CHAPTER EIGHT

Four people occupied the small waiting room when Gaspar arrived upstairs. Two men he’d never seen before. Two women he recognized. The men sat a few chairs apart and directly across from the wall-mounted television tuned to a football game. If they noticed or cared about his arrival, they didn’t betray themselves.

He was relieved to see both women look up when he entered, which meant he hadn’t become invisible since they’d seen him last.

Jess Kimball, the Taboo reporter, sat closer to the entrance, as if to ensure she’d be the first to pounce when worthy prey arrived. There was something about her that suggested barely contained anger. Given her feelings about Weston, maybe she was annoyed that the shooter had failed. She was intense, which made Gaspar want to know her story. She was young to be so driven. Usually that kind of idealism came from tragedy and betrayal, in Gaspar’s experience. Which was what he figured had happened to her. But what?

The other woman was Jennifer Lane, Samantha Weston’s lawyer. She sat in the corner across from the entry door where she had a clear view of the entire room and its occupants. Gaspar knew a lot of lawyers, but none that were Velcroed to their clients like this one. What was going on there?

He shrugged. Both women were too young to have known Reacher during the Weston murder investigation, which made them vaguely interesting, but irrelevant to his mission.

He absorbed the rest of the scene in a quick glance. One wall of the waiting room featured large plate glass windows overlooking the water. The opposite wall sported a small opening filled with a sliding frosted glass panel behind which, presumably, someone was working. Otto was probably chatting that someone up now. Which was great, because it meant he didn’t have to do it.

Gaspar settled into one of the molded plastic chairs, extended his legs, folded his hands over his flat stomach and closed his eyes. The others might think he was sleeping. If nothing interesting happened within five minutes, he would be.

Three minutes later, Otto came in and sat next to him. “I spoke with the Westons’ assigned nurse. His name is Steve Kent. He served at MacDill, so he has the necessary clearances, he said. He was also a Navy medic for a while, and respected Weston’s service in Iraq. That’s why he requested the duty.”

“Since when do you need a security clearance to be a civilian nurse to a retired officer?” Gaspar asked without opening his eyes.

“Probably depends on the officer,” Otto said. “Anyway, I told him we had a plane to catch and he said he’d take us in as soon as Weston can answer questions.”

“Okay,” he replied, closing his eyes again. “Did he say anything else I need to know right now?”

Gaspar heard her sigh and imagined she was rolling her eyes, knowing full well what he was up to. Unlike Gaspar, Otto had never been a soldier. She hadn’t developed the habit of resting when she could. She got up and left him to it.

When he checked through his lashes, he saw her pacing the room, stopping now and again to glance out the window at Bayshore Boulevard. On a clear day, Gaspar knew she could have seen Plant Key and George’s Place and probably all the way to MacDill at the opposite end of the linear park. Not today. Heavy clouds had moved in, bringing congested air that obscured the sightline. He settled his eyes truly shut.

Gaspar figured even if Reacher was in the vicinity, he couldn’t reach Weston as long as Weston was still in surgery. Gaspar might have dropped off for a quick twenty winks, but he heard Otto engage in subdued conversation with one of the women. Probably Kimball. Reporters were chatty by nature. Probably not Lane. Lawyers were notoriously tight-lipped. Trying to talk to Lane would be a waste of time. Whatever Otto found out from whoever she was talking to, she’d tell him eventually. He let his breathing flatten and even out as he felt himself dropping again toward sleep.

He was almost there when the door opened and Gaspar raised his eyelids enough to see a woman dressed in pink surgical scrubs enter. “You’re the FBI agents?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Otto said, directing her to the seat next to Gaspar and leaving Kimball and Lane behind her looking miffed at being excluded.

“I’m Trista Blanke, O.R. Patient Coordinator,” she said. “I’ve been told I should give you an update on Mr. and Mrs. Weston. They should both be out of surgery shortly. Mr. Weston’s most serious wound was the shot to the back of his shoulder. The bullet traveled through his body, which is better than most alternatives. But it nicked an artery. He lost a lot of blood and the repair surgery lasted a bit longer than it otherwise would have.”

“And Mrs. Weston?” Otto asked.

“She was wounded in the right thigh. Again, the bullet traveled through, but it shattered the femur. She should be fine once reconstruction is completed,” she said. “They’ll be in recovery for an hour or so after the procedures.”

“When can we talk to them?” Otto asked.

“When they’re out of surgery, you can give it a try. But until the anesthesia wears off, they may not make much sense.”

“Thanks,” Otto said.

“No problem,” she said before she approached Jennifer Lane, likely to deliver the same news. Kimball crowded in to hear.

“We are probably wasting our time,” Otto said, quietly.

Gaspar didn’t argue. Except for the possibility of running into Reacher, he figured their time could be much better spent eating. He settled back into his waiting posture and reclosed his eyes, hoping for a quiet five minutes.

When Ms. Blanke had completed her mission and advanced toward the exit, Gaspar heard Otto join her, asking, “Where can I get a cup of coffee?”

Four minutes, forty-five seconds later, the football game ended and the two guys who’d been watching left the room. Gaspar was now alone with the two women. In his bachelor days, he’d have considered that a fringe benefit of the job.

Jessica Kimball spoke first. “Are you planning to arrest both Westons when they come out of recovery?”

“What reason do you have for arresting Samantha Weston?” Jennifer Lane demanded.

Kimball replied, “He’s FBI. The Asian woman, too. Why else would they be here?”

“Is that true?” Lane asked.

Gaspar’s eyes remained closed and he said nothing. Otto would have bristled at the assumption she was Asian. Oh, sure, she looked like her Vietnamese mother. But she considered herself 100% tall, blonde, sturdy, stubborn German, like her father. Gaspar grinned and said nothing.

Kimball walked over and kicked the sole of his right shoe. Not hard. Just enough to jostle a normal person to attention. But the strike sent painful shock waves up his right leg and into his right side where the muscles had collapsed and the nerves touched things they weren’t meant to touch.

“You’re not sleeping,” Kimball said.

“Checking my eyelids for holes,” he replied, willing his pain to settle down. Which never worked. Biofeedback was bunk. Maybe pain was in the brain, but despite his exercise of will, his leg settled into the dull thumping he’d long ago accepted as normal. He opened his eyes, but didn’t alter his posture. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kimball?”

“Same thing the FBI has been doing for me for a decade,” Kimball said, bitterly. “Nothing.”

Lane cut in belligerently. “Do you have an arrest warrant for Samantha Weston? You intend to arrest her while she’s incapacitated and unable to understand her rights, Agent Gaspar?”

“Obviously, she understands she has a right to an attorney, since you’re here,” Gaspar replied without moving. “The only way your presence here makes any sense to me is that she’s been expecting us. Which means someone tipped her off. When I find out who did the tipping, you may have yourself another client.”

The expression on Lane’s face suggested he’d hit the bulls-eye. Most leaks were intentional. If someone had warned Samantha Weston of her impending arrest, the notice was tactical. Which made him wonder briefly, as a matter of professional curiosity, what the local agents were really up to with Weston. If they already had a warrant supported by probable cause for arrest, why did they want his wife?

“Maybe I don’t need your client, Ms. Lane. I’m only interested in the original murder investigation,” Gaspar said. “What do you know about that?”

“Samantha wasn’t living in Tampa back then,” Jennifer Lane replied. “Nor was I.”

Kimball said, “I’ve investigated thoroughly for Taboo, and I was at the gunman’s execution. So I probably know more than she does.”

The waiting room door opened again and Otto entered with four cups of black coffee. Everyone took a cup and spent a few moments adding and stirring.

Lane sipped and swallowed before she asked, “Are you thinking today’s shooting is somehow about that old case?”

“What do you think?” Gaspar replied.

“I doubt it,” Otto said. “Seventeen years is a long time for any normal person to carry a grudge.”

Like a woman with personal experience, Kimball said, “Not where your kids are concerned, it isn’t.”

“Say you’re right,” Lane said to her. “What do you think is going on here?”

Jennifer Lane looked young and inexperienced. How’d she get a powerhouse client like Weston’s wife? Curious situation, at the very least, Gaspar thought again.

