“Cayman Corporate Trust?” O’Hallinan asked. “That’s who owns our Tahoe.”

“Right,” the guy said. “The Bravada is down to a Mrs. Jodie Jacob, but it was reported stolen prior. That’s not your woman with the busted nose, is it?”

“Jodie Jacob? No, our woman is Sheryl somebody.”

“OK, probably the Suburban driver. Is she small?”

“Small enough, I guess,” O’Hallinan said. “Why?”

“The airbag deployed,” the guy said. “Possible a small woman could get injured that way, by the airbag. It happens.”

“You want to check it out?”

“No, our way of thinking, we got their vehicle, they want it, they’ll come to us.”

O’Hallinan hung up and Sark looked at her inquiringly.

“So what’s that about?” he asked. “Why would she say she walked into a door if it was really a car wreck?”

O’Hallinan shrugged. “Don’t know. And why would a real-estate woman from Westchester be driving for a firm out of the World Trade Center?”

“Could explain the injuries,” Sark said. “The airbag, maybe the rim of the steering wheel, that could have done it to her.”

“Maybe,” O’Hallinan said.

“So should we check it out?”

“We should try, I guess, because if it was a car wreck it makes it a closed instead of a probable.”

“OK, but don’t write it down anywhere, because if it wasn’t a car wreck it’ll make it open and pending again, which will be a total pain in the ass later.”

They stood up together and put their notebooks in their uniform pockets. Used the stairs and enjoyed the morning sun on the way across the yard to their cruiser.

THE SAME SUN rolled west and made it seven o’clock in St. Louis. It came in through an attic dormer and played its low beam across the four-poster from a new direction. Jodie had gotten up first, and she was in the shower. Reacher was alone in the warm bed, stretching out, aware of a muffled chirping sound somewhere in the room.

He checked the nightstand to see if the phone was ringing, or if Jodie had set an alarm clock he hadn’t noticed the night before. Nothing there. The chirping kept on going, muffled but insistent. He rolled over and sat up. The new angle located the sound inside Jodie’s carry-on bag. He slid out of bed and padded naked across the room. Unzipped the bag. The chirping sounded louder. It was her mobile telephone. He glanced at the bathroom door and pulled out the phone. It was chirping loudly in his hand. He studied the buttons on it and pressed SEND. The chirping stopped.

“Hello?” he said.

There was a pause. “Who’s that? I’m trying to reach Mrs. Jacob.”

It was a man’s voice, young, busy, harassed. A voice he knew. Jodie’s secretary at the law firm, the guy who had dictated Leon’s address.

“She’s in the shower.”

“Ah,” the voice said.

There was another pause.

“I’m a friend,” Reacher said.

“I see,” the voice said. “Are you still up in Garrison?”

“No, we’re in St. Louis, Missouri.”

“Goodness, that complicates things, doesn’t it? May I speak with Mrs. Jacob?”

“She’s in the shower,” Reacher said again. “She could call you back. Or I could take a message, I guess.”

“Would you mind?” the guy said. “It’s urgent, I’m afraid.”

“Hold on,” Reacher said. He walked back to the bed and picked up the little pad and the pencil the hotel had placed on the nightstand next to the telephone. Sat down and juggled the mobile into his left hand.

“OK, shoot,” he said. The guy ran through his message. It was very nonspecific. The guy was choosing his words carefully to keep the whole thing vague. Clearly a friend couldn’t be trusted with any secret legal details. He put the pad and pencil down again. He wasn’t going to need them.

“I’ll have her call you back if that’s not clear,” he said, ambiguously.

“Thank you, and I’m sorry to interrupt, well, whatever it is I’m interrupting.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Reacher said. “Like I told you, she’s in the shower right now. But ten minutes ago might have been a problem.”

“Goodness,” the guy said again, and the phone went dead.

Reacher smiled and studied the buttons again and pressed END. He dropped the phone on the bed and heard the water cut off in the bathroom. The door opened and she came out, wrapped in a towel and a cloud of steam.

“Your secretary just called on your mobile,” he said. “I think he was a little shocked when I answered.”

She giggled. “Well, there goes my reputation. It’ll be all over the office by lunchtime. What did he want?”

“You’ve got to go back to New York.”

“Why? He give you the details?”

He shook his head.

“No, he was very confidential, very proper, like a secretary should be, I guess. But you’re an ace lawyer, apparently. Big demand for your services.”

She grinned. “I’m the best there is. Didn’t I tell you that? So who needs me?”

“Somebody called your firm. Some financial corporation with something to handle. Asked for you personally. Presumably because you’re the best there is.”

She nodded and smiled. “He say what the problem is?”

He shrugged. “Your usual, I guess. Somebody owes somebody else some money, sounds like they’re all squabbling over it. You have to go to a meeting tomorrow afternoon and try to talk some sense into one side or the other.”

ANOTHER OF THE thousands of phone calls taking place during the same minute in the Wall Street area was a call from the law offices of Forster and Abelstein to the premises of a private detective called William Curry. Curry was a twenty-year veteran of the NYPD’s detective squads, and he had taken his pension at the age of forty-seven and was looking to pay his alimony by working private until his ex-wife got married again or died or forgot about him. He had been in business for two lean years, and a personal call from the senior partner of a white-shoe Wall Street law firm was a breakthrough event, so he was pleased, but not too surprised. He had done two years of good work at reasonable rates with the exact aim of creating some kind of reputation, so if the reputation was finally spreading and the big hitters were finally calling, he was pleased about it without being astonished by it.

But he was astonished by the nature of the job.

“I have to impersonate you?” he repeated.

“It’s important,” Forster told him. “They’re expecting a lawyer called David Forster, so that’s what we have to give them. There won’t be any law involved. There probably won’t be anything involved at all. Just being there will keep the lid on things. It’ll be straightforward enough. OK?”

“OK, I guess,” Curry said. He wrote down the names of the parties involved and the address where the performance was due to take place. He quoted double his normal fee. He didn’t want to look cheap, not in front of these Wall Street guys. They were always impressed by expensive services. He knew that. And given the nature of the job, he figured he would be earning it. Forster agreed the price without hesitation and promised a check in the mail. Curry hung up the phone and started through his closets in his head, wondering what the hell he could wear to make himself look like the head of a big Wall Street firm.