“Suppose he drove out that way?” I said. “Suppose he stopped and lobbed the garment bag straight into one of those Dumpsters?”

“But he’d have kept the briefcase, right?” Roscoe said.

“Maybe we aren’t looking for the briefcase,” I said. “Yesterday, I drove miles and miles out to that stand of trees, but I hid in the field. A diversion, right? It’s a habit. Maybe Joe had the same habit. Maybe he carried a briefcase but kept his important stuff in the garment bag.”

Roscoe shrugged. Wasn’t convinced. We started walking down the service road. Up close, the Dumpsters were huge. I had to lever myself up on the edge of each one and peer in. The first one was empty. Nothing in it at all, except the baked-on kitchen dirt from years of use. The second one was full. I found a length of studding from some demolished drywall and poked around with it. Couldn’t see anything. I heaved myself down and walked to the next one.

There was a garment bag in it. Lying right on top of some old cartons. I fished for it with the length of wood. Hauled it out. Tossed it onto the ground at Roscoe’s feet. Jumped down next to it. It was a battered, well-traveled bag. Scuffed and scratched. Lots of airline tags all over it. There was a little nameplate in the shape of a miniature gold credit card fastened to the handle. It said: Reacher.

“OK, Joe,” I said to myself. “Let’s see if you were a smart guy.”

I was looking for the shoes. They were in the outside pocket of the bag. Two pairs. Four shoes, just like it said on the housekeeper’s list. I pulled the inner soles out of each one in turn. Under the third one, I found a tiny Ziploc bag. With a sheet of computer paper folded up inside it.

“Smart as a whip, Joe,” I said to myself, and laughed.

20

ROSCOE AND I DANCED AROUND THE SERVICE ALLEY TOGETHER like players in the dugout watching the winning run soar out of sight. Then we hustled over to the Chevy and raced the mile back to our hotel. Ran into the lobby, into the elevator. Unlocked our room and fell in. The telephone was ringing. It was Finlay, on the line from Margrave again. He sounded as excited as we were.

“Molly Beth Gordon just called,” he said. “She did it. She’s got the files we need. She’s flying down here, right now. She told me it was amazing stuff. Sounded high as a kite. Atlanta arrivals, two o’clock. I’ll meet you there. Delta, from Washington. Picard give you anything?”

“Sure did,” I said. “He’s quite a guy. I got the rest of the printout, I think.”

“You think?” Finlay said. “You don’t know?”

“Only just got back,” I said. “Haven’t looked at it yet.”

“So look at it, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “It’s important, right?”

“See you later, Harvard guy,” I said.

We sat down at the table over by the window. Unzipped the little plastic bag and pulled out the paper. Unfolded it carefully. It was a sheet of computer paper. The top inch had been torn off the right-hand corner. Half the heading had been left behind. It said: Operation E Unum.

“Operation E Unum Pluribus,” Roscoe said.

Underneath was a triple-spaced list of initials with telephone numbers opposite. The first set of initials was P.H. The phone number was torn off.

“Paul Hubble,” Roscoe said. “His number and the other half of the heading was what Finlay found.”

I nodded. Then there were four more sets of initials. The first two were W.B. and K.K. They had phone numbers alongside. I recognized a New York area code against K.K. The W.B. area code I figured I’d have to look up. The third set of initials was J.S. The code was 504. New Orleans area. I’d been there less than a month ago. The fourth set of initials was M.B.G. There was a phone number with a 202 area code. I pointed to it, so Roscoe could see it.

“Molly Beth Gordon,” she said. “Washington, D.C.”

I nodded again. It wasn’t the number I had called from the rosewood office. Maybe her home number. The final two items on the torn paper were not initials, and there were no corresponding phone numbers. The second-to-last item was just two words: Stollers’ Garage. The last item was three words: Gray’s Kliner File. I looked at the careful capital letters and I could just about feel my dead brother’s neat, pedantic personality bursting off the page.

Paul Hubble we knew about. He was dead. Molly Beth Gordon we knew about. She’d be here at two o’clock. We’d seen the garage up at Sherman Stoller’s place on the golf course. It held nothing but two empty cartons. That left the underlined heading, three sets of initials with three phone numbers, and the three words: Gray’s Kliner File. I checked the time. Just past noon. Too early to sit back and wait for Molly Beth to arrive. I figured we should make a start.

“First we think about the heading,” I said. “E Unum Pluribus.”

Roscoe shrugged.

“That’s the U.S. motto, right?” she said. “The Latin thing?”

“No,” I said. “It’s the motto backwards. This more or less means out of one comes many. Not out of many comes one.”

“Could Joe have written it down wrong?” she said.

I shook my head.

“I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t think Joe would make that kind of a mistake. It must mean something.”

Roscoe shrugged again.

“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said. “What else?”

“Gray’s Kliner File,” I said. “Did Gray have a file on Kliner?”

“Probably,” Roscoe said. “He had a file on just about everything. Somebody spat on the sidewalk, he’d put it in a file.”

I nodded. Stepped back to the bed and picked up the phone. Called Finlay down in Margrave. Baker told me he’d already left. So I dialed the other numbers on Joe’s printout. The W.B. number was in New Jersey. Princeton University. Faculty of modern history. I hung up straight away. Couldn’t see the connection. The K.K. number was in New York City. Columbia University. Faculty of modern history. I hung up again. Then I dialed J.S. in New Orleans. I heard one ring tone and a busy voice.

“Fifteenth squad, detectives,” the voice said.

“Detectives?” I said. “Is that the NOPD?”

“Fifteenth squad,” the voice said again. “Can I help you?”

“You got somebody there with the initials J.S.?” I asked.

“J.S.?” the voice said. “I got three of them. Which one do you want?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Does the name Joe Reacher mean anything to you?”

“What the hell is this?” the voice said. “Twenty Questions or something?”

“Ask them, will you?” I said. “Ask each J.S. if they know Joe Reacher. Will you do that? I’ll call back later, OK?”

Down in New Orleans, the fifteenth squad desk guy grunted and hung up. I shrugged at Roscoe and put the phone back on the nightstand.

“We wait for Molly?” she said.

I nodded. I was a little nervous about meeting Molly. It was going to be like meeting a ghost connected to another ghost.

WE WAITED AT THE CRAMPED TABLE IN THE WINDOW. Watched the sun fall away from its noontime peak. Wasted time passing Joe’s torn printout back and forth between us. I stared at the heading. E Unum Pluribus. Out of one comes many. That was Joe Reacher, in three words. Something important, all bound up in a wry little pun.

“Let’s go,” Roscoe said.

We were early, but we were anxious. We gathered up our things. Rode the elevator to the lobby and let the dead guys settle up for our phone calls. Then we walked over to Roscoe’s Chevy. Started threading our way around to arrivals. It wasn’t easy. The airport hotels were planned for people heading out of arrivals or heading into departures. Nobody had thought of people going our way.

“We don’t know what Molly looks like,” Roscoe said.

“But she knows what I look like,” I said. “I look like Joe.”

The airport was vast. We saw most of it as we crabbed over to the right quarter. It was bigger than some cities I’d been in. We drove for miles. Found the right terminal. Missed a lane change and passed the short-term parking. Came around again and lined up at the barrier. Roscoe snatched the ticket and eased into the lot.