Jess Kimball was about the same age as Lane, but she seemed more worldly somehow. As if she’d been through tough times that had aged her and forged her titanium spine. She said, “We need to know how today’s shooter is connected to Weston. It wasn’t a random shooting, because the guy went right up to Weston and fired only at him. When we get the name of the shooter, I should be able to tell you what’s going on.”

“What makes you so sure?” Otto asked.

“I do very thorough research, Agent Otto. If Weston’s sneezed in the wrong direction, I’ve found out about it,” Kimball said, clearly miffed at the perceived slight to her reporting skills. “Listen: this guy is a miserable human being who’s caused nothing but heartache wherever he’s gone. This wasn’t the first time someone has tried to erase Weston from the planet. He’s had more lives than an alley cat already. Sorting through the list of people waiting in line for a chance to kill him will take some time.”

Before Otto had a chance to reply, the waiting room door opened again. Every time it happened, Gaspar tensed a bit. Expecting Reacher. But so far, he hadn’t materialized.

This time, four people entered ahead of a short, stout man dressed in hospital scrubs. The smallish waiting room was instantly overcrowded.

Gaspar recognized the two FBI agents he’d seen at the memorial service intending to arrest Weston for a laundry list of crimes against the government. Lane and Kimball weren’t too far off in their assessment of the FBI’s intentions, though they had been led a bit astray regarding the identity of the Bureau’s official team for the arrest.

There was an awkward moment while everyone seemed blinded by the unexpected presence of the others before the stout man in scrubs began threading his way through the group on his way to the interior door. One of the agents stopped his progress by pulling out his badge wallet. “I’m Special Agent Edward Crane and this is Special Agent Derek Bartos.” Crane, Gaspar thought. He knew—and didn’t much like—the man. “We’re here to take recorded statements from Thomas Weston and his wife, Samantha Weston.” Crane pointed toward one of the other two newcomers, a tall redhead wearing jeans and blazer over a white tee-shirt and a pixie hair cut suitable for a woman ten years younger. “This is Judge Willa Carson and her court reporter, Ms. Natalie Chernow.”

Gaspar’s right eyebrow shot up. There weren’t that many Federal judges in Florida and he’d met most of them several times—the FBI and the federal bench routinely worked cooperatively. Judge Carson’s jurisdiction was the Middle District of Florida, though, and Gaspar generally stayed in his own sandbox in the Southern District, so he’d never met her.

But he’d heard stories about the freewheeling Willa Carson, who was said to care less for precedent and statutes than her own version of appropriate justice. Some said Carson’s conduct was unjudicial. Others said she was a breath of fresh air. All of which, for a law-and-order man like Gaspar, wasn’t usually good news. But he’d mellowed lately on the rule-following. He could hardly fault Judge Carson for doing the same.

The stout man spoke up. “I’m Steven Kent, physician’s assistant assigned to both patients. Colonel Weston is out of surgery and stable, though he’s too groggy to answer questions yet. He’ll be moved in about thirty minutes.” His tone was not exactly disrespectful, but he wasn’t deferential, either. “Mrs. Weston should be moved by then as well. I’ll let you know.”

Kent turned smartly like a soldier on parade and left without further comment. Brief silence reigned.

Otto stood and introduced herself and Gaspar to the new arrivals before she said, “There’s a coffee pot at the station across the hall. Anybody interested?”

Jennifer Lane held out her empty cup and said, “I’d love another one. Would you mind? I’d come with you, but I need to watch these new guys.”

Bad move. She’d insulted the FBI, which raised Otto’s hackles along with those of the other agents. Gaspar remained unruffled. Lawyers were always sanctimonious, in his experience. Being a lawyer herself, Otto couldn’t very well say so. Gaspar hid his grin as she grudgingly collected Lane’s cup.

“I’m fine,” Kimball replied.

“Judge Carson? Coffee?” Otto offered.

Carson moved to join her, towering over Otto and glancing back as they headed for the door. “Surely you people can play nice until I get back. If not,” she looked Gaspar in the eye, “go ahead and shoot them all.”

Gaspar laughed out loud. Yep. Judge Willa Carson might be worth the drive up from Miami on the right case. He’d keep the idea in mind. If he ever got back to his normal job.