me.”
I gazed back at him. Six o’clock. Bus time.
“I know more than you think,” I said. “I know you’re a Harvard postgrad, you’re divorced and you quit smoking in April.”
Finlay looked blank. Baker knocked and entered to say the prison bus had arrived. Finlay got up and walked around the desk. Told Baker he would bring me out himself. Baker went back to fetch Hubble.
“How do you know that stuff?” Finlay asked me.
He was intrigued. He was losing the game.
“Easy,” I said. “You’re a smart guy, right? Educated in Boston, you told me. But when you were college age, Harvard wasn’t taking too many black guys. You’re smart, but you’re no rocket scientist, so I figure Boston U. for the first degree, right?”
“Right,” he conceded.
“And then Harvard for postgrad,” I said. “You did well at Boston U., life moved on, you got into Harvard. You talk like a Harvard guy. I figured it straight away. Ph.D. in Criminology?”
“Right,” he said again. “Criminology.”
“And then you got this job in April,” I said. “You told me that. You’ve got a pension from Boston PD, because you did your twenty. So you’ve come down here with cash to spare. But you’ve come down here with no woman, because if you had, she’d have spent some of that spare cash on new clothes for you. She probably hated that wintry tweed thing you’re wearing. She’d have junked it and put you in a Sunbelt outfit to start your new life on the right foot. But you’re still wearing that terrible old suit, so the woman is gone. She either died or divorced you, so it was a fifty-fifty guess. Looks like I guessed right.”
He nodded blankly.
“And the smoking thing is easy,” I said. “You were just stressed out and you were patting your pockets, looking for cigarettes. That means you quit fairly recently. Easy guess is you quit in April, you know, new life, new job, no more cigarettes. You figured quit now and you might beat the cancer thing.”
Finlay glared at me. A bit grudging.
“Very good, Reacher,” he said. “Elementary deduction, right?”
I shrugged. Didn’t say anything.
“So deduce who aced the guy up at the warehouse,” he said.
“I don’t care who aced any guy anywhere,” I said. “That’s your problem, not mine. And it’s the wrong question, Finlay. First you got to find out who the guy was, right?”
“So you got any way to do that, smart guy?” he asked me. “No ID, no face left, nothing from the prints, Hubble won’t say diddly?”
“Run the prints again,” I said. “I’m serious, Finlay. Get Roscoe to do it.”
“Why?” he said.
“Something wrong there,” I said.
“What something?” he asked me.
“Run them again, OK?” I said. “Will you do that?”
He just grunted. Didn’t say yes or no. I opened the office door and stepped out. Roscoe had gone. Nobody was there except Baker and Hubble over at the cells. I could see the desk sergeant outside through the front doors. He was writing on a clipboard held by the prison bus driver. As a backdrop behind the two of them was the prison bus. It was stationary in the semicircular driveway. It filled the view through the big plate-glass entrance. It was a school bus painted light gray. On it was written: State of Georgia Department of Corrections. That inscription ran the full length of the bus, under the line of windows. Under the inscription was a crest. The windows had grilles welded over them.
Finlay came out of the office behind me. Touched my elbow and walked me over to Baker. Baker was holding three sets of handcuffs hooked over his thumb. They were painted bright orange. The paint was chipped. Dull steel showed through. Baker snapped a pair of handcuffs onto each of my wrists separately. He unlocked Hubble’s cell and signaled the scared banker to come out. Hubble was blank and dazed, but he stepped out. Baker caught the dangling cuff on my left wrist and snapped it onto Hubble’s right wrist. He put
I gazed back at him. Six o’clock. Bus time.
“I know more than you think,” I said. “I know you’re a Harvard postgrad, you’re divorced and you quit smoking in April.”
Finlay looked blank. Baker knocked and entered to say the prison bus had arrived. Finlay got up and walked around the desk. Told Baker he would bring me out himself. Baker went back to fetch Hubble.
“How do you know that stuff?” Finlay asked me.
He was intrigued. He was losing the game.
“Easy,” I said. “You’re a smart guy, right? Educated in Boston, you told me. But when you were college age, Harvard wasn’t taking too many black guys. You’re smart, but you’re no rocket scientist, so I figure Boston U. for the first degree, right?”
“Right,” he conceded.
“And then Harvard for postgrad,” I said. “You did well at Boston U., life moved on, you got into Harvard. You talk like a Harvard guy. I figured it straight away. Ph.D. in Criminology?”
“Right,” he said again. “Criminology.”
“And then you got this job in April,” I said. “You told me that. You’ve got a pension from Boston PD, because you did your twenty. So you’ve come down here with cash to spare. But you’ve come down here with no woman, because if you had, she’d have spent some of that spare cash on new clothes for you. She probably hated that wintry tweed thing you’re wearing. She’d have junked it and put you in a Sunbelt outfit to start your new life on the right foot. But you’re still wearing that terrible old suit, so the woman is gone. She either died or divorced you, so it was a fifty-fifty guess. Looks like I guessed right.”
He nodded blankly.
“And the smoking thing is easy,” I said. “You were just stressed out and you were patting your pockets, looking for cigarettes. That means you quit fairly recently. Easy guess is you quit in April, you know, new life, new job, no more cigarettes. You figured quit now and you might beat the cancer thing.”
Finlay glared at me. A bit grudging.
“Very good, Reacher,” he said. “Elementary deduction, right?”
I shrugged. Didn’t say anything.
“So deduce who aced the guy up at the warehouse,” he said.
“I don’t care who aced any guy anywhere,” I said. “That’s your problem, not mine. And it’s the wrong question, Finlay. First you got to find out who the guy was, right?”
“So you got any way to do that, smart guy?” he asked me. “No ID, no face left, nothing from the prints, Hubble won’t say diddly?”
“Run the prints again,” I said. “I’m serious, Finlay. Get Roscoe to do it.”
“Why?” he said.
“Something wrong there,” I said.
“What something?” he asked me.
“Run them again, OK?” I said. “Will you do that?”
He just grunted. Didn’t say yes or no. I opened the office door and stepped out. Roscoe had gone. Nobody was there except Baker and Hubble over at the cells. I could see the desk sergeant outside through the front doors. He was writing on a clipboard held by the prison bus driver. As a backdrop behind the two of them was the prison bus. It was stationary in the semicircular driveway. It filled the view through the big plate-glass entrance. It was a school bus painted light gray. On it was written: State of Georgia Department of Corrections. That inscription ran the full length of the bus, under the line of windows. Under the inscription was a crest. The windows had grilles welded over them.
Finlay came out of the office behind me. Touched my elbow and walked me over to Baker. Baker was holding three sets of handcuffs hooked over his thumb. They were painted bright orange. The paint was chipped. Dull steel showed through. Baker snapped a pair of handcuffs onto each of my wrists separately. He unlocked Hubble’s cell and signaled the scared banker to come out. Hubble was blank and dazed, but he stepped out. Baker caught the dangling cuff on my left wrist and snapped it onto Hubble’s right wrist. He put
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