The Midnight Line by Lee Child Page B

Scorpio’s. He stretched out and got comfortable and stared straight ahead at an inert Maytag. Scorpio was silent beside him. They looked like two old men at a ball game. The sentries stayed on the floor, breathing, but not easily.
    Reacher took the West Point ring from his pocket. He balanced it on his palm. He said, “I need to know who you got this from.”
    â€œI never saw that before,” Scorpio said. “I run a laundromat.”
    â€œWhat have you got in your pockets?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou need to take it all out. I’m going to put you in the tumble dryer. Keys or coins might damage the mechanism.”
    Scorpio glanced at a tumble dryer.
    Couldn’t help himself.
    He said, “I wouldn’t fit.”
    â€œYou would,” Reacher said.
    â€œI never saw that ring before.”
    â€œYou sold it to Jimmy Rat.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œWhere I set the temperature dial is up to you. We’ll start on delicates. Then we’ll turn it up. Someone told me it goes all the way to where it can kill a bedbug.”
    Scorpio said nothing.
    â€œI understand,” Reacher said. “You’re Mr. Rapid City. You’re the man. You got a bunch of networks running. Which is your problem. Maybe they’re all interconnected. In which case, one question might lead to another. The whole thing might unravel. You can’t afford for that to happen. Hence the stone wall. I get it. Perfectly understandable. Except you need to remember two very important things. Firstly, I don’t care. I’m not a cop. I don’t have another question. And secondly, I’ll put you in the tumble dryer. So you’re between a rock and a hard place here. You need to get creative. You ever read a book?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œAbout the moon landings.”
    â€œThat’s called non-fiction. There’s another kind, called fiction. You make stuff up, perhaps to illuminate a greater central truth. In your case, maybe you could tell me a story about a poor homeless man, maybe from out of town, who came in to launder his clothes, except he had no money, nothing at all except a ring, which you reluctantly traded for a couple of hot-wash cycles and a couple of dryer loads, plus enough left over for a square meal and a bed for the night. All out of the kindness of your generous heart. Detective Nakamura couldn’t argue with that. It would be a fine story.”
    â€œI would have to admit selling the ring to Jimmy Rat.”
    â€œWhich was perfectly legal. You run a laundromat. You carry quarters to the bank. You don’t know what to do with a ring. Fortunately a guy passing by on his motorcycle offered to buy it from you. Not your fault he turned out to be a bad guy. You’re not your brother’s keeper.”
    â€œYou think that’s a good enough story?”
    â€œI think it’s a fine story,” Reacher said again. “Just as long as you happen to remember the out-of-towner’s name.”
    â€œOut of state,” Scorpio said. “That’s exactly what happened. More or less. Some broke guy came in from Wyoming. I helped him out.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œSix weeks ago, maybe.”
    â€œFrom where in Wyoming?”
    â€œI believe a small town called Mule Crossing.”
    â€œWhat was his name?”
    â€œI believe it was Seymour Porterfield. I believe he told me people call him Sy.”

Chapter 11
    Across the street Nakamura was still watching. Reacher stood up and stepped over the left-hand sentry. He looked at a tumble dryer. Bigger than people had in their homes. Good for comforters and other large items. He might have gotten Scorpio in there.
    He said, “You want me to leave through the back door?”
    Scorpio shook his head.
    â€œNo,” he said. “Go out the front.”
    So Reacher stepped over the right-hand sentry and pushed out to the sidewalk. The