CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Friday, January 14

4:10 a.m.

New York City

Parnell kept Brewer’s phone because it was the easiest and fastest way to find Pauling, although carrying Brewer’s cell phone dormant in his pocket was like wearing a bull’s-eye on his chest.

Cell phones were routinely monitored, as even the general public was aware because of the damn TrueLeaks crap over the past few years. Many of his fellow citizens seemed shocked and appalled by the practice.

Most civilians either didn’t know what to do or didn’t bother. Which meant cell phones were constantly sending and receiving signals from cell towers and those signals were easily exploited.

Parnell considered the monitoring prudent and part of the national defense effort.

But it was damned inconvenient at the moment.

Cloning phones was beyond his expertise, and he didn’t trust hackers to do it for him. Instead, he employed simple evasive maneuvers. He used throwaway phones. He paid cash and never bought phones from the same place twice. He never carried the same phone for more than a single day, and he kept that one turned off whenever possible.

Which meant that as soon as someone with rudimentary expertise started looking, Parnell was at risk every moment that Brewer’s phone remained in his pocket.

But it couldn’t be helped until he found Pauling and dealt with her. Sooner was better. Scavo could wait a bit longer.

Pauling was a private investigator, licensed by the state and the city. He could find her address online.

He needed a computer for that. Scavo’s laptop was in the trunk.

He ignored the risks associated with that decision, too. It was the fastest alternative.

He needed an internet connection. Public internet was another risk he’d need to take. As he left Brewer’s neighborhood, he scanned for a public place with free Wi-Fi still open at this hour.

Ten miles later, he parked in the lot of an all-night gas station that catered to truckers. The attached sandwich shop served twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five, the sign said. Another sign said free Wi-Fi with purchase.

He ordered black coffee and requested the password.

“Here you go, Pops.” The bored hipster behind the counter handed over a receipt for the coffee with the password printed at the bottom.

Parnell gritted his teeth and didn’t slap the little pierced and tattooed snot.

He carried the coffee and password to a small table and set up the laptop. He connected to the state licensing database instantly. Not much internet traffic on the site at this hour. Good.

He searched Lauren Pauling Investigations and found what he needed right away. He made a note of the business address and phone number.

Next, he entered her personal telephone number from Brewer’s list of cell phone contacts into a search engine. The number popped up on the screen after a fraction of a second.

Pauling’s area code placed the number in New York City. After that, his luck ran out. No name or fixed address attached to the number, according to the search results.

Parnell checked the number, again and again, using several browsers, with the same result.

He attacked the problem from a different angle. He tried searching for cell providers. Three websites listed Pauling’s number as a personal cell phone, but no additional data. No name, no billing information, no provider identification.

All of which meant that Pauling was not one of those careless civilians who ignored the reality of cell phone tracking.

He nodded. Props to Pauling. He enjoyed a clever adversary, even as she thwarted his immediate goal. Because he would prevail. He always did.

Parnell would have continued with more sophisticated searches but he happened to glimpse the television screen mounted on the wall across from his seat. The sound was muted, which was okay. All he needed to see was the looming image of the Dakota and read the crawler across the bottom of the screen, which was not okay.

He scowled and pursed his lips to suppress the string of curses he wanted to bellow. The crawler said police had discovered a mutilated body in one of the apartments a few hours ago. The victim’s identity was withheld pending notification of the family.

Parnell already knew who the dead man was. Someone would learn soon enough that the owner’s fictitious brother-in-law was the likely prime suspect. It was just a matter of time and much less time than he’d expected.

Every moment he stayed in the city with Brewer’s phone in his pocket increased his risk to unacceptable levels. He closed the laptop and returned to his rental. The plan was still simple.

Find Pauling. Eliminate her. Destroy Brewer’s phone. Do it fast.

He paused when his hand pushed the key into the ignition.

Find Pauling.

Do it fast.

How?

Think it through.

Pauling would not be in her office at this hour.

If she rented her apartment, her name might not appear in any local databases.

However, if she owned any sort of real estate interest, the city of New York would collect taxes. Which could mean that she was listed in the real estate databases.

He returned to the sandwich shop and fired up the laptop again. This time, he pulled up real estate records for the city. He searched last name first and returned three pages of Paulings organized by a multiple digit tax ID without names. He searched that list for Lauren Pauling and came up empty. When he searched for Pauling, L., three tax ID numbers populated the screen.

Two of the properties were in Queens. The third was a transfer to a shareholder for a co-op on Barrow Street in Manhattan. He figured most single women without children would prefer to live in the city. Parnell made note of the address and closed down the laptop and left the coffee shop again.

The digital clock on the dash of the rental car now reflected 4:40 a.m. Many New Yorkers were night owls. By law, bars could serve only until 4:00 a.m. Pauling could be a partier. Or an insomniac. Either way, she should be home by now.

He could be at her place in half an hour. Sooner was better. He started the rental and rolled into the street.

New York might be the city that never sleeps, but it definitely slowed after hours. Many New Yorkers never drove anywhere, even if they could. He ran into very little traffic, by New York standards and reached Pauling’s building on Barrow Street faster than he expected.

He pulled into an empty parking spot at the curb. The building was a residential co-op now. Once upon a time, it had probably been a warehouse. He guessed there were four units on each floor, more or less.

Pauling’s records suggested her co-op was on the third floor. Safe bet that her share of the building’s taxes was higher than the units on the lower floors.

Parnell craned his neck to look up at Pauling’s windows. No lights on. Pauling was already in bed, or not home. No lights on in any of the other windows, either.

He rechecked Brewer’s recent calls log. One call to Pauling, placed yesterday, early afternoon. The call lasted fifteen seconds. Long enough to leave a voicemail, but not long enough for a conversation, Parnell figured.

After that, Brewer must have been working a homicide case not involving the Dakota, because there were at least a dozen calls placed and received inside the city to various NYPD departments.

Late in the day, another call to Pauling. This one lasted three minutes.

Parnell went back to the top and scrolled through the recent calls again. He found one he’d missed on the first pass. Or maybe it was delivered late by the cell provider. Sometimes, voice mail delivery could be days late. Maybe Brewer never actually heard the message.

From Pauling, yesterday morning. The call was short.

Parnell located the message and played it back. Her voice was rough, like a lounge singer who had belted out jazz over a full ensemble in a smoky room for a couple of decades.

She did not sound like any FBI agent he had ever met. He wondered briefly what she looked like. Wrinkled and worn out, like her voice, probably.

She was returning Brewer’s call. She said she was out of town. She didn’t say where she was or when she’d return. From the looks of her place, she wasn’t back yet.

Parnell slammed his palm onto the steering wheel. He felt the overwhelming desire to explode.

But then he realized he was finally done in the city. There was nothing else for him to do here. His money was gone. Brewer was dead. Pauling was not here.

His business here was finished.

It felt like progress

He could move on with a slight adjustment to his plan.

Scavo first. Then Pauling.

Perfect.

He turned the rental north.

Parnell headed upstate for the last time. He stopped once for gas and to grab a bite to eat. He was tired, but he felt energized at the same time. He was close. So close.

He spent the drive time formulating plans. One to handle Scavo. One for recovering his nine million dollars from Pauling. One to deal with Reacher.

Reacher stoked anger in his belly. Anger he controlled because Scavo possessed intel Parnell wanted. If he’d been ambivalent about eliminating Scavo before, that indecision had hardened to granite resolve. These hours would be the last of Scavo’s life.