Then his eyes hardened. He seemed to come back down to earth.
“I’m going to look for another consultant,” he said. “When I find one, you’re out of here. You’re getting nowhere. You’ll have to take your chances with the New York people.”
Reacher nodded.
“OK,” he said.
Blake looked away and Harper took her cue and led Reacher out of the office. Into the elevator, up to ground level, up to the third floor. They walked together through the corridor to the familiar door.
“Why was she expecting it?” Harper said. “Why was Alison expecting the box of paint, when all the others weren’t?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Harper opened his door.
“OK, good night,” she said.
“You mad at me?”
“You wasted thirty-six hours.”
“No, I invested thirty-six hours.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
She shrugged. “You’re a weird guy.”
He nodded. “So people say.”
Then he kissed her chastely on the cheek, before she could duck away. He stepped into his room. She waited until the door swung shut before she walked back to the elevator.
* * *
300
l”w< s/ j{(t sheets and the towels had been changed. There was new soap and shampoo. A new razor and a fresh can of shaving cream. He upended a glass and put his toothbrush in it. Walked to the bed and lay down, fully dressed, still in his coat. Stared up at the ceiling. Then he rolled up onto one elbow and picked up the phone. Dialed Jodie's number. It rang four times, and he heard her voice, slow and sleepy. "Who is it?" she said. "Me," he said back. "It's three o'clock in the morning." "Nearly." "You woke me up." "T> ”
I m sorry.
“Where are you?”
“Locked up in Quantico.”
She paused, and he heard the hum of the line and the faraway night sounds of New York. Faint isolated car horns, the whoop of a distant siren.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“It’s not,” he said. “They’re going to replace me. I’ll be home soon.”
“Home?”
“New York,” he said.
She was silent. He heard a quiet, urgent siren. Probably right there on Broadway, he thought. Under her window. A lonely sound.
“The house won’t change anything,” he said. “I told you that.”
“It’s the partnership meeting tomorrow,” she said.
“So we’ll celebrate,” he said, “When I get back. As long as I’m not in jail. I’m still not out of the woods with Deerfield and Cozo yet.”
“I thought they were going to forget about it.”
“If I delivered,” he said. “And I haven’t delivered.”
She paused again.
“You shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place.”
“I know that.”
“But I love you,” she said.
“Me too,” he said. “Good luck for tomorrow.”
“You too.”
He hung up and lay back down and resumed his survey of the ceiling. Tried to see her up there, but all he saw instead were Lisa Harper and Rita Scimeca,
futuun* filing
301
who were the last two women he’d wanted to take to bed but couldn’t, for force of circumstance. Scimeca, it would have been totally inappropriate. Harper, it would have been an infidelity. Perfectly sound reasons, but reasons not to do something don’t kill the original impulse. He thought about Harper’s body, the way she moved, the guileless smile, her frank engaging stare. He thought about Scimeca’s face, the invisible bruises, the hurt in her eyes. Her rebuilt life out there in Oregon, the flowers, the piano, the shine of her furniture wax, the but-toned-up defensive domesticity. He closed his eyes and then opened them and stared hard at the white paint above him. Rolled onto his elbow again and picked up the phone. Dialed 0, hoping to get a switchboard.
“Yes?” said a voice he had never heard before.
“This is Readier,” he said. “Up on the third floor.”
“I know who you are and where you are.”
“Is Lisa Harper still in the building?”
“Agent Harper?” the voice said. “Hold, please.”
The line went quiet. No music. No recorded advertisements. No your call is very important to us. Just nothing. Then the voice came back.
“Agent Harper is still here,” it said.