Without Fail - Lee Child [130]
“With Armstrong,” Reacher said. “We figure out who hates him and why.”
Stuyvesant called a guy from the Office of Protection Research and ordered him into the office immediately. The guy pleaded he was eating Thanksgiving dinner with his family. Stuyvesant relented and gave him two hours to finish up. Then he headed back to the Hoover Building to meet with Bannon again. Reacher and Neagley waited in reception. There was a television in there and Reacher wanted to see if Armstrong delivered on the early news. It was a half hour away.
“You OK?” Neagley asked.
“I feel weird,” Reacher said. “Like I’m two people. She thought I was Joe with her at the end.”
“What would Joe have done about it?”
“Same as I’m going to do about it, probably.”
“So go ahead and do it,” Neagley said. “You always were Joe as far as she was concerned. You may as well square the circle for her.”
He said nothing.
“Close your eyes,” Neagley said. “Clear your mind. You need to concentrate on the shooter.”
Reacher shook his head. “I won’t get it if I concentrate.”
“So think about something else. Use peripheral vision. Pretend you’re looking somewhere else. The next roof along, maybe.”
He closed his eyes. Saw the edge of the roof, harsh against the sun. Saw the sky, bright and pale all at the same time. A winter sky. Just a trace of uniform misty haze all over it. He gazed at the sky. Recalled the sounds he had been hearing. Nothing much from the crowd. Just the clatter of serving spoons, and Froelich saying thanks for stopping by. Mrs. Armstrong saying enjoy, nervously, like she wasn’t quite sure what she had gotten herself into. Then he heard the soft chunk of the first silenced bullet hitting the wall. It had been a poor shot. It had missed Armstrong by four feet. Probably a rushed shot. The guy comes up the stairs, stands in the rooftop doorway, calls softly to Crosetti. And Crosetti responds. The guy waits for Crosetti to come to him. Maybe backs away into the stairwell. Crosetti comes on. Crosetti gets shot. The rooftop hutