirror on the opposite wall. It gave her a decent view of the room behind her. By moving her head slightly she could see the entrance, too. Not perfect. But good enough for government work.

A waitress walked over and put two laminated menus with curled corners down on the red plastic table top and asked, “Can I bring y’all some coffee while you decide what you want?”

“Absolutely,” Kim said, without looking up from the menu. One page with pictures of all-American diner food on both sides. Breakfast, lunch, desserts, and drinks. No dinner. No alcohol. No pre-packaged food. Ptomaine, she decided, was a real possibility.

“Wide selection here,” Gaspar said. “We can get our burgers with or without cheese. Or our cheese with or without burgers.”

“I didn’t take you for a vegetarian,” Kim said, and the waitress returned with the coffee. “What do you recommend, Mary? And can you leave the pot?”

Mary’s name was embroidered on her breast pocket. She seemed pleased that Kim had noticed and made the effort. She set the coffee pot down. She said, “I’d have the burger with cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Fries are good, if you like the crispy thin ones. Dill pickles.”

“Sold,” Kim said.

“Make it two,” Gaspar said.

“Be about fifteen minutes while I get it ready,” Mary told them, taking their menus and heading back to the kitchen to do the cooking.

“Low margin operation,” Gaspar said. He took the sugar jar and tipped it to pour about two ounces of sugar into the eight ounce cup. Kim wondered how he was going to get half a cup of cream in there, too. She took out her personal smart phone and saw a surprisingly strong signal, considering their location. She brought up a search engine. Typed “Major Jack Reacher” with one thumb. Waited for the search to complete.

“Figured it out yet?” Gaspar asked.

“Figured what out?”

“When exactly Black was shot.”

“Have you?”

“He’s not God. He doesn’t know everything.”

She blinked, shook her head quickly as if to clear the fog inside. “What?”

“How fast does the boss think?”

“Pretty damn fast,” Kim said.

“Exactly. Therefore Black was killed around three this morning. The boss put a plan in place and called us at four, so we’d be here when the call came in.”

“How did he delay the nine-one-one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he need us here at all?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the brains of the outfit. I thought we had established that already.”

Kim’s smart phone pinged. She looked at the screen for the results of her search. Nothing. She tried “Jack Reacher, U.S. Army,” and pressed search again.

She asked, “What else do you know?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I know what you know. I got a call. Told to fly to Atlanta, meet you, drive to Margrave. I got encrypted files identical to the four you got, I think, but you’re welcome to read them for yourself. The last one is about you. Name, rank, and serial number. And I’m guessing your last one is the same about me. The assignment is build the Reacher file for some secret project and keep it under the radar. I’m number two, you’re number one. Interview Chief Roscoe first, get to her before eleven thirty a.m. Met you at the airport. We’ve been together ever since. That’s it.”

Her phone pinged again. Still no results. She tried one more time, “Reacher, Jack,” and the phone pinged once more. No results. Reacher was a ghost. He didn’t exist. Or her equipment was faulty. She thought about it a couple of seconds and tried a name belonging to an actual flesh and blood person she had seen with her own eyes:
Beverly Roscoe.

She asked, “So is this whole Reacher thing a distraction?”

“It would be a very elaborate decoy, wouldn’t you say? Four files, and a guy we actually can’t find?”

“And the dead cop? The one with the killer-pretty wife wearing designer duds and packing pricey luggage? Is he the elaborate decoy instead?”

“He can’t be.”

“So how are they connected, Einstein?”

“I’d say ‘you tell me,’ but given the Vietnamese Inquisition here, I’m guessing you don’t know either. Right?”

She’d pushed, he shoved. Best defense is strong offense. Typical man. Good. Reactions she understood made her trust him a little more. She’d have been pissed off in his place, but she’d have concealed her anger, which was much more sensible.

Mary chose that moment to deliver two overflowing blue melamine platters. Kim felt the heat of the food rise up to her face and the mouth-watering aroma started her stomach growling again. “This looks amazing,” she said.

Mary stood by while Kim and Gaspar examined their meals. Kim pressed the bun, delighted by its freshness. Mary might have just baked it. Burgers juicy, lettuce crisp, ripe tomato as thick as a slice of bread, and a thick raw onion slice she’d remove when Mary turned her back. Plenty of calories to sustain Kim for a week.

“I added the Vidalia. You would have ordered it if you were from around here. You can take it off, but after you taste it, you won’t want to,” Mary told them, displaying obvious pride in her creation. “Try mustard on the fries. That’s the way I like ’em. Save room for pie. Lemon ice box. Made it this morning. Can I freshen your coffee?”

Once she had them settled with their food to her satisfaction, Mary said, “I’m sorry to say this, but we close at three.” She pointed to a round clock above the soda machine behind the counter. It was showing 2:40. “Normally I could stay later, but I’ve got to pick up my boy this afternoon. His daddy can’t make it and I can’t leave him by himself. I don’t mean to rush you, though. Y’all let me know if you need anything else.”

“We’ll do that,” Gaspar said.

Kim watched Mary’s reflection as she retreated to her stool near the kitchen where she pulled a yellow pencil from behind her ear and returned to her newspaper puzzle.

“German inquisition,” she said.

Gaspar looked up from his food. “What?”

“I’m no more Vietnamese than you are.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“Born and raised right here in the U.S. of A. One hundred percent American.”

“Me, too. So what? I’m still Cuban. And proud of it.”

“Sure. I get that. That’s my point. I’m still German. Too bad for you. Germans are a lot more stubborn than Vietnamese. We’re more focused, too.”

“I noticed.”

She said, “Mary’s right about the Vidalia onion, though. Fair warning: I’m eating it.”

