"Tell us what happened next," Finlay said, quietly.

I shrugged at him.

"You tell me," I said. "I wasn't there. I was in Tampa at midnight."

Baker leaned forward and pulled another sheet out of the file.

"What happened next is you got weird," he said. "You went crazy."

I shook my head at him.

"I wasn't there at midnight," I said again. "I was getting on the bus in Tampa. Nothing too weird about that."

The two cops didn't react. They looked pretty grim.

"Your first shot killed him," Baker said. "Then you shot him again, and then you went berserk and kicked the s.h.i.t out of the body. There are ma.s.sive postmortem injuries. You shot him and then you tried to kick him apart. You kicked that corpse all over the d.a.m.n place. You were in a frenzy. Then you calmed down and tried to hide the body under the cardboard."

I was quiet for a long moment.

"Postmortem injuries?" I said.

Baker nodded.

"Like a frenzy," he said. "The guy looks like he was run over by a truck. Just about every bone is smashed. But the doctor says it happened after the guy was already dead. You're a weird guy, Reacher, that's for d.a.m.n sure."

"Who was he?" Finlay asked for the third time.

I just looked at him. Baker was right. It had got weird. Very weird. Homicidal frenzy is bad enough. But postmortem frenzy is worse. I'd come across it a few times. Didn't want to come across it anymore. But the way they'd described it to me, it didn't make any sense.

"How did you meet the guy?" Finlay asked.

I carried on just looking at him. Didn't answer.

"What does Pluribus mean?" he asked.

I shrugged. Kept quiet.

"Who was he, Reacher?" Finlay asked again.

"I wasn't there," I said. "I don't know anything."

Finlay was silent.

"What's your phone number?" he said. Suddenly.

I looked at him like he was crazy.

"Finlay, what the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" I said. "I haven't got a phone. Don't you listen? I don't live anywhere."

"I mean your mobile phone," he said.

"What mobile phone?" I said. "I haven't got a mobile phone."

A clang of fear hit me. They figured me for an a.s.sa.s.sin. A weird rootless mercenary with a mobile phone who went from place to place killing people. Kicking their dead bodies to pieces. Checking in with an underground organization for my next target. Always on the move.

Finlay leaned forward. He slid a piece of paper toward me. It was a torn-off section of computer paper. Not old. A greasy gloss of wear on it. The patina paper gets from a month in a pocket. On it was printed an underlined heading. It said: Pluribus. Under the heading was a telephone number. I looked at it. Didn't touch it. Didn't want any confusion over fingerprints.

"Is that your number?" Finlay asked.

"I don't have a telephone," I said again. "I wasn't here last night. The more you ha.s.sle me, the more time you're wasting, Finlay."

"It's a mobile phone number," he said. "That we know. Operated by an Atlanta airtime supplier. But we can't trace the number until Monday. So we're asking you. You should cooperate, Reacher."

I looked at the sc.r.a.p of paper again.

"Where was this?" I asked him.

Finlay considered the question. Decided to answer it.

"It was in your victim's shoe," he said. "Folded up and hidden."

I SAT IN SILENCE FOR A LONG TIME. I WAS WORRIED. I FELT like somebody in a kid's book who falls down a hole. Finds himself in a strange world where everything is different and weird. Like Alice in Wonderland. Did she fall down a hole? Or did she get off a Greyhound in the wrong place? like somebody in a kid's book who falls down a hole. Finds himself in a strange world where everything is different and weird. Like Alice in Wonderland. Did she fall down a hole? Or did she get off a Greyhound in the wrong place?

I was in a plush and opulent office. I had seen worse offices in Swiss banks. I was in the company of two policemen. Intelligent and professional. Probably had more than thirty years' experience between them. A mature and competent department. Properly staffed and well funded. A weak point with the a.s.shole Morrison at the top, but as good an organization as I had seen for a while. But they were all disappearing up a dead end as fast as they could run. They seemed convinced the earth was flat. That the huge Georgia sky was a bowl fitting snugly over the top. I was the only one who knew the earth was round.

"Two things," I said. "The guy is shot in the head close up with a silenced automatic weapon. First shot drops him. Second shot is insurance. The sh.e.l.l cases are missing. What does that say to you? Professionally?"

Finlay said nothing. His prime suspect was discussing the case with him like a colleague. As the investigator, he shouldn't allow that. He should cut me down. But he wanted to hear me out. I could see him arguing with himself. He was totally still, but his mind was struggling like kittens in a sack.

