"Why would Joe make a point of informing you about that?"
"Shared interest."
"What does Joe mean when he says he will let you know?"
"He means what he says."
"Let you know about what?"
"About the Blind Blake legend, of course. About whether he died there."
"Why does it matter where this man died?"
"It doesn't matter. It's just a thing. Like collecting baseball cards."
"So this is really about baseball cards?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Is this a code for something else?"
"A code? Why the hell would it be a code?"
Garber said, "You called his office today."
"You know about that?"
"There's a reporting mechanism in place."
"That kid? The girl in his office?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. But I need to know why you called him."
"He's my brother."
"But why now? Were you going to ask him something?"
"Yes," I said. "I was going to ask him how he's doing. Purely social."
"Why now? Did something at Kelham provoke the inquiry?"
"This is none of your business."
"Everything is my business. Help me out here, Reacher."
I said, "Two black women were killed here before Janice May Chapman. Did you even know that? Because that's something you should be bearing in mind, if you're thinking about political campaigns. We ignored them and then our heads exploded when a white woman got killed."
"How does this relate to Joe?"
"I met the second victim's brother. Made me think about family. That's all it was."
"Did Joe tell you anything about money from Kosovo?"
"I didn't get him. He was out of the office. He was in Georgia."
"Atlanta again? Or Margrave?"
"I have no idea. Georgia is a big state."
"OK," Garber said. "I apologize for the intrusion."
I asked, "Who exactly is worried about money from Kosovo?"
He said, "I'm not at liberty to discuss that."
I hung up with Garber and breathed in and out for a spell, and then I carried my new shirt upstairs and left it on my bed. I started to think about dinner with Elizabeth Deveraux. Three hours to go, and only one more thing to do beforehand.
40
I came out of the front of the hotel and looped back through the dog-leg alley between the pharmacy and the hardware store and came out the other end between the loan office and Brannan's bar. Where Janice May Chapman's body had been found. The sand pile was still there, dry and crusted and powdery and a little redistributed by the breeze. I stepped around it and checked activity on the one-sided street. Not much was going on. Some of the bars were closed, because the base was closed. No point in opening without customers. A simple economic calculation.
But Brannan's bar was open. Defiantly optimistic, or maybe just maintaining some longstanding tradition. I went in and found nobody there except two similar guys fussing with stuff in the drinks well. They looked like brothers. Middle thirties, maybe two years apart, like Joe and me. Wise to the ways of the world, which was going to give me the advantage. Their place was like a thousand base-town bars I had seen before, a complex boxed-in machine designed to turn boredom into cash. It was a decent size. I guessed it had been a small restaurant in the past, but small restaurants make big bars. The decor was maybe a little better than most. There were travel posters on the walls, of the world's great cities photographed at night. No local stuff, which was smart. If you're stuck for six months in the back of beyond, you don't want to be reminded of it at every turn.
"Got coffee?" I asked.
They said no, which didn't surprise me very much.
I said, "My name is Jack Reacher and I'm an MP with a dinner date coming up."
They didn't follow.
I said, "Which means that usually I'd have time to hang around all night and weasel stuff out of you in the normal course of conversation, but I don't have time for that on this occasion, so we'll have to rely on a straightforward question-and-answer session, OK?"
They got the message. Base-town bar owners worry about MPs. Easiest thing in the world to put a particular establishment on a local no-go list, for a week, or a month. Or forever. They introduced themselves as Jonathan and Hunter Brannan, brothers, inheritors of a business started by their grandmother back in the railroad days. She had sold tea and fancy cakes, and she had made a nice living. Their father had switched to alcohol when the trains stopped and the army arrived. They were a nice enough pair of guys. And realistic. They ran the best bar in town, so they couldn't deny they saw everybody from time to time.
"Janice Chapman came here," I said. "The woman who got killed."
They agreed that yes, she did. No evasion. Everyone comes to Brannan's.
I asked, "With the same guy every recent time?"
They agreed that yes, that was the case.
I asked, "Who was he?"
Hunter Brannan said, "His name was Reed. Don't know much about him apart from that. But he was a big dog. You can always tell, by the way the others react."
"Was he a regular customer?"
"They all are."
"Was he in here that night?"
"That's a tough question. This place is usually packed."
"Try to remember."
"I would say he was. For the early part of the evening, at least. I don't recall seeing him later."
"What car does he drive?"
"Some old thing. Blue, I think."
I asked, "How long has he been coming here?"
"A year or so, I guess. But he's one of the in-and-out guys."
"What does that mean?"
"They've got a couple of squads over there. They go somewhere, and then they come back. A month on, a month off."
"Did you see him with previous girlfriends?"
Jonathan Brannan said, "A guy like that, he always has arm candy."
"Who in particular?"
"Whoever was the prettiest. Whoever was willing to put out, I guess."
"Black or white?"
"Both. He's pretty much an equal opportunities type of guy."
"Remember any names?"
"No," Hunter Brannan said. "But I remember feeling pretty jealous a couple of times."
I went back to the hotel. Two hours until dinner. I spent the first hour taking a nap, because I was tired, and because I was figuring I wouldn't be sleeping again too soon. Hoping I wouldn't be, anyway. Hope springs eternal. I woke myself up at eight o'clock and unpacked my new shirt. I brushed my teeth with water and chewed some gum. Then I took a long hot shower, plenty of soap, plenty of shampoo.
I put on my new shirt and rolled the sleeves level with my elbows. The shirt was tight across the shoulders, so I left the top two buttons undone. I tucked the tails into my pants and put my shoes on and shined them one at a time against the backs of my calves.
I checked the mirror.
I looked exactly like a guy who wants to get laid. Which I was. There was nothing to be done about it.
I dumped my old shirts in the trash can and left my room and went down the stairs and stepped out to the darkness of the street. A voice from the shadows behind me said, "Hello again, soldier boy."
41
Ahead of me across the street were three pick-up trucks parked at the curb. Two that I recognized, and one that I didn't. All the doors were open. Legs were dangling. Cigarettes were glowing. Smoke was drifting. I stepped left and half-turned and saw the alpha dog. The McKinney cousin. His face was still a mess. He was standing under one of the hotel's busted lamps. His arms were down by his sides, and his hands were away from his hips, and his thumbs were away from his fingers. He was all fired up and ready.