“Or half the guns,” Reacher said.

“Right,” Leighton said.

“Somebody running a protection racket,” Harper said. “Like a scam inside a scam.”

“Right,” Leighton said again.

There was a long pause.

“Looks good from our point of view,” Harper said. “Guy like that, he’s smart and capable, and he has to run around taking care of problems in various random locations. Could explain why he’s interested in so many different women. Not because all the women knew him, but because maybe each one of them knew one of his clients.”

“Timing is good for you too,” Leighton said. “If our guy is your guy, he started planning two, three months ago, when he heard his clients were starting to go down.”

Harper sat forward. “What was the volume of business like two, three years ago?”

"Pretty heavy,” Leighton said. "You’re really asking how much these women could have seen, right?”

“Right.”

“They could have seen plenty,” Leighton said.

“So how good is your case?” she asked. “Against Bob McGuire, for instance?”

Leighton shrugged. “Not brilliant. We’ve got him for the two pieces he sold to our guys, of course, but that’s only two pieces. The rest of it is basically circumstantial, and the fact the money doesn’t tie up properly weakens the hell out of it.”

“So eliminating the witnesses before the trials makes sense.”

Leighton nodded. “Makes a hell of a lot of sense, I guess.”

“So who is this guy?”

Leighton rubbed his eyes again. “We have no idea. We don’t even know for sure there is a guy. He’s just a guess right now. Just our theory.”

“Nobody’s saying anything?”

“Not a damn word. We’ve been asking, two months solid. We’ve got two dozen guys, all of them with their mouths shut tight. We figure the big guy’s really put the frighteners on.”

“He’s scary, that’s for sure,” Harper said. “From what we know about him.”

There was silence in Leighton’s office. Just the brittle patter of rain on the windows.

“If he exists,” Leighton said.

“He exists,” Harper said.

Leighton nodded. “We think so too.”

“Well, we need his name, I guess,” Reacher said.

No reply.

“I should go talk to McGuire for you,” Reacher said.

Leighton smiled. “I figured you’d be saying that before long. I was all set to say no, it’s improper. But you know what? I just changed my mind. I just decided to say yes, go ahead. Be my guest.”

THE CELL BLOCK was underground, like it always is in a regional HQ, below a squat brick building with an iron door, standing alone on the other side of the rose bed. Leighton led them over there through the rain, their collars turned up against the damp and their chins ducked down to their chests. Leighton used an old-fashioned bellpull outside the iron door and it opened after a second to reveal a bright hallway with a huge master sergeant standing in it. The sergeant stepped aside and Leighton led them in.

Inside, the walls were made of brick faced with white porcelain glaze. The floors and the ceilings were smooth troweled concrete painted shiny green. Lights were fluorescent tubes behind thick metal grilles. Doors were iron, with square barred openings at the top. There was a cubbyhole office on the right, with a wooden rack of keys on four-inch metal hoops. There was a big desk, piled high with video recorders taping milky-gray flickering images from twelve small monitor screens. The screens showed twelve cells, eleven of them empty and one of them with a humped shape under a blanket on the bed.

“Quiet night at the Hilton,” Reacher said.

Leighton nodded. “Gets worse Saturday nights. But right now McGuire’s our only guest.”

“The video recording is a problem,” Reacher said.

“Always breaking down, though,” Leighton said.

He bent to examine the pictures on the monitors. Braced his hands on the desk. Bent closer. Rolled his right hand until his knuckle touched a switch. The recorders stopped humming and the REC legends disappeared from the corners of the screens.

“See?” he said. “Very unreliable system.”

“It’ll take a couple hours to fix,” the sergeant said. “At least.”

The sergeant was a giant, shiny skin the color of coffee. His uniform jacket was the size of a field tent. Reacher and Harper would have fitted into it together. Maybe Leighton, too. The guy was the exact ideal-issue MP noncom.

“McGuire’s got a visitor, Sergeant,” Leighton said. An off-the-record voice. “Doesn’t need to go in the log.”

Reacher took off his coat and his jacket. Folded them and left them on the sergeant’s chair. The sergeant took a hoop of keys off the wooden board and moved to the inside door. Unlocked it and swung it back. Reacher stepped through and the sergeant closed the door and locked it again behind him. Pointed to the head of a staircase.

“After you,” he said.

The staircase was built of bricks, rounded at the nose of each stair. The walls either side were the same white glaze. There was a metal handrail, bolted through to the wall every twelve inches. Another locked door at the bottom. Then a corridor, then another locked door. Then a lobby, with three locked doors to three blocks of cells. The sergeant unlocked the middle door. Flipped a switch and fluorescent light stuttered and flooded a bright white area forty feet by twenty. There was an access zone the length of the block and about a third of its depth. The rest of the space was divided into four cells delineated by heavy iron bars. The bars were thickly covered in shiny white enamel paint. The cells were about ten feet wide, maybe twelve deep. Each cell had a video camera opposite, mounted high on the wall. Three of the cells were empty, with their gates folded back. The fourth was locked closed. It held McGuire. He was struggling awake, sitting up, surprised by the light.

“Visitor for you,” the sergeant called.

There were two tall wooden stools in the corner of the access zone nearest the exit door. The sergeant carried the nearer one over and placed it in front of McGuire’s cell. Walked back and sat on the other. Reacher ignored the stool and stood with his hands behind his back, gazing silently through the bars. McGuire was pushing his blanket aside and swinging his feet to the floor. He was wearing an olive undershirt and olive shorts. He was a big guy. More than six feet tall, more than two hundred pounds, more than thirty-five years old. Heavily muscled, a thick neck, big arms, big legs. Thinning hair cropped close, small eyes, a couple of tattoos. Reacher stood absolutely still, watching him, saying nothing.

“Hell are you?” McGuire said. His voice matched his bulk. It was deep, and the words were half swallowed by a heavy chest. Reacher made no reply. It was a technique he had perfected half a lifetime ago. Just stand absolutely still, don’t blink, say nothing. Wait for them to run through the possibilities. Not a buddy. Not a lawyer. Who, then? Wait for them to start worrying.

“Hell are you?” McGuire said again.

Reacher walked away. He stepped over to where the master sergeant was sitting and bent to whisper in his ear. The giant’s eyebrows came up. You sure? Reacher whispered again. The guy nodded and stood up and handed Reacher the hoop of keys. Went out through the door and closed it behind him. Reacher hung the keys on the knob and walked back to McGuire’s cell. McGuire was staring through the bars at him.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I want you to look at me,” Reacher replied.

“What?”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing,” McGuire said.

“You blind?”

“No, I ain’t blind.”

“Then you’re a liar,” Reacher said. “You don’t see nothing.”

“I see some guy,” McGuire said.

“You see some guy bigger than you who had all kinds of special training while you spent your time shuffling paper in some piece-of-shit quartermaster’s stores.”