CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tampa International Airport had to be one of the easiest airports in the country. Returning the sedan was quick and simple. Security lines were short. For once, they were at the gate without having to run.

Gaspar figured none of this was good news to Otto. She hated flying. The process went better when she didn’t have time to change her mind about boarding.

The seats in the gate area were standard black and silver sling seats. Knockoffs of a contemporary design that most normal people had never heard of. All filled with tourists and kids and wrinklies headed in or out of the Sunshine state to avoid winter weather or celebrate Thanksgiving.

Otto seemed unusually preoccupied, even for her. She had her laptop open, her smart phone at her ear. She’d checked in with the Boss. Working. Always working.

She was number one. He was number two. He was only mildly surprised to realize now that he liked it that way.

Gaspar stretched out, folded his hands over his flat stomach, and closed his eyes. He had about thirty minutes to doze. A rare gift.

Otto pushed his arm to wake him up from sweet oblivion ten minutes later.

“What?” he said, not opening his eyes.

“Kimball sent me a file. Take a look,” she said.

He glanced over to her laptop screen. Two photos. Each of a brown envelope. One larger than the other.

The larger was hand addressed in block printing to Samantha Weston, c/o Jennifer Lane, Esq. The postmark was Washington, D.C. ten days ago. No return address. Apparently, the large envelope had contained the smaller one.

The smaller envelope looked a little worse for age and wear. Dirty smudges around the edges of a square about the size of a deck of playing cards suggested its contents. Black letters that looked like printing on a police report were placed across the flap to show they were written after the envelope was sealed.

Thomas Weston Recorded Statement

10:04 p.m. 9/1997

The envelope’s seal had been broken.

Otto scrolled up the screen to the email from Kimball. The subject line was Received tonight from J.L.

Gaspar said, “Kimball said Lane had offered to share Samantha Weston’s evidence against her husband. That must be it.”

Because Otto would have already noticed, he didn’t mention the handwriting on both envelopes looked like Reacher’s. They’d seen several examples from his old case files where he printed the same way.

Otto nodded. “Kimball attached an audio file of the contents of the cassette tape in the envelope. I’ve listened to it. It’s a full confession. Definitely from Weston in his own voice. He admits everything Reacher said at the time about how and why Weston’s family was killed. And a little bit more.”

“Such as?”

“Two big things. He and Samantha were having an affair at the time of the murders. And Weston knew the gang would kill his family, but he put everything in place and then just let it happen. Like a kid choosing to let his dog sleep in the middle of the road, even though he knows he’s bound to get run over. He knew they were going to die. He simply didn’t know when.”

“So you figure Kent found all of this out somehow and that’s why he killed them both today when he had the chance?” Gaspar asked.

“I don’t have to figure anything. I know he found out today, because Weston told him. Jennifer Lane was right there.”

“Weston’s plan to get Reacher was a bit more clever than we realized, I guess. He had a Plan B if the suicide by Reacher didn’t work at the memorial service.” Gaspar resettled himself in his chair and nodded at Otto to go on.

“Weston was defeated,” she said. “But he had one last chance. When they loaded him into the ambulance at MacDill, he asked to be transported to Tampa Southern. And he asked for Steven Kent, too. Kent told me it was because he had the necessary clearances. But like you said, what clearances would he need to care for an ex-officer?”

“Weston asked for Kent because he knew him. I can buy that,” Gaspar said.

“All Weston had to do was point Kent and let him fire, and make sure Samantha went down with him. He manipulated Kent by telling him what was on that recorded statement and demanding that Jennifer Lane play it.”

Gaspar wasn’t sure all of this held water, but most of it was plausible. And he didn’t want to spend his next twenty minutes arguing with her. Weston wasn’t their case. Never had been.

He closed his eyes again. “Good to know. But I never doubted Reacher’s evidence against Weston anyway. Did you?”

“That’s not the most interesting part though,” she replied.

He felt her place one of her earbuds to his ear and turn up the volume on the recording. “This was on the end of the Weston taped confession.”

For the first time, relaxed in the Tampa airport, eyes closed, almost asleep, Gaspar heard Reacher speak. It had to be him.

The voice wasn’t what he’d expected. Range was higher, for one thing. Tenor, not bass. Speech clipped. Accent sort of non-descript Midwest American. If Gaspar had been pressed to describe it to another officer, he’d have said Reacher sounded less dangerous than he knew him to be. Maybe that’s how he got close to his targets.

The words were about what Gaspar had guessed, though.

Reacher said, “You got lucky, Weston. You ever step out of line again your whole miserable life, I’ll find you. And I’ll make you sorry. Count on it.”

Gaspar felt his lips turn up of their own accord as he wondered whether Kent had pulled the trigger on that .38 this afternoon at all.

THE END