damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Somebody looks
suspicious, he’s got to call it in even if he can’t articulate exactly
why afterwards. And we can’t moan at him for it. I’d rather he
erred on the side of caution. Don’t want to make him afraid to
be vigilant.’
‘So we’ve still got nothing,’ Froelich said.
‘We’ve still got Armstrong,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘And Armstrong’s
still got a pulse. So go eat dinner and be back here at ten for the
FBI meeting.’
First they went back to Froelich’s office to check on Neagley’s
NCIC search. It was done. In fact it had been done before they
even stepped away from the desk. The rubric at the top of the
screen said the searchhad lasted nine-hundredths of a second
and come up with zero matches. Froelich called up the enquiry
box again and typed thumbprint on letter. Clicked on search and
watched the screen. It redrew immediately and came up with no
matches in eight-hundredths of a second.
‘Getting nowhere even faster now,’ she said.
218
She tried thumbprint on message. Same result, no matches in
eight-hundredths of a second. She tried thumbprint on threat. Identical result, identical eight-hundredths of a second. She
sighed with frustration.
‘Let me have a go,’ Reacher said. She got up and he sat down
in her chair and typed a short letter signed with a big thumbprint.
‘Idiot,’ Neagley said.
He clicked the mouse. The screen redrew instantly and
reported that within the seven-hundredths of a second it had
spent looking the software had detected no matches.
‘But it was a new speed record,’ Reacher said, and smiled.
Neagley laughed, and the mood of frustration eased a little.
He typed thumbprint and squalene and hit search again. A tenth
of a second later the search came back blank.
‘Slowing down,’ he said.
He tried squalene on its own. No match, eight-hundredths of a
second.
He typed squalane with an a. No match, eight-hundredths of
a second.
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go eat.’
‘Wait,’ Neagley said. ‘Let me try again. This is like an
Olympic event.’
She nudged him out of the chair. Typed single unexplained
thumbprint. Hit search. No match, six-hundredths of a second.
She smiled.
‘Six hundredths,’ she said. ‘Folks, we have a new world
record.’
‘Way to go,’ Reacher said.
She typed solo unexplained thumbprint. Hit search.
if’his is kind of fun,’ she said.
No match, six-hundredths of a second.
Fied for first place,’ Froelich said. ‘My turn again.’
She took Neagley’s place at the keyboard and thought for a
long moment.
‘OK, here we go,’ she said. his one either-wins me the gold
medal, or it’ll keep us here all night long.’
She typed a single word: thumb. Hit search. The enquiry box
disappeared and the screen paused for a whole second and
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came back with a single entry. A single short paragraph. It was a police report from Sacramento in California. An emergency
room doctor from a city hospital had notified the local police
department five weeks ago that he had treated a man who
had severed his thumb in a carpentry accident. But the doctor
was convinced by the nature of the wound that it had been
deliberate albeit amateur surgery. The cops had followed up
and the victim had assured them it had indeed been an accident
with a power saw. Case closed, report filed.
‘Weird stuff in this system,’ Froelich said.
‘Let’s go eat,’ Reacher said again.
‘Maybe we should try vegetarian,’ Neagley said.
They drove out to Dupont Circle and ate at an Armenian restaurant.
Reacher had lamb and Froelich and Neagley stuck to
various chickpea concoctions. They had baklava for dessert and
three small cups each of strong muddy coffee. They talked a lot,
but about nothing. Nobody wanted to talk about Armstrong, or
Nendick, or his wife, or men capable of frightening a person
to the point of death and then shooting down two innocent
civilians who happened to share a name. Froelich didn’t want
to talk about Joe in front of Reacher, Neagley didn’t want to
talk about Reacher in front of Froelich.. So they talked about
politics, like everybody else in the restaurant and probably