Authors: Diane Capri
“Don’t worry. Regular black will be fine for me.”
As if to compensate for his chicory failure, Brent asked, “Want a jelly donut, too?”
“You’re a bad influence, I can tell,” she said. He bowed his head shyly. He was just a kid. Early twenties, max. She said, “But if only all men were so thoughtful,” and shot a mock glare at Gaspar.
“You’re killing me, boss,” Gaspar said.
Brent left, and Roscoe said, “OK, you made a friend there. Mission accomplished. Nicely done. But I’m older and wiser. How can I help you?”
No one spoke, and Brent brought the coffee and donuts and left again, closing the door quietly behind him. Kim lifted her mug and took a deep, appreciative whiff before she sipped and held on for a second sip.
“How can I help you?” Roscoe asked again.
“This is great coffee,” Kim said, still stalling. She flashed through what she knew about Roscoe, searching for a non-threatening opening.
Gaspar picked the wrong one.
He asked, “You got kids?”
The question pushed Roscoe’s hot button. Kim saw it happen. Roscoe’s carotid pulse thumped hard on the side of her neck. Kim counted twenty-five beats in ten seconds, 120 beats a minute. Fast, like she was sprinting toward a fire.
Professional tone steady, Roscoe said, “Look, if you’re going to be in town a while, you can take me out for a drink after work one day and try your very best bonding techniques. But until then, I’m busy, as I believe I mentioned. So don’t try to butter me up. If you’ve got some bad news, just hop right to it, OK?”
Kim responded before Gaspar could jump the rails again. She said, “This is not a law enforcement visit, Chief. We’re hoping you can give us some direction, that’s all. Because we don’t know where to start, actually. We’re looking for information.”
As bland as possible, just a favor, one officer to another.
Roscoe asked, “What kind of information do you need?”
Kim saw wariness in those big, dark eyes. Pulse still pounding. But tone not so hostile. Maybe a little progress.
“Agent Gaspar and I are assigned to the FBI Specialized Personnel Task Force.”
“Which is what?”
Roscoe’s pulse slowed a few beats. Kim counted twenty in ten seconds. Still rapid, but better. Like calming any wild thing, Kim sought to lull through non-threatening routine. Since 9/11, law enforcement personnel never resisted any halfway plausible FBI request, whether they understood its basis or not. Few outside the agency knew its inner workings or expected transparency in the relentless war on terror.
“We conduct candidate background investigations. It’s our job to build the file. Supplement sketchy records. Get a clear picture. So the folks upstairs can make informed decisions.”
“I was asking what kind of specialized personnel you’re dealing with.”
Still wary. Had this woman been burned before? Kim counted fifteen pulse beats in ten seconds. Better.
“Potential candidates to serve in situations where no current FBI expertise exists.”
“Such as?”
Roscoe was pressing harder than cops usually did. Kim might have done the same, but only if she had something to hide. She said, “I can’t speak for the entire SPTF, but I’ve worked up files for interpreters of uncommon languages, for example. Or forensic accountants in niche businesses. Or scientists who can identify obscure chemicals. Things that don’t require permanent expertise inside the bureau.”
“Routine, then.”
“Mostly.”
Roscoe nodded. She didn't ask why the FBI had failed to make an appointment to see her. There should have been an appointment, if the meeting was routine. Instead she said, “I gather these candidates don’t have security clearances already?”
Which was an astute question. Reacher had a security clearance once, according to his file. Beverly Roscoe and Lamont Finlay had one, too. As did Daniel Trent, Roscoe’s husband, for that matter.
“Usually not,” Kim replied. She watched the pulse in Roscoe’s neck now at a steady five to six beats in ten seconds. Resting pulse rate lower than fifty-five under normal conditions. Good for a woman of Roscoe’s age.
As a test, Kim added, “When an existing security clearance is available, it makes our job easier, of course. Then all we need to do is update.”
The pulse jumped to one-twenty again. Whatever Roscoe concealed burrowed deep into its hiding place, but it didn’t feel safe there.
“As I said, I’m happy to help if I can,” Roscoe said. Then she hesitated, just slightly, but Kim noticed the held breath before the question. “Who is it you’re interested in?”
Kim glanced at Gaspar. He signaled agreement with a slight nod. They’d get nowhere with Chief Roscoe today unless they could shake her loose a little. If they had to come back another time, she’d have her answers sanded to smooth uselessness.
Now or never.
“We’ve been asked to conduct a background check on an army veteran,” Kim said, slowly, watching Roscoe’s demeanor closely. Almost like the children’s game of hot, hot, cold, but the method depended less on what Roscoe said and more on how she reacted. Standard interview techniques Kim had applied a thousand times. If Roscoe was worried about anyone not an army veteran, she should relax a bit.
But she didn’t relax.
Gaspar bluffed. “We know he came to Margrave about fifteen years ago. Maybe he lives here now. Law enforcement might have had some contact with him.”
Pulse elevated and steady at one-twenty. Something Gaspar had said had alarmed Chief Roscoe further. Good.