“Me, too,” he said, and shrugged, as if they were stuck with each other and might as well make the best of it. Mary came back with two slices of lemon pie, a fresh pot of coffee and a new set of issues. “I’m sorry about the rush. If I could stay, I’d do it, really I would. But I just can’t. I brought you the pie on the house to make up for being so rude. And I brought cups if you want to take the coffee to go. Here’s your check,” she said. “I wouldn’t even charge you, but I’d get fired if my boss found out. I hope y’all don’t mind.” Mary’s apology, like everything else about her, was excessive but genuine.

“No worries,” Kim said. “Really. We’ve got to get on the road, anyway.”

Gaspar pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Number Two pays and keeps the expense records. More paperwork Kim didn’t have to do. She was getting to like being Number One. Gaspar rooted around and unearthed a damp, tri-folded hundred from under the billfold flap.

He said, “I’m sorry. I thought I had something smaller, but my kids must have raided my wallet again.” He flattened the hundred, laid it on top of the check, and handed both to Mary. “It’s old, but it’s still good. I hope you have change?”

Mary stared at the Franklin as if he’d handed her a dead frog or maybe a live snake. Her face transformed from apologetic to confused to shocked. She squinted out the window checking the parking lot. Only two vehicles were there: the Traverse they’d arrived in and the green Saturn, presumably hers. Both were engulfed in the continuing monsoon.

“Something wrong?” Gaspar asked.

“I’m not supposed to make change for a hundred,” Mary said so quietly Kim could barely hear her.

“I can give you a credit card if you want, but it seems silly to do that for a twelve dollar lunch tab.” His voice trailed off when he, too, noticed Mary was close to panic.

What the hell?

Kim wiped the mustard and salt off her fingers with her napkin, reached into her pocket, and took out a twenty she’d gotten from the ATM in Atlanta. She handed it to Mary. “Here. Use this. He can pay me back later.”

“That’s great. I’ll be right back.” Mary took the twenty, pinching both bills and the check between thumb and forefinger, and rushed off to the kitchen.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Gaspar asked.

“Maybe she closed the register already. It’s 2:58, according to their clock.” Kim drank coffee while they waited for Mary’s return with the change. Gaspar remained alert. For what, Kim couldn’t say.

Mary didn’t come back.

Gaspar said quietly, “There’s something happening here.”

Kim looked up, saw nothing new in the mirror. “Where?”

“GHP cruiser in the lot. Two guys inside, not one. Roscoe said GHP rides one to a car unless they need back up.”

Kim looked outside and watched the GHP car park between the Traverse and the diner’s door. “Maybe they don’t know the place closes at three.”

Both officers exited the car. Burly. At least 6’3” and 250 pounds each. Either end of any decent college football team was smaller. They moved through the rain side by side like they had a purpose. Each one held a shotgun.

Gaspar said, “I’m guessing they’re not here for the Vidalia onions.”

“Probably not.”

“Less than ten seconds. Are you ready?” Gaspar asked.

She set her cup down. Wiped her hands. Put her napkin on the table. She noticed she’d never picked up her phone after the last internet search and she couldn’t remember whether she’d checked the results. No time for that now. She positioned the phone in the breast pocket of her jacket and pressed the application button to record and send video to the remote FBI server, just in case.

“I’ll lead. I’d rather not shoot anybody today,” she said, looking out the window. The twin towers seemed to glide through the rain curtain as if a moving sidewalk carried them relentlessly forward instead of their feet.

Gaspar placed both of his hands on the table top, in full view. She did the same. He asked, “Have you ever shot anybody?”

Kim didn’t answer. She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Only the trick of reflection and perspective made them seem to grow larger with each step, right?

The two men entered the diner single file out of necessity. No way two sets of those shoulders could pass through the door frame at the same time, even without the shotguns.

At the T, they peeled off. One moved toward the kitchen; the other approached, shotgun raised and ready. He stopped across the tile directly parallel to their table, set his legs shoulder width apart as if he was bracing to shoot. He stood out of reach, but left space for Kim and Gaspar to exit the booth and stand. Which they did. Slowly. Hands in the air, palms out. Before being asked.

“Officer…Leach,” Kim said, facing him because of the camera in her pocket, reading his name plate for the audio, like she’d been trained. “Do you know who we are?”

Leach said nothing, which was not normal law enforcement procedure anywhere.

“I’ve got I.D. in my pocket,” Kim said. “I’m going to pull it out and show it to you. OK?” The guy nodded. Once. Kim said, “I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t shoot me.” She kept her left hand raised, and reached slowly into her pocket with her right and pulled out her ID wallet. She showed him her badge and her photograph.

He looked. Said nothing. Kept the shotgun steady.

“I’m FBI Special Agent Otto,” Kim said. “This is my partner, FBI Special Agent Gaspar. Would you like to see his ID too?”

Leach nodded once. Gaspar repeated Kim’s actions. Leach repeated his.

“What’s this about?” Kim asked him.

He said nothing.

“You are holding a federal officer at gunpoint, sir. You realize that? What you’re doing is a federal crime. Do you understand?”

Leach kept his eyes open, his mouth shut, and his shotgun pointed.

What the hell?

Kim looked over at Gaspar and he shrugged as if to say, “Now what?”

According to the diner’s clock, four minutes had passed since Gaspar noticed the GHP unit in the lot outside. Her arms were tired. She’d never actually been ordered to raise them, so she lowered them again. Gaspar did the same thing. Leach showed no reaction. He just stood there, braced, shotgun pointed, staring, silent. Everybody waited. For what, she didn’t know.

Six minutes later, the second GHP officer emerged from the kitchen and strode down the aisle. He stopped two steps north of the first guy. His name tag said Leach, too. Brothers?