Child, Lee – Without Fail

Center. Basic training again. No point trying to sign up somebody

who was serving time in prison, for instance, not that she

thought it was remotely likely, not in UNSUB’s case. But you

never knew. There was a fine line, with some personality types.

The NCIC database was always slow, so she shoved drifts of

accumulated paperwork into drawers and then left her desk and

refilled her coffee cup. Strolled back to find a negative arrest-or

conviction record waiting on her screen. Plus a short note

to say UNSUB had an FBI file somewhere in their records. Interesting. She closed NCIC and went straight to the FBI’s

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database. She found the file and couldn’t open it. But she knew

enough about the Bureau’s classification system to be able to

decode the header flags. It was a simple narrative file, inactive.

Nothing more. UNSUB wasn’t a fugitive, wasn’t wanted for

anything, wasn’t currently in trouble.

She wrote it all down, and then clicked her way into the

nationwide DMV database. Bad news again. UNSUB didn’t have

a driving licence. Which was very weird. And which was a very

big pain in the butt. Because no driving licence meant no

current photograph and no current address listing. She clicked

her way into the Veterans’ Administration computer in Chicago.

Searched by name, rank, and number. The enquiries came

up blank. UNSUB wasn’t receiving federal benefits and hadn’t

offered a forwarding address. Why not? Where the hell are you? She went back into Social Security and asked for contributions

records. There weren’t any. UNSUB hadn’t been employed

since leaving the military, at least not legally. She tried the IRS

for confirmation. Same story. UNSUB hadn’t paid taxes in five years. Hadn’t even filed.

OK, so let’s get serious. She hitched straighter in her chair

and quit the government sites and fired up some illicit software

that took her straight into the banking industry’s private

world. Strictly speaking she shouldn’t be using it for this

purpose. Or for any purpose. It was an obvious breach of official

protocol. But she didn’t expect to get any comeback. And she

did expect to get a result. If UNSUB had even a single bank

account anywhere in the fifty states, it would show up. Even a

humble little current account. Even an empty or abandoned

account. Plenty of people got by without bank accounts, she

knew that, but she felt in her gut UNSUB wouldn’t be one of

them. Not somebody who had been a U.S. Army major. With

medals.

She entered the Social Security number twice, once in the

SSN field and once in the taxpayer ID field. She entered the

name. She hit search.

One hundred and eighty miles away, Jack Reacher shivered.

Atlantic City in the middle of November wasn’t the warmest

spot on earth. Not by any measure. The wind came in off the

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ocean carrying enough salt to keep everything permanently

damp and clammy. It whipped and gusted and blew trash

around and flattened his pants against his legs. Five days ago

he had been in Los Angeles, and he was pretty sure he should

have stayed there. Now he was pretty sure he should go back.

Southern California was a very attractive place in November.

The air was warm down there, and the ocean breezes were soft

balmy caresses instead of endless lashing fusillades of stinging

salt cold. He should go back there. He should go somewhere, that was for damn sure.

Or maybe he should stick around like he’d been asked to,

and buy a coat.

He had come back east with an old black woman and her

brother. He had been hitching rides east out of L.A. in order to

take a one-day look at the Mojave desert. The old couple had

picked him up in an ancient Buick Roadmaster. He saw a

microphone and a primitive PA system and a boxed Yamaha

keyboard among the suitcases in the load space and the old

lady told him she was a singer heading for a short residency all

the way over in Atlantic City. Told him her brother accompanied

her on the keyboard and drove the car, but he wasn’t

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