"Go on," he said eventually. Gravely, like it was a big deal.

"That's an execution, Finlay," I said. "Not a robbery or a squabble. That's a cold and clinical hit. No evidence left behind. That's a smart guy with a flashlight scrabbling around afterward for two small-caliber sh.e.l.l cases."

"Go on," Finlay said again.

"Close range shot into the left temple," I said. "Could be the victim was in a car. Shooter is talking to him through the window and raises his gun. Bang. He leans in and fires the second shot. Then he picks up his sh.e.l.l cases and he leaves."

"He leaves?" Finlay said. "What about the rest of the stuff that went down? You're suggesting a second man?"

I shook my head.

"There were three men," I said. "That's clear, right?"

"Why three?" he said.

"Practical minimum of two, right?" I said. "How did the victim get out there to the warehouses? He drove, right? Too far from anywhere to walk. So where's his car now? The shooter didn't walk there, either. So the practical minimum would be a team of two. They drove up there together and they drove away separately, one of them in the victim's car."

"But?" Finlay said.

"But the actual evidence points to a minimum of three," I said. "Think about it psychologically. That's the key to this thing. A guy who uses a silenced small-caliber automatic for a neat head shot and an insurance shot is not the type of guy who then suddenly goes berserk and kicks the s.h.i.t out of a corpse, right? And the type of guy who does get in a frenzy like that doesn't then suddenly calm down and hide the body under some old cardboard. You're looking at three completely separate things there, Finlay. So there were three guys involved."

Finlay shrugged at me.

"Two, maybe," he said. "Shooter could have tidied up afterward."

"No way," I said. "He wouldn't have waited around. He wouldn't like that kind of frenzy. It would embarra.s.s him. And it would worry him because it adds visibility and danger to the whole thing. And a guy like that, if he had tidied up afterward, he'd have done it right. He wouldn't have left the body where the first guy who came along was going to find it. So you're looking at three guys."

Finlay thought hard.

"So?" he said.

"So which one am I supposed to be?" I said. "The shooter, the maniac or the idiot who hid the body?"

Finlay and Baker looked at each other. Didn't answer me.

"So whichever one, what are you saying?" I asked them. "I drive up there with my two buddies and we hit this guy at midnight, and then my two buddies drive away and I choose to stay there? Why would I do that? It's c.r.a.p, Finlay."

He didn't reply. He was thinking.

"I haven't got two buddies," I said. "Or a car. So the very best you can do is to say the victim walked there, and I walked there. I met him, and I very carefully shot him, like a pro, then recovered my sh.e.l.l cases and took his wallet and emptied his pockets, but forgot to search his shoes. Then I stashed my weapon, silencer, flashlight, mobile phone, the sh.e.l.l cases, the wallet and all. Then I completely changed my whole personality and kicked the corpse to pieces like a maniac. Then I completely changed my whole personality again and made a useless attempt to hide the body. And then I waited eight hours in the rain and then I walked down into town. That's the very best you can do. And it's total c.r.a.p, Finlay. Because why the h.e.l.l would I wait eight hours, in the rain, until daylight, to walk away from a homicide?"

He looked at me for a long moment.

"I don't know why," he said.

A GUY LIKE FINLAY DOESN'T SAY A THING LIKE THAT UNLESS he's struggling. He looked deflated. His case was c.r.a.p and he knew it. But he had a severe problem with the chief's new evidence. He couldn't walk up to his boss and say: you're full of s.h.i.t, Morrison. He couldn't actively pursue an alternative when his boss had handed him a suspect on a plate. He could follow up my alibi. That he could do. n.o.body would criticize him for being thorough. Then he could start again on Monday. So he was miserable because seventy-two hours were going to get wasted. And he could foresee a big problem. He had to tell his boss that actually I could not have been there at midnight. He would have to politely coax a retraction out of the guy. Difficult to do when you're a new subordinate who's been there six months. And when the person you're dealing with is a complete a.s.shole. And your boss. Difficulties were all over him, and the guy was miserable as h.e.l.l about it. He sat there, breathing hard. In trouble. Time to help him out. he's struggling. He looked deflated. His case was c.r.a.p and he knew it. But he had a severe problem with the chief's new evidence. He couldn't walk up to his boss and say: you're full of s.h.i.t, Morrison. He couldn't actively pursue an alternative when his boss had handed him a suspect on a plate. He could follow up my alibi. That he could do. n.o.body would criticize him for being thorough. Then he could start again on Monday. So he was miserable because seventy-two hours were going to get wasted. And he could foresee a big problem. He had to tell his boss that actually I could not have been there at midnight. He would have to politely coax a retraction out of the guy. Difficult to do when you're a new subordinate who's been there six months. And when the person you're dealing with is a complete a.s.shole. And your boss. Difficulties were all over him, and the guy was miserable as h.e.l.l about it. He sat there, breathing hard. In trouble. Time to help him out.

