Then the tiled floor allowed a simple sluicing operation. Set the shower running hard, throw a few bucketfuls of water around, get busy with a mop, and
the place was safe again as fast as water drains down eighty-eight floors and away into the sewers. Not that Hobie ever did the mopping himself. A mop needs two hands. The second young guy was doing the mopping, with his expensive pants rolled up and his socks and shoes off. Hobie was outside at his desk, talking to the first young guy.
‘I’ll get Mrs Jacob’s address, you’ll bring her to me, OK?’
‘Sure,’ the guy said. ‘What about this one?’
He nodded towards the bathroom door. Hobie followed his glance.
‘Wait until tonight,’ he said. ‘Put some of her clothes back on, take her down to the boat. Dump her a couple of miles out in the bay.’
‘She’s likely to wash back in,’ the guy said. ‘Couple of days.’
Hobie shrugged.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘Couple of days, she’ll be all bloated up. They’ll figure she fell off a motorboat. Injuries like that, they’ll put it down to propeller damage.’
The covert habit had advantages, but it also had problems. Best way to get up to Garrison in a hurry would be to grab a rental car and head straight out. But a guy who chooses not to use credit cards and won’t carry a driver’s licence loses that option. So Reacher was back in a cab, heading for Grand Central. He was pretty sure the Hudson Line ran a train up there. He guessed commuters sometimes lived as far north as that. If not, the big Amtraks that ran up to Albany and Canada might stop there. He paid off the cab and pushed through the crowd
to the doors. Down the long ramp and out into the giant concourse. He glanced around and craned his head to read the departures screen. Tried to recall the geography. Croton-Harmon trains were no good. They terminated way too far south. He needed Poughkeepsie at the minimum. He scanned down the list. Nothing doing. No trains out of there inside the next hour and a half that would get him to Garrison.
They did it the usual way. One of them rode ninety floors down to the underground loading bay and found an empty carton in the trash pile. Refrigerator cartons were best, or soda machines, but once he’d done it with the box from a thirty-five-inch colour television. This time, he found a filing cabinet carton. He used a janitor’s trolley from the loading ramp and wheeled it into the freight elevator. Rode with it back up to the eighty-eighth floor.
The other guy was zipping her into a body bag in the bathroom. They folded it into the carton and used the remaining duct tape to secure the carton shut. Then they hefted it back on the trolley and headed for the elevator once more. This time, they rode down to the parking garage. Wheeled the box over to the black Suburban. Counted to three and heaved it into the back. Slammed the tailgate shut and clicked the lock. Walked away and glanced back. Deep tints on the windows, dark garage, no problem.
‘You know what?’ the first guy said. ‘We fold the seat down, we’ll get Mrs Jacob in there along with her. Do it all in one trip, tonight. I don’t like going on that boat any more times than I have to.’
‘OK,’ the second guy said. ‘Were there more boxes?’
‘That was the best one. Depends if Mrs Jacob is big or small, I guess.’
‘Depends if she’s finished by tonight.’
‘You got any doubts on that score? The mood he’s in today?’
They strolled together to a different slot and unlocked a black Chevy Tahoe. Little brother to the Suburban, but still a giant vehicle.
‘So where is she?’ the second guy asked.
‘A town called Garrison,’ the first guy said. ‘Straight up the Hudson, a ways past Sing Sing. An hour, hour and a half.’
The Tahoe backed out of the slot and squealed its tyres on its way around the garage. Bumped up the ramp into the sunshine and headed out to West Street, where it made a right and accelerated north.