Deerfield shook his head. “You were under surveillance. My people have been following you for a week. Special Agents Poulton and Lamarr joined them tonight. They saw the whole thing.”

Reacher stared at him. “You’ve been following me for a week?”

Deerfield nodded. “Eight days, actually.”

“Why?”

“We’ll get to that later.”

Lamarr stirred and reached down again to her briefcase. She pulled out another file. Opened it and took out a sheaf of papers. There were four or five sheets clipped together. They were covered in dense type. She smiled icily at Reacher and reversed the sheets and slid them across the table to him. The air caught them and riffed them apart. The clip dragged on the wood and stopped them exactly in front of him. In them Reacher was referred to as the subject. They were a list of everything he had done and everywhere he had been in the previous eight days. They were complete to the last second. And they were accurate to the last detail. Reacher glanced from them to Lamarr’s smiling face and nodded.

“Well, FBI tails are obviously pretty good,” he said. “I never noticed.”

There was silence.

“So what happened in the restaurant?” Deerfield asked again.

Reacher paused. Honesty is the best policy, he thought. He scoped it out. Swallowed. Then he nodded toward Blake and Lamarr and Poulton. “These law school buffs would call it imperfect necessity, I guess. I committed a small crime to stop a bigger one happening. ”

“You were acting alone?” Cozo asked.

Reacher nodded. “Yes, I was.”

“So what was don’t start a turf war with us all about?”

“I wanted it to look convincing. I wanted Petrosian to take it seriously, whoever the hell he is. Like he was dealing with another organization.”

Deerfield leaned all the way over the table and retrieved Lamarr’s surveillance log. He reversed it and riffed through it.

“This shows no contact with anybody at all except Ms. Jodie Jacob. She’s not running protection rackets. What about the phone log?”

“You’re tapping my phone?” Reacher asked.

Deerfield nodded. “We’ve been through your garbage, too.”

“Phone log is clear,” Poulton said. “He spoke to nobody except Ms. Jacob. He lives a quiet life.”

“That right, Reacher?” Deerfield asked. “You live a quiet life?”

“Usually,” Reacher said.

“So you were acting alone,” Deerfield said. “Just a concerned citizen. No contact with gangsters, no instructions by phone.”

He turned to Cozo, a question in his eyes. “You comfortable with that, James?”

Cozo shrugged and nodded. “I’ll have to be, I guess.”

“Concerned citizen, right, Reacher?” Deerfield said.

Reacher nodded. Said nothing.

“Can you prove that to us?” Deerfield asked.

Reacher shrugged. “I could have taken their guns. If I was connected, I would have. But I didn’t.”

“No, you left them in the Dumpster.”

“I disabled them first.”

“With grit in the mechanisms. Why did you do that?”

“So nobody could find them and use them.”

Deerfield nodded. “A concerned citizen. You saw an injustice, you wanted to set it straight.”

Reacher nodded back. “I guess.”

“Somebody’s got to do it, right?”

“I guess,” Reacher said again.

“You don’t like injustice, right?”

“I guess not.”

“And you can tell the difference between right and wrong.”

“I hope so.”

“You don’t need the intervention of the proper authorities, because you can make your own decisions.”

“Usually.”

“Confident with your own moral code.”

“I guess.”

There was silence. Deerfield looked through the glare.

“So why did you steal their money?” he asked.

Reacher shrugged. “Spoils of battle, I guess. Like a trophy.”

Deerfield nodded. “Part of the code, right?”

“I guess.”

“You play to your own rules, right?”

“Usually.”

“You wouldn’t mug an old lady, but it was OK to take money off of a couple of hard men.”

“I guess.”

“When they step outside what’s acceptable to you, they get what they get, right?”

“Right.”

“A personal code.”

Reacher said nothing. The silence built.

“You know anything about criminal profiling?” Deerfield asked suddenly.

Reacher paused. “Only what I read in the newspaper. ”

“It’s a science,” Blake said. “We developed it at Quantico, over many years. Special Agent Lamarr here is currently our leading exponent. Special Agent Poulton is her assistant.”

“We look at crime scenes,” Lamarr said. “We look at the underlying psychological indicators, and we work out the type of personality which could have committed the crime.”

“We study the victims,” Poulton said. “We figure out to whom they could have been especially vulnerable.”

“What crimes?” Reacher asked. “What scenes?”

“You son of a bitch,” Lamarr said.

“Amy Callan and Caroline Cooke,” Blake said. “Both homicide victims.”

Reacher stared at him.

“Callan was first,” Blake said. “Very distinctive MO, but one homicide is just one homicide, right? Then Cooke was hit. With the exact same MO. That made it a serial situation.”

“We looked for a link,” Poulton said. “Between the victims. Not hard to find. Army harassment complainants who subsequently quit.”

“Extreme organization at the crime scene,” Lamarr said. “Indicative of military precision, maybe. A bizarre, coded MO. Nothing left behind. No clues of any kind. The perpetrator was clearly a precise person, and clearly a person familiar with investigative procedures. Possibly a good investigator himself.”

“No forced entry at either abode,” Poulton said. “The killer was admitted to the house in both cases, by the victims, no questions asked.”

“So the killer was somebody they both knew,” Blake said.

“Somebody they both trusted,” Poulton said.

“Like a friendly visitor,” Lamarr said.

There was silence in the room.

“That’s what he was,” Blake said. “A visitor. Somebody they regarded as a friend. Somebody they felt a bond with.”

“A friend, visiting,” Poulton said. “He knocks on the door, they open it up, they say hi, so nice to see you again.”

“He walks in,” Lamarr said. “Just like that.”

There was silence in the room.

“We explored the crime, psychologically,” Lamarr said. “Why were those women making somebody mad enough to kill them? So we looked for an Army guy with a score to settle. Maybe somebody outraged by the idea of pesky women ruining good soldiers’ careers, and then quitting anyway. Frivolous women, driving good men to suicide?”

“Somebody with a clear sense of right and wrong,” Poulton said. “Somebody confident enough in his own code to set these injustices right by his own hand. Somebody happy to act without the proper authorities getting in the way, you know?”

“Somebody both women knew,” Blake said. “Somebody they knew well enough to let right in the house, no questions asked, like an old friend or something.”

“Somebody decisive,” Lamarr said. “Maybe like somebody organized enough to think for a second and then go buy a label machine and a tube of glue, just to take care of a little ad hoc problem.”

More silence.

“The Army ran them through their computers,” Lamarr said. “You’re right, they never knew each other. They had very few mutual acquaintances. Very few. But you were one of them.”

“You want to know an interesting fact?” Blake said. “Perpetrators of serial homicide used to drive Volkswagen Bugs. Almost all of them. It was uncanny. Then they switched to minivans. Then they switched to sport-utilities. Big four-wheel-drives, exactly like yours. It’s a hell of an indicator.”

Lamarr leaned across and pulled the sheaf of papers back from Deerfield ’s place at the table. She tapped them with a finger.

“They live solitary lives,” she said. “They interact with one other person at most. They live off other people, often relatives or friends, often women. They don’t do much normal stuff. Don’t talk much on the phone, they’re quiet and furtive.”