Reacher put the Rolodex back and touched the computer mouse. The hard drive started up and a dialog box on the screen asked for a password. Reacher glanced at the open door and tried Kate. Access was denied. He tried O5LaneE for Colonel Edward Lane. Same result. Access denied. He shrugged and gave it up. The password was probably the guy’s birthday or his old service number or the name of his high school football team. No way of knowing, without further research.

He moved on to the file cabinets.

There were four of them, standard store-bought items made of painted steel. Maybe thirty inches high. Two drawers in each of them. Eight drawers total. Unlabeled. Unlocked. He stood still and listened again and then slid the first drawer open. It moved quietly on ball bearing runners. It had twin hanging rails with six file dividers made of thin yellow cardboard slung between them. All six were full of paperwork. Reacher used his thumb and riffed through. Glanced down, obliquely. Financial records. Money moving in and out. No amount bigger than six figures and none smaller than four. Otherwise, incomprehensible. He closed the drawer.

He opened the bottom drawer on the left. Same hanging rails. Same yellow dividers. But they were bulky with the kind of big plastic wallets that come in the glove boxes of new cars. Instruction books, warranty certificates, service records. Titles. Insurance invoices. BMW, Mercedes Benz, BMW, Jaguar, Mercedes Benz, Land Rover. Some had valet keys in see-through plastic envelopes. Some had spare keys and remote fobs on the kind of promotional keyrings that dealers give away. There were EZ-Pass toll records. Receipts from gas stations. Business cards from salesmen and service managers.

Reacher closed the drawer. Glanced back at the door. Saw Burke standing there, silent, just watching him.

BURKE DIDN’T SPEAK for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m going for a walk.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

Burke said nothing back.

“You want company?” Reacher asked.

Burke glanced at the computer screen. Then down at the file drawers.

“I’ll keep you company,” Reacher said.

Burke just shrugged. Reacher followed him out through the kitchen. Through the foyer. Lane glanced at them from the living room, briefly, preoccupied with his thoughts. He didn’t say anything. Reacher followed Burke out to the corridor. They rode down in the elevator in silence. Stepped out to the street and turned east toward Central Park. Reacher looked up at Patti Joseph’s window. It was dark. The room behind it was unlit. Therefore she was alone. He pictured her in the chair behind the sill, in the gloom. Pictured her pen scratching on her pad of paper. 2327 hrs., Burke and Venti leave TDA on foot, head east toward Central Park. Or CP. A person who wrote TDA for the Dakota would write CP for Central Park, surely. And maybe she had dropped Venti and was using his real name now. He had told her what it was. Maybe she had written Burke and Reacher leave TDA.

Or maybe she was asleep. She had to sleep sometime.

“That question you asked,” Burke said.

“What question?” Reacher said.

“Who knew Mrs. Lane loved Bloomingdale’s?”

“What about it?”

“It was a good question,” Burke said.

“What’s the answer?”

“There’s another question,” Burke said.

“Which is?”

“Who knew she was heading there that particular morning?”

“I’m assuming you all knew,” Reacher said.

“Yes, I guess we all did, more or less.”

“Therefore it’s not much of a question.”

“I think there’s inside involvement,” Burke said. “Somebody tipped somebody off.”

“Was it you?”

“No.”

Reacher stopped at the crosswalk on Central Park West. Burke stopped beside him. He was as black as coal, a small man, about the size and shape of an old-fashioned Major League second baseman. A Hall of Famer. Like Joe Morgan. He had the same physical self-confidence in the way he held himself.

The light changed. The upright red hand blinked out and the forward-leaning white man came on. Reacher had always regretted the switch from the words WALK and DONT WALK. Given the choice, he preferred words to pictograms. And as a kid he had been scandalized by the bad punctuation. Ten thousand missing apostrophes in every city in America. It had been a secret thrill, to know better.

He stepped off the curb.

“What happened after Anne?” he asked.

“With the four guys who took her?” Burke said. “That’s strictly need-to-know.”

“I’m guessing you helped out.”

“No comment.”

“Did they admit it?”

“No,” Burke said. “They claimed it was nothing to do with them.”

“But you didn’t believe them.”

“What else were they going to say?”

They reached the far sidewalk. The park loomed ahead of them, dark and empty. The music had ended.

“Where are we going?” Reacher asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Burke said. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About the insider involvement?”

“Yes.”

They turned south together and headed for Columbus Circle. There were lights and traffic down there. Crowds on the sidewalks.

“Who do you think it was?” Reacher asked.

“I have no idea,” Burke said.

“Then that’s a pretty short conversation,” Reacher said. “Isn’t it? You wanted to talk, but you don’t have much to talk about.”

Burke said nothing.

“But who got tipped off?” Reacher asked. “Not who did the tipping. I think that would be the more important answer. And I think that’s what you want to tell me.”

Burke said nothing. Just walked on in silence.

“You as good as dragged me out here,” Reacher said. “Not because you’re worried if I’m getting enough fresh air and exercise.”

Burke stayed quiet.

“You going to make me play Twenty Questions?” Reacher said.

“That might be the best way to do it,” Burke said.

“You think this is about the money?”

“No,” Burke said.

“So the money is a smokescreen?”

“Half the equation at best. Maybe a parallel aim.”

“The other half of the equation being punishment?”

“You got it.”

“You think there’s someone out there with a grudge against Lane?”

“Yes.”

“One person?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“Theoretically there might be hundreds,” Burke said. “Or thousands. Whole nations, maybe. We’ve messed with a lot of people, here and there.”

“Realistically?”

“More than one person,” Burke said.

“Two?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a grudge?”

“What’s the worst thing one man can do to another?”

“Depends who you are,” Reacher said.

“Exactly,” Burke said. “So who are we?”

Reacher thought: Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines, Green Berets, SAS from Britain. The best in the world.

“Special Forces soldiers,” he said.

“Exactly,” Burke said again. “So what don’t we do?”

“You don’t leave bodies behind on the battlefield.”

Burke said nothing.

“But Lane did,” Reacher said. “He left two bodies behind.”

Burke stopped on the north curve of Columbus Circle. Traffic roared all around. Headlight beams swept wild tangents. To the right, the tall silvery bulk of a brand-new building. A wide base blocking 59th Street and twin towers rising above.

“So what are you saying?” Reacher asked. “They had brothers or sons? Someone’s come out of the woodwork looking for revenge? Finally? On their behalf?”

“Doesn’t necessarily take brothers or sons,” Burke said.

“Buddies?”

“Doesn’t necessarily take buddies, either.”

“So who?”

Burke didn’t answer. Reacher stared at him.

“Christ,” he said. “You left two guys behind alive?”

“Not me,” Burke said. “Not us. It was Lane.”