“What exactly does New Age make?” O’Donnell asked.

“Money,” Reacher said. “Although less than it used to, I guess.”

“Does it have a product or is it all research?”

“The woman we saw claimed they’re manufacturing something somewhere.”

“What exactly?”

“We have no idea.”

The three of them tackled the second bedroom together. The one at the back of the house, with the draped slider and the step down to the empty patio. The room had a bed in it but was clearly used as a den most of the time. There was a desk and a phone and a file cabinet and a wall of shelves piled high with the kind of junk that a sentimental person accumulates.

They started with the desk. Three pairs of eyes, three separate assessments. They found nothing. They moved on to the file cabinet. It was full of the kind of routine paperwork any homeowner has. Property taxes, insurance, canceled checks, paid bills, receipts. There was a personal section. Social Security, state and federal income taxes, a contract of employment from New Age Defense Systems, paycheck stubs. It looked like Swan had made a decent living. In a month he had pulled down what Reacher could make last a year and a half.

There was stuff from a veterinarian. The dog had been female. Her name had been Maisi and her shots had all been up-to-date. She had been old but in good health. There was stuff from an organization called People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Swan had been a contributor. Big money. Therefore a worthwhile cause, Reacher guessed. Swan was nobody’s fool.

They checked the shelves. Found a shoe box full of photographs. They were random snaps from Swan’s life and career. Maisi the dog was in some of them. Reacher and Neagley and O’Donnell were in others, and Franz, and Karla Dixon, and Sanchez and Orozco, and Stan Lowrey. All of them long ago in the past, younger, different in crucial ways, blazing with youth and vigor and preoccupation. There were random pairings and trios from offices and squad rooms all over the world. One was a formal group portrait, all nine of them in Class A uniforms after a ceremony for a unit citation. Reacher didn’t remember who had taken the picture. An official photographer, probably. He didn’t remember what the citation had been for, either.

“We need to get going,” Neagley said. “Neighbors might have seen us.”

“We’ve got probable cause,” O’Donnell said. “A friend who lives alone, no answer when we knocked on the door, a bad smell from inside.”

Reacher stepped to the desk and picked up the phone. Hit redial. There was a rapid sequence of electronic blips as the circuit remembered the last number called. Then a purring ring tone. Then Angela Franz answered. Reacher could hear Charlie in the background. He put the phone down.

“The last call he made was to Franz,” he said. “At home in Santa Monica.”

“Reporting for duty,” O’Donnell said. “We knew that already. Doesn’t help us.”

“Nothing here helps us,” Neagley said.

“But what isn’t here might,” Reacher said. “His piece of the Berlin Wall isn’t here. There’s no box of stuff from his desk at New Age.”

“How does that help us?”

“It might establish a time line. You get canned, you box up your stuff, you throw it in the trunk of your car, how long do you leave it there before you bring it in the house and deal with it?”

“A day or two, maybe,” O’Donnell said. “A guy like Swan, he’s extremely pissed when it happens, but fundamentally he’s a squared-away personality. He’d suck it up and move on fast enough.”

“Two days?”

“Max.”

“So all of this went down within two days of when New Age let him go.”

“How does that help us?” Neagley asked again.

“No idea,” Reacher said. “But the more we know the luckier we’ll get.”

They left through the kitchen and closed the door but didn’t relock it. No point. The broken glass made it superfluous. They followed the slab path around the side of the garage to the driveway. Headed back to the curb. It was a quiet neighborhood. A dormitory. Nothing was moving. Reacher scanned left and right for signs of nosy neighbors and saw none. No onlookers, no furtive eyes behind twitching drapes.

But he did see a tan Crown Victoria parked forty yards away.

Facing them.

A guy behind the wheel.

Reacher said, “Come to a casual stop and turn around like you’re taking one last look at the house. Make conversation.”

O’Donnell turned.

“Looks like the married officers’ quarters at Fort Hood,” he said.

“Apart from the mail box,” Reacher said.

Neagley turned.

“I like it,” she said. “The mail box, I mean.”

Reacher said, “There’s a tan Crown Vic parked on the curb forty yards west. It’s tailing us. Tailing Neagley, to be precise. It was there when I met her on Sunset and it was there again outside Franz’s place. Now it’s here.”

O’Donnell asked, “Any idea who it is?”

“None at all,” Reacher said. “But I think it’s time to find out.”

“Like we used to?”

Reacher nodded. “Exactly like we used to. I’ll drive.”

They took one last look at Swan’s house and then they turned and walked slowly back to the curb. They slid into O’Donnell’s rental, Reacher in the driver’s seat, Neagley next to him in the front, O’Donnell behind him in the back. No seat belts.

“Don’t hurt my car,” O’Donnell said. “I didn’t get the extra insurance.”

“You should have,” Reacher said. “Always a wise precaution.”

He started the engine and eased away from the curb. Checked the view ahead, checked the mirror.

Nothing coming.

He spun the wheel and stamped on the gas and pulled a fast U-turn across the width of the road. Hit the gas again and accelerated thirty yards. Jammed on the brakes and O’Donnell jumped out a yard in front of the Crown Vic and Reacher hit the gas and then the brake again and stopped dead level with the Crown Vic’s driver’s door. O’Donnell was already at the passenger window. Reacher jumped out and O’Donnell shattered the passenger glass with his knuckles and chased the driver out the other side of the car straight into Reacher’s arms. Reacher hit him once in the gut and then again in the face. Fast and hard. The guy slammed back against the side of his car and went down on his knees. Reacher picked his spot and hit him a third time, a solid elbow against the side of his head. The guy fell sideways, slowly, like a bulldozed tree. He finished up jammed in the space between the Crown Vic’s sill and the road. Sprawled out on his back, inert, unconscious, bleeding heavily from a broken nose.

“Well, that still works,” O’Donnell said.

“As long as I do the hard part,” Reacher said.

Neagley took hold of the loose folds of the guy’s sport coat and flipped him on his side, so that the blood from his nose would pool on the blacktop rather than in the back of his throat. No point in drowning him. Then she pulled the flap of his coat open, looking for a pocket.

And then she stopped.

Because the guy was wearing a shoulder holster. An old well-used item, made of worn black leather. There was a Glock 17 in it. He was wearing a belt. The belt had a pouch for a spare magazine on it. And a pancake holder with a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs in it.

Police issue.

Reacher glanced inside the Crown Vic. There were pebbles of broken glass all over the passenger seat. There was a radio mounted under the dash.

Not a taxicab radio.

“Shit,” Reacher said. “We just took down a cop.”

“You did the hard part,” O’Donnell said.

Reacher crouched and put his fingers against the guy’s neck. Felt for his pulse. It was there, strong and regular. The guy was breathing. His nose was busted bad, which would be an aesthetic problem later, but he hadn’t been very good-looking to start with.