"It was," Lane said. "Then what?"
"Then a guy crossed the street toward it. Not at a crosswalk. Through gaps in the traffic, at an angle. The angle was more or less the same as my line of sight, maybe twenty degrees. So most of what I saw was his back, all the way."
"Then what?"
"He stuck the key in the door and got inside. Took off."
"Going north, obviously, this being Sixth Avenue. Did he turn?"
"Not that I saw."
"Can you describe him?"
"Blue jeans, blue shirt, blue baseball cap, white sneakers. The clothing was old and comfortable. The guy was average height, average weight."
"Age?"
"I didn't see his face. Most of what I saw was his back. But he didn't move like a kid. He was at least in his thirties. Maybe forty."
"How exactly did he move?"
"He was focused. He headed straight for the car. Not fast, but there was no doubt where he was going. The way he held his head, I think he was looking directly at the car the whole way. Like a definite destination. Like a target. And the way he held his shoulder, I think he might have had the key out in front of him, horizontally. Like a tiny lance. Focused, and intent. And urgent. That's how he moved."
"Where did he come from?"
"From behind my shoulder, more or less. He could have been walking north, and then stepped off the sidewalk at the cafe, north and east through the traffic."
"Would you recognize him again?"
"Maybe," Reacher said. "But only by his clothes and his walk and his posture. Nothing that would convince anyone."
"If he crossed through the traffic he must have glanced south to see what was coming at him. At least once. So you should have seen the right side of his face. Then when he was behind the wheel, you should have seen the left side."
"Narrow angles," Reacher said. "And the light wasn't great."
"There must have been headlight beams on him."
"He was white," Reacher said. "No facial hair. That's all I saw."
"White male," Lane said. "Thirty-five to forty-five. I guess that eliminates about eighty percent of the population, maybe more, but it's not good enough."
"Didn't you have insurance?" Reacher asked.
"This is not about the car," Lane said.
"It was empty," Reacher said.
"It wasn't empty," Lane said.
"So what was in it?"
"Thank you, Mr. Reacher," Lane said. "You've been very helpful."
He turned and walked back to where he had started, next to the table with the phone and the photograph. He stood erect beside it and spread his fingers again and laid the tips lightly on the polished wood, right next to the telephone, like his touch might detect an incoming call before the electronic pulse started the bell.
"You need help," Reacher said. "Don't you?"
"Why would you care?" Lane asked.
"Habit," Reacher said. "Reflex. Professional curiosity."
"I've got help," Lane said. He gestured with his free hand around the room. "Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines, Green Berets, SAS from Britain. The best in the world."
"You need a different kind of help. The guy who took your car, these folks can start a war against him, that's for sure. But first you need to find him."
No reply.
"What was in the car?" Reacher asked.
"Tell me about your career," Lane said.
"It's been over a long time. That's its main feature."
"Final rank?"
"Major."
"Army CID?"
"Thirteen years."
"Investigator?"
"Basically."
"A good one?"
"Good enough."
"110th Special Unit?"
"Some of the time. You?"
"Rangers and Delta. Started in Vietnam, ended in the Gulf the first time around. Started a second lieutenant, finished a full colonel."
"What was in the car?"
Lane looked away. Held still and quiet for a long, long time. Then he looked back, like a decision had been made.
"You need to give me your word about something," he said.
"Like what?"
"No cops. That's going to be your first piece of advice, go to the cops. But I'll refuse to do it, and I need your word that you won't go behind my back."
Reacher shrugged.
"OK," he said.
"Say it."
"No cops."
"Say it again."
"No cops," Reacher said again.
"You got an ethical problem with that?"
"No," Reacher said.
"No FBI, no nobody," Lane said. "We handle this ourselves. Understand? You break your word, I'll put your eyes out. I'll have you blinded."
"You've got a funny way of making friends."
"I'm looking for help here, not friends."
"My word is good," Reacher said.
"Say you understand what I'll do if you break it."
Reacher looked around the room. Took it all in. A quiet desperate atmosphere and six Special Forces veterans, all full of subdued menace, all as hard as nails, all looking right back at him, all full of unit loyalty and hostile suspicion of the outsider.
"You'll have me blinded," Reacher said.
"You better believe it," Lane said.
"What was in the car?"
Lane moved his hand away from the phone. He picked up the framed photograph. He held it two-handed, flat against his chest, high up, so that Reacher felt he had two people staring back at him. Above, Lane's pale and worried features. Below, under glass, a woman of breathtaking classical beauty. Dark hair, green eyes, high cheekbones, a bud of a mouth, photographed with passion and expertise and printed by a master.
"This is my wife," Lane said.
Reacher nodded. Said nothing.
"Her name is Kate," Lane said.
Nobody spoke.
"Kate disappeared late yesterday morning," Lane said. "I got a call in the afternoon. From her kidnappers. They wanted money. That's what was in the car. You watched one of my wife's kidnappers collect their ransom."
Nobody spoke.
"They promised to release her," Lane said. "And it's been twenty-four hours. And they haven't called back."
Chapter 3
EDWARD LANE HELD the framed photograph like an offering and Reacher stepped forward to take it. He tilted it to catch the light. Kate Lane was beautiful, no question about it. She was hypnotic. She was younger than her husband by maybe twenty years, which put her in her early thirties. Old enough to be all woman, young enough to be flawless. In the picture she was gazing at something just beyond the edge of the print. Her eyes blazed with love. Her mouth seemed ready to burst into a wide smile. The photographer had frozen the first tiny hint of it so that the pose seemed dynamic. It was a still picture, but it looked like it was about to move. The focus and the grain and the detail were immaculate. Reacher didn't know much about photography, but he knew he was holding a high-end product. The frame alone might have cost what he used to make in a month, back in the army.
"My Mona Lisa," Lane said. "That's how I think of that picture."
Reacher passed it back. "Is it recent?"
Lane propped it upright again, next to the telephone.
"Less than a year old," he said.
"Why no cops?"