“Mr. Reacher?” Rodin said.

Reacher nodded. The office was government-basic, but neat. It was cool and quiet. No real view from the window. Just the flat roofs of the off-brand stores and the DMV office, with all the ductwork showing. The black glass tower was visible in the distance. There was a weak sun in the sky. At a right angle to the window there was a trophy wall behind the desk, with college degree certificates and photographs of Rodin with politicians. There were framed newspaper headlines reporting guilty verdicts in seven different cases. On another wall was a photograph of a blonde girl wearing a mortarboard and a gown and holding a degree scroll. She was pretty. Reacher looked at her for a moment longer than he needed to.

“That’s my daughter,” Rodin said. “She’s a lawyer, too.”

“Is she?” Reacher said.

“She just opened her own office here in town.”

There was nothing in his tone. Reacher wasn’t sure whether he was proud, or disapproving.

“You’re due to meet with her, I think,” Rodin said.

“Am I?” Reacher said. “Why?”

“She’s defending James Barr.”

“Your daughter? Is that ethical?”

“There’s no law against it. It might not be sensible, but it’s not unethical.”

He said sensible with emphasis, hinting at a number of meanings. Not smart to defend a notorious case, not smart for a daughter to take on her father, not smart for anyone to take on A. A. Rodin. He sounded like a very competitive guy.

“She put your name on her provisional witness list,” he said.

“Why?”

“She thinks you have information.”

“Where did she get my name?”

“I don’t know.”

“From the Pentagon?”

Rodin shrugged. “I’m not sure. But she got it from somewhere. Therefore people have been looking for you.”

“Is that why I got in here?”

Rodin nodded.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “That’s exactly why. Generally I don’t encourage walk-ins.”

“Your staff seems to be on board with that policy.”

“I certainly hope so,” Rodin said. “Sit down, please.”

Reacher sat in the visitor chair and Rodin sat behind his desk. The window was on Reacher’s left and Rodin’s right. Neither man had the light in his eyes. It was an equitable furniture arrangement. Different from some prosecutors’ offices Reacher had known.

“Coffee?” Rodin asked.

“Please,” Reacher said.

Rodin made a call and asked for coffee.

“Naturally I’m interested in why you came to see me first,” he said. “The prosecution, I mean, rather than the defense.”

“I wanted your personal opinion,” Reacher said.

“On what?”

“On how strong a case you’ve got against James Barr.”

Rodin didn’t answer immediately. There was a short silence and then there was a knock at the door and the secretary came in with coffee. She had a silver tray with the works on it. A French press, two cups, two saucers, a sugar bowl, a tiny pitcher of cream, two silver spoons. The cups were fine china. Not government issue, Reacher thought. Rodin likes his coffee done right. The secretary put the tray on the edge of the desk, so that it was exactly halfway between the desk chair and the visitor chair.

“Thanks,” Reacher said.

“You’re most welcome,” she said, and left the room.

“Help yourself,” Rodin said. “Please.”

Reacher pushed the plunger down and poured himself a cup, no cream, no sugar. It smelled dark and strong. Coffee, done right.

“The case against James Barr is exceptionally good,” Rodin said.

“Eyewitnesses?” Reacher asked.

“No,” Rodin said. “But eyewitness testimony can be of random value. I’m almost glad we don’t have eyewitnesses. Because what we’ve got instead is exceptional physical evidence. And science doesn’t lie. It doesn’t get confused.”

“Exceptional?” Reacher said.

“A complete rock-solid evidence trail that ties the man to the crime.”

“How solid?”

“As good as it gets. The best I’ve ever seen. I’m completely confident.”

“I’ve heard prosecutors say that before.”

“Not this one, Mr. Reacher. I’m a very cautious man. I don’t prosecute capital cases unless I’m certain of the outcome.”

“Keeping score?”

Rodin gestured above and behind him at his trophy wall.

“Seven for seven,” he said. “One hundred percent.”

“In how long?”

“In three years. James Barr will make it eight for eight. If he ever wakes up.”

“Suppose he wakes up damaged?”

“If he wakes up with any brain function at all, he’s going to trial. What he did here can’t be forgiven.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

“OK what?”

“You’ve told me what I wanted to know.”

“You said you had information. From the army.”

“I’ll keep it to myself for now.”

“You were a military policeman, am I right?”

“Thirteen years,” Reacher said.

“And you knew James Barr?”

“Briefly.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Reacher, if you have exculpatory information, or anything to add at all, you really need to tell me now.”

“Do I?”

“I’ll get it anyway. My daughter will submit it. She’ll be looking for a plea bargain.”

“What does the A. A. stand for?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your initials.”

“Aleksei Alekseivitch. My family came from Russia. But a long time ago. Before the October Revolution.”

“But they keep up traditions.”

“As you can see.”

“What do people call you?”

“Alex, of course.”

Reacher stood up. “Well, thanks for your time, Alex. And the coffee.”

“Are you going to see my daughter now?”

“Is there any point? You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

Rodin smiled an indulgent smile.

“It’s a matter of procedure,” he said. “I’m an officer of the court, and you’re on a witness list. I’m obliged to point out that you’re obliged to go. Anything less would be unethical.”

“Where is she?”

“In the glass tower you can see from the window.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “I guess I could drop by.”

“I still need whatever information you have,” Rodin said.

Reacher shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You really don’t.”

He returned his visitor pass to the woman at the reception desk and headed back to the public plaza. Stood in the cold sun and turned a complete circle, getting a sense of the place. All cities are the same, and all cities are different. They all have colors. Some are gray. This one was brown. Reacher guessed the brick was made from local clay and had carried the color of old farmland into the facades. Even the stone was flecked with tan, like it carried deposits of iron. There were accents of dark red here and there, like old barns. It was a warm place, not busy, but it was surviving. It would rebound after the tragedy. There was progress and optimism and dynamism. All the new construction proved it. There were work zones and raw concrete curbs everywhere. Lots of planning, lots of rebuilding. Lots of hope.

The new parking garage extension anchored the north end of the downtown strip. It suggested commercial expansion. It was south and slightly west of the kill zone. Very close. Directly west and maybe twice as distant was a length of the raised highway. It ran free and clear through a curve for maybe thirty yards before curling in behind the library. Then it curled some more and passed behind the black glass tower. The tower was due north of the plaza. It had an NBC sign near the door, on a black granite slab. Ann Yanni’s workplace, Reacher guessed, as well as Rodin’s daughter’s. East of the plaza was the office building with the DMV and the recruiting office. That was where the victims had come from. They had spilled out the door. What had Ann Yanni said? At the end of a long workweek? They had hustled west across the plaza toward their parked cars or the bus depot and had stumbled into a nightmare. The narrow walkway would have slowed them down and lined them up. Like shooting fish in a barrel.