"Anyway, congratulations," he said. "Sleep well tonight."
"Maybe I will," she said.
Then she said, "Maybe I won't get the chance."
He could smell her fragrance. Subtle perfume, soap, clean skin, clean cotton. Her hair fell to her collarbones. The shoulder seams on her T-shirt stood up a little and made enticing shadowy tunnels. She was slim and toned, except where she shouldn't be.
He said, "Won't get the chance why?"
She said, "Maybe we'll be working all night."
He said, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
"You're not a dull boy," she said.
"Thank you," he said, and leaned forward and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. Her mouth was open a little and was cool and sweet from the wine. He slid his free hand under her hair to the back of her neck. Pulled her closer and kissed her harder. She did the same thing with her free hand. They held the clinch for a whole minute, kissing, two wine glasses held approximately level in midair. Then they parted and put their glasses down on the table and Pauling asked, "What time is it?"
"Nine fifty-one."
"How do you do that?"
"I don't know."
She held the pause for another beat and then leaned in and kissed him again. Used both her hands, one behind his head, the other behind his back. He did the same thing, symmetrically. Her tongue was cool and quick. Her back was narrow. Her skin was warm. He slid his hand under her shirt. Felt her hand bunching into a tiny fist and dragging his shirt out of his waistband. Felt her nails against his skin.
"I don't usually do this," she said, her mouth hard against his. "Not to people I work with."
"We're not working," he said. "We're taking a break."
"We're celebrating."
"That's for sure."
She said, "We're celebrating the fact that we're not Hobart, aren't we? Or Kate Lane."
"I'm celebrating the fact that you're you."
She raised her arms over her head and held the pose and he pulled her shirt off. She was wearing a tiny black bra. He raised his arms in turn and she knelt up on the sofa and hauled his shirt up over his head. Then his T-shirt. She spread her hands like small starfish on the broad slab of his chest. Ran them south to his waist. Undid his belt. He unclipped her bra. Lifted her up and laid her down flat on the sofa and kissed her breasts. By the time the clock in his head was showing five past ten they were in her bed, naked under the sheet, locked together, making love with a kind of patience and tenderness he had never experienced before.
"Older women," she said. "We're worth it."
He didn't answer. Just smiled and ducked his head and kissed her neck below her ear, where her skin was damp and tasted of salt water.
Afterward they showered together and finished their wine and went back to bed. Reacher was too tired to think and too relaxed to care. He just floated, warm, spent, happy. Pauling snuggled against him and they fell asleep like that.
Much later Reacher felt Pauling stir and woke up to find her hands over his eyes. She asked him in a whisper, "What time is it?"
"Eighteen minutes to seven," he said. "In the morning."
"You're unbelievable."
"It's not a very useful talent. Saves me the price of a new watch, maybe."
"What happened to the old one?"
"I stepped on it. I put it by the bed and I stood on it when I got up."
"And that broke it?"
"I was wearing shoes."
"In bed?"
"Saves time getting dressed."
"You are unbelievable."
"I don't do it all the time. It depends on the bed."
"What would it mean if Gregory was wrong about the time and you were right?"
He took a breath and opened his mouth to say I don't know.
But then he stopped.
Because suddenly he saw what it would mean.
"Wait," he said.
He lay back on the pillow and stared up at the darkened ceiling.
"Do you like chocolate?" he asked.
"I guess."
"You got a flashlight?"
"There's a small Maglite in my purse."
"Put it in your pocket," he said. "Leave the purse home. And wear pants. The skirt is no good."
Chapter 49
THEY WALKED, BECAUSE it was a beautiful city morning and Reacher was too restless to ride the subway or take a cab. Barrow, to Bleecker, then south on Sixth Avenue. It was already warm. They took it slow, to time it right. They turned east on Spring Street at seven-thirty exactly. Crossed Sullivan, crossed Thompson.
"We're going to the abandoned building?" Pauling asked.
"Eventually," Reacher said.
He stopped outside the chocolate shop. Cupped his hands against the glass and peered in. There was a light in the kitchen. He could see the owner moving about, small, dark, tired, her back to him. Sixteen-hour days, she had said. Regular as clockwork, seven days a week, small business, we never rest.
He knocked on the glass, loud, and the owner stopped and turned and looked exasperated until she recognized him. Then she shrugged and admitted defeat and walked through the front of the store to the door. Undid the locks and opened the door a crack and said, "Hello."
Air bitter with chocolate flooded out at him.
He asked, "Can we come through to the alley again?"
"Who's your friend this time?"
Pauling stepped forward and said her name.
The owner asked, "Are you really exterminators?"
"Investigators," Pauling said. She had a business card ready.
"What are you investigating?"
"A woman disappeared," Reacher said. "And her child."
Silence for a moment.
The owner asked, "You think they're next door?"
"No," Reacher said. "Nobody's next door."
"That's good."
"This is just routine."
"Would you like a chocolate?"
"Not for breakfast," Reacher said.
"I would love one," Pauling said.
The owner held the door wide and Pauling and Reacher stepped inside. Pauling took a moment choosing a chocolate. She settled on a raspberry fondant as big as a golf ball. Took a little bite and made a noise that sounded like appreciation. Then she followed Reacher through the kitchen and down the short tiled hallway. Out through the back door to the alley.
The rear of the abandoned building was exactly as Reacher had last seen it. The dull red door, the corroded black knob, the filthy ground floor window. He turned the knob and pushed, just in case, but the door was locked, as expected. He bent down and unlaced his shoe. Took it off and held the toe in his hand and used the heel like a two-pound hammer. Used it to break the window glass, low down and on the left, close to the door lock.
He tapped a little more and widened the hole and then put his shoe back on. Put his arm through the hole in the glass up to his shoulder and hugged the wall and groped around until he found the inside door handle. He unlocked it and withdrew his arm very carefully.
"OK," he said.
He opened the door and stood aside to let Pauling get a good look.
"Just like you told me," Pauling said. "Uninhabitable. No floors."
"You up for a trip down the ladder?"
"Why me?"
"Because if I'm wrong I might just give up and stay down there forever."
Pauling craned in and took a look at the ladder. It was right there where it had been before, propped to the right, steeply angled, leaning on the narrow piece of wall that separated the window and the door.