“They were doing an address check.”
“On Aaron Shevick. And who was observed flirting with the waitress outside of whose house two more guys just disappeared?”
“Aaron Shevick.”
“No such thing as a coincidence.”
“Who is he?”
“Someone is paying him. To set you and Dino at each other’s throat. So that we destroy each other. So the someone can take over.”
“Who?”
“Shevick will tell us. When we find him.”
* * *
—
The Albanians hauled the smoking wreck to the crusher, and then they started asking around. The inner council. The top boys. Unused to legwork. Their question was fairly simple. Did you see a two-vehicle convoy, one of which was a Lincoln Town Car? No one lied to them. They were pretty sure about that. Folks had seen what happened to people who lied to them. Instead everyone racked their brains. But results were disappointing. Partly because the concept of the convoy was sometimes hard to grasp. During rush hour, for instance, there were no two-car convoys. There were hundred-and-two-car convoys. Anywhere downtown, at the best of times, maybe twenty-two-car. Who knew which two were the convoy in question? People didn’t want to give the wrong answer. Not when the top boys were asking.
So a different way was found, to ask the same question. It was quickly agreed that among the traffic there had been a handful of black Lincolns. Probably six in total. Three of them had been the fat-ass kind the Ukrainians drove. The top boys encouraged detailed descriptions of what had been in front of each of them, and what had been behind. There was a two-car convoy in there somewhere.
Three separate witnesses remembered a small white sedan with a hanging-off front fender. In each report it was ahead of one particular Lincoln, which seemed attentive to its lane changes and such, definitely as if following it. Coming out of the west of the city, heading east.
The two-car convoy.
The small white sedan was maybe a Honda. Or the other H. Hyundai. Or maybe Kia. Was there another new brand? Or maybe it wasn’t a new brand at all, because it was a pretty old car. Could have been a Toyota. Yes, that was it. A Toyota Corolla. Poverty spec. That was the final conclusion. All three witnesses agreed.
No one had seen it leave.
The top boys put the word out. All eyes open. An old white Toyota Corolla sedan, with a hanging-off front fender. Report back immediately.
* * *
—
By that point it was late in the afternoon, which was a respectable time for musicians to start their day. Hogan warmed up with a steady 4/4 beat, hi-hat working, ride cymbal ticking. Barton plugged in a battered Fender and turned on his amp, buzzing and humming. He laid down a line, looping and sinuous, staying firmly in the pocket with the kick drum, coming home on the two and the four, launching again on the one of the new measure. Reacher and Abby listened for a spell, and then went to find the guest room.
It was upstairs at the front of the house, a small space over the street door, with a round window made of wavy glass that could have been a hundred years old. The Toyota was directly below. The bed was a queen. The night table was an old guitar amplifier tipped up on its end. There was no closet. There was a row of brass hooks instead, screwed to the wall. The thump of the drums and the bass roared up through the floor.
“Not as nice as your place,” Reacher said. “I’m sorry.”
Abby didn’t answer.
Reacher said, “I asked the guys in the Lincoln where Trulenko was. They didn’t know. So then I asked their opinion about a smart first place to look. They said where he works.”
“Does he work?”
“Got to admit, I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Maybe in exchange for hiding him. Maybe there’s no money left after all. Maybe he’s working his passage.”
“That would be a drag,” Reacher said.
“Why else would he work?”
“Maybe he was getting bored.”
“Possible.”
“What kind of work would he do?”
“Nothing physical,” Abby said. “He looked like a pretty small guy. His picture was in the paper all the time. He was young but his hair was going and he wore eyeglasses. He won’t be breaking rocks in a quarry. He’ll be in an office somewhere. Organizing data systems or something. That’s what he was good at. His new product was an app on your phone that linked your vital signs direct to your doctor. In real time, just in case. Or something like that. Or maybe your watch linked to your phone, and then to the doctor. No one really understood it. But anyway, Trulenko is a desk guy. A thinker.”
“So he’s in an office somewhere on the west side of the city. With accommodations either very close by, or integrated. With security. Maybe an underground bunker. With a single bottleneck entrance, heavily defended. No one gets in or out except for known and trusted faces.”
“Therefore you can’t get near him.”
“I agree there will be an element of challenge.”
“More like impossible.”
“No such word.”
“How big of a place would it be?”
“I don’t know,” Reacher said. “A couple dozen people, maybe. Or more. Or less. Some kind of nerve center. Where they send all the texts. You said they were good with technology.”
“There can’t be many suitable locations.”
“See?” Reacher said. “We’re making progress already.”
“No point, if the money is gone.”
“His employers will have some. I never met a poor gangster.”
“The Shevicks can’t sue Trulenko’s new-found employers. They had nothing to do with it. It’s not their fault.”
“By that point the spirit of the law might feel more important than the letter.”
“You would steal it?”
Reacher moved to the window and looked down.
“The capo over there is a guy named Gregory,” he said. “I would ask him to consider it a charitable donation. For a hard-luck story I heard about. I could deploy a number of arguments. I’m sure he would agree. And if he’s profiting from Trulenko’s labor in some way, then it’s almost the same thing as taking Trulenko’s own money anyway.”
Abby got a faraway look in her eyes, and she put her hand up to her cheek, as if automatically.
“I heard of Gregory,” she said. “Never met him. Never even saw him.”