jail?”
“I need Croselli.”
“Why?”
“Because he burns me up.”
“You ever read a book called
Moby-Dick
?”
“OK, I get it. And I admit it. Croselli is my great white whale. I’m obsessed. But what can I do about it? What could anyone, with a whale pressing on her head?”
“Is that how you feel? Like you have a whale pressing on your head?”
“That’s exactly how I feel.”
“Then let’s trade,” Reacher said.
“What for what?”
“I need a ride out of town.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. I’m sure my brother is worrying about me. Which I’m sure is hard on the old guy. I need to put him out of his misery.”
“I’m not a taxi dispatcher.”
“You have a car.”
“I’m not a chauffeur, either.”
“You could lend it to me.”
“How would I get it back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you even have a license?”
“Not exactly.”
“No deal,” she said.
“OK,” Reacher said.
“What were you going to do for me?”
“Suppose an unknown suspect broke into Croselli’s place, and you got a look inside. Then the unknown suspect fled, but you were too busy securing the scene to chase him.”
“I’ve been waiting two hours for that to happen. But it hasn’t.”
“I could do it.”
“You’re sixteen years old.”
“How is that relevant?”
“Entrapment is bad enough. Entrapment with minors is probably worse.”
“Who would ever know, apart from you and me?”
“I have no way of getting you a ride out of town.”
Reacher paused a beat, and said, “Maybe we should refine the plan.”
“What plan?” Hemingway said. “We don’t have a plan.”
“Probably better if it’s not you who makes the discovery. It could look like a personal vendetta. It could give Croselli’s lawyers something to work with. Probably better if it’s not even the FBI at all. Better if it’s the NYPD. Don’t you think? An independent agency, with no ax to grind. If they discover a dope dealer and his stash in their city, then it’s out there. It can’t be denied. It is what it is. Your people will have to hush up their deal, and they’ll have to admit you were right all along, and you can turnyour review procedure into a medal ceremony.”
“The NYPD is busy tonight.”
“They have a narcotics division, surely. Make the call ahead of time. Get a sense of how long they’re going to be, and we’ll try to time it exactly right. I’ll bust in, you hang back and keep an eye on things for a minute until the cops show up, and then we’ll both slip away, and you can drive me north. Meanwhile the NYPD will be building your case for you, and by the time you’re back in town your bosses will be rolling out the red carpet.”
“How far north do you want to go?”
“West Point. It’s up the river a ways.”
“I know where it is.”
“So do we have a deal?”
Hemingway didn’t answer.
* * *
Hemingway finally agreed about thirty minutes later, close to one o’clock in the morning. But the plan went wrong immediately. First they couldn’t find a working phone. They searched up and down Carmine, and they tried the corner of Seventh Avenue, and the corner of Bleecker, and Sixth Avenue, and every pay phone they found was silent. They didn’t know if it was the result of the blackout, or just the general abject state of the city. Reacher figured the phone company had its own electricity, in its own wires, so he was all in favor of carrying on the search, but Hemingway was reluctant to foray further, in case she missed something over at Croselli’s place. So she walked back to the doorway on Carmine and Reacher went on alone, across Sixth, and on the corner between Minetta Street and Minetta Lane he found a phone with a dial tone.
It was too dark to see the numbers, so he dialed by feel, zero for the operator, and he waited a long time before she answered. He asked for the NYPD’s Sixth Precinct, and waited again, even longer, before the call
“I need Croselli.”
“Why?”
“Because he burns me up.”
“You ever read a book called
Moby-Dick
?”
“OK, I get it. And I admit it. Croselli is my great white whale. I’m obsessed. But what can I do about it? What could anyone, with a whale pressing on her head?”
“Is that how you feel? Like you have a whale pressing on your head?”
“That’s exactly how I feel.”
“Then let’s trade,” Reacher said.
“What for what?”
“I need a ride out of town.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. I’m sure my brother is worrying about me. Which I’m sure is hard on the old guy. I need to put him out of his misery.”
“I’m not a taxi dispatcher.”
“You have a car.”
“I’m not a chauffeur, either.”
“You could lend it to me.”
“How would I get it back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you even have a license?”
“Not exactly.”
“No deal,” she said.
“OK,” Reacher said.
“What were you going to do for me?”
“Suppose an unknown suspect broke into Croselli’s place, and you got a look inside. Then the unknown suspect fled, but you were too busy securing the scene to chase him.”
“I’ve been waiting two hours for that to happen. But it hasn’t.”
“I could do it.”
“You’re sixteen years old.”
“How is that relevant?”
“Entrapment is bad enough. Entrapment with minors is probably worse.”
“Who would ever know, apart from you and me?”
“I have no way of getting you a ride out of town.”
Reacher paused a beat, and said, “Maybe we should refine the plan.”
“What plan?” Hemingway said. “We don’t have a plan.”
“Probably better if it’s not you who makes the discovery. It could look like a personal vendetta. It could give Croselli’s lawyers something to work with. Probably better if it’s not even the FBI at all. Better if it’s the NYPD. Don’t you think? An independent agency, with no ax to grind. If they discover a dope dealer and his stash in their city, then it’s out there. It can’t be denied. It is what it is. Your people will have to hush up their deal, and they’ll have to admit you were right all along, and you can turnyour review procedure into a medal ceremony.”
“The NYPD is busy tonight.”
“They have a narcotics division, surely. Make the call ahead of time. Get a sense of how long they’re going to be, and we’ll try to time it exactly right. I’ll bust in, you hang back and keep an eye on things for a minute until the cops show up, and then we’ll both slip away, and you can drive me north. Meanwhile the NYPD will be building your case for you, and by the time you’re back in town your bosses will be rolling out the red carpet.”
“How far north do you want to go?”
“West Point. It’s up the river a ways.”
“I know where it is.”
“So do we have a deal?”
Hemingway didn’t answer.
* * *
Hemingway finally agreed about thirty minutes later, close to one o’clock in the morning. But the plan went wrong immediately. First they couldn’t find a working phone. They searched up and down Carmine, and they tried the corner of Seventh Avenue, and the corner of Bleecker, and Sixth Avenue, and every pay phone they found was silent. They didn’t know if it was the result of the blackout, or just the general abject state of the city. Reacher figured the phone company had its own electricity, in its own wires, so he was all in favor of carrying on the search, but Hemingway was reluctant to foray further, in case she missed something over at Croselli’s place. So she walked back to the doorway on Carmine and Reacher went on alone, across Sixth, and on the corner between Minetta Street and Minetta Lane he found a phone with a dial tone.
It was too dark to see the numbers, so he dialed by feel, zero for the operator, and he waited a long time before she answered. He asked for the NYPD’s Sixth Precinct, and waited again, even longer, before the call
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