Roscoe said, “Our population has grown quite a bit because of sprawl out of Atlanta. But I’d know anyone who’s lived here more than a few months. What’s his name?”
The way she inquired, the tension she carried in her eyes and shoulders, the timing, her failure to breathe. Pulse at one-twenty-five. Very concerned. But the greater Atlanta area boasted a significant veteran population. She could be worried about someone else entirely.
But Kim had noted that fifteen men were referenced in the materials received from the boss. And only two women: Reacher’s mother, now dead two decades.
And the first source: Beverly Roscoe.
Not identified by her married name, either. Roscoe, not Trent. The name she had when Reacher swept through Margrave. The name she still used on every official record. In an old-fashioned small town where everybody knew she was Mrs. Trent.
Kim set her coffee mug on the table between her chair and Gaspar’s. She wiped her hands. She reached into her pocket for the photograph.
“Here, let me show you,” Kim said, as she lifted her gaze directly to Roscoe’s face, watching for nuanced micro movements, lowering her voice to focus Roscoe’s full attention while she revealed the photo, and she said, “The man’s name is Jack Reacher.”
Roscoe’s face aged instantly. The formal smile she’d worn a moment before vanished along with all vitality from those enormous eyes. Her expression became both vacant and horrified.
A full second passed. Maybe two. Roscoe continued to stare at the altered photo of Jack Reacher. Her pulse was erratic, racing.
And then she started to cry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tears flooded Roscoe’s eyes. One rolled down her cheek before she grabbed a tissue. The tears kept on coming. Her chin quivered. She took a deep ragged breath, and another. Still the tears fell. She swiveled her chair around, turning her back on Kim and Gaspar, hiding her face. They could hear her rhythmic breathing, struggling to regain control.
She was like the hundreds of crime victims Kim had interviewed after unimaginable, tragic, deeply personal disasters. What the hell had Reacher done to her? Nothing in Reacher’s file reflected violence against women, although he was certainly capable of it.
The bastard.
Why hadn’t she considered that Reacher might have hurt this woman?
Kim glanced toward Gaspar. Blatant emotion had not been on his list of expected reactions, either. What should they do now? Gaspar didn’t seem to have a clue.
Roscoe’s deep breaths continued a minute or two until she finally composed herself and turned around to face them once again. Her eyes were clear and her chin was strong. She smiled weakly and took a sip of coffee, stalling, maybe steadying her voice.
“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said, a little catch in her tone. She sipped and swallowed again, and regained her self-control.
“No, Chief Roscoe, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Kim said. “I didn’t know. Truly. I had no idea Reacher’s photograph would upset you so much. I sincerely apologize.”
Roscoe’s brows arched and she tilted her head and jutted her chin, like a dog identifying the source of a distant sound. Her lips lifted slightly at one corner, amused.
She’s laughing at me now?
Kim felt played. But she didn’t understand the game. Heat rose in her chest.
Roscoe said, “Reacher’s not here. You’ve wasted your time, I’m afraid.”
Gaspar said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a cop cry when shown a missing persons photo, Chief Roscoe. In fact, I think this is a first for me. How about you, Agent Otto?”
“A first for me, too,” Kim snapped.
Roscoe replied with a little sarcasm of her own. “Sorry. Really shocking, my behavior. Seeing as how you’ve been so upfront with me. So I should definitely have been more helpful.”
Gaspar didn’t let up. “So you’re refusing to cooperate with an FBI investigation?”
Roscoe’s back was up now, too. “Look, you barge into my town, into my office. Unannounced. Unexpected. Lie to me. You knew Reacher wasn’t here when you asked me, didn’t you? I don’t owe you anything.”
Quietly, Kim asked, “What caused you to cry? What did Reacher do to you?”
Roscoe took a breath, and another, and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got emotional because, well, I was … relieved.”
“I’m lost,” Gaspar said. “Some guy assaults you, or worse, and you’re
relieved
that we think he might be back in your jurisdiction?”
Roscoe said, “He didn’t assault me. And I’m relieved because the FBI thinks he’s still alive. I haven’t heard from him since he left Margrave.”
“You expected to hear from him?” Kim asked.
Gaspar seemed to get it, too. “You knew him well, then?”
Roscoe hesitated too long.
Kim could almost see her rejecting one reply after another. Why so much concern over what to say about a drifter who passed through her jurisdiction briefly more than a decade ago?
Finally, Roscoe offered a weak, “I knew him well enough.”
Which made perfect sense and no sense at all.
So that’s the way it was.
Followed swiftly by,
But how could that be true?
“Where did you meet him?” Gaspar asked.
Roscoe’s pleasant expression returned. She’d collected her poise once again. Kim felt the momentum shift to Roscoe. She would cooperate, but only on her terms. Whatever those terms might be.
“In the interview room across the hall in the old station.” Roscoe tilted her head in that direction. She grinned. “I took his fingerprints and his mug shot after he was arrested.”
Gaspar looked surprised. “Our files don’t contain any arrest records.”