"The phone number," I said. "You've identified it as a mobile?"

"By the code," he said. "Instead of an area code, they have a prefix which accesses the mobile network."

"OK," I said. "But you can't identify who it belongs to because you have no reverse directories for mobiles and their office won't tell you, right?"

"They want a warrant," he said.

"But you need to know whose number it is, right?" I said.

"You know some way of doing that without a warrant?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said. "Why don't you just call it up and see who answers?"

They hadn't thought of that. There was another silence. They were embarra.s.sed. They didn't want to look at each other. Or me. Silence.

Baker bailed out of the situation. Left Finlay holding the ball. He collected the files and mimed going outside to work on them. Finlay nodded and waved him away. Baker got up and went out. Closed the door very quietly indeed. Finlay opened his mouth. And closed it. He needed to save some face. Badly.

"It's a mobile," he said. "If I call it up I can't tell whose it is or where it is."

"Listen, Finlay," I said. "I don't care whose it is. All I care is whose it isn't. Understand? It isn't my phone. So you call it up and John Doe in Atlanta or Jane Doe in Charleston answers it. Then you know it isn't mine."

Finlay gazed at me. Drummed his fingers on the desk. Kept quiet.

"You know how to do this," I said. "Call the number, some bulls.h.i.t story about a technical fault or an unpaid bill, some computer thing, get the person to confirm name and address. Do it, Finlay, you're supposed to be a d.a.m.n detective."

He leaned forward to where he had left the number. Slid the paper back with his long brown fingers. Reversed it so he could read it and picked up the phone. Dialed the number. Hit the speakerphone b.u.t.ton. The ring tone filled the air. Not a sonorous long tone like a home phone. A high, urgent electronic sound. It stopped. The phone was answered.

"Paul Hubble," a voice said. "How may I help you?"

A southern accent. A confident manner. Accustomed to telephones.

"Mr. Hubble?" Finlay said. He was looking at the desk, writing down the name. "Good afternoon. This is the phone company, mobile division. Engineering manager. We've had a fault reported on your number."

"A fault?" the voice said. "Seems OK to me. I didn't report a fault."

"Calling out should be OK," Finlay said. "It's reaching you that may have been a problem, sir. I've got our signal-strength meter connected right now, and actually, sir, it's reading a bit low."

"I can hear you OK," the voice said.

"h.e.l.lo?" Finlay said. "You're fading a bit, Mr. Hubble. h.e.l.lo? It would help me to know the exact geographic location of your phone, sir, you know, right now, in relation to our transmitting stations."

"I'm right here at home," said the voice.

"OK," Finlay said. He picked up his pen again. "Could you just confirm that exact address for me?"

"Don't you have my address?" the voice said. Man-to-man jocular stuff. "You seem to manage to send me a bill every month."

Finlay glanced at me. I was smiling at him. He made a face.

"I'm here in engineering right now, sir," he said. Also jocular. Just two regular guys battling technology. "Customer details are in a different department. I could access that data, but it would take a minute, you know how it is. Also, sir, you've got to keep talking anyway while this meter is connected to give me an exact strength reading, you know? You may as well recite your address, unless you've got a favorite poem or anything."

The tinny speakerphone relayed a laugh from the guy called Hubble.

"OK, here goes, testing, testing," his voice said. "This is Paul Hubble, right here at home, that's number twenty-five Beckman Drive, I say again, zero-two-five Beckman Drive, down here in little old Margrave, that's M-A-R-G-R-A-V-E in the State of Georgia, U.S.A. How am I doing on my signal strength?"

Finlay didn't respond. He was looking very worried.

"h.e.l.lo?" the voice said. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, Mr. Hubble," Finlay said. "I'm right here. Can't find any problem at all, sir. Just a false alarm, I guess. Thank you for your help."

"OK," said the guy called Hubble. "You're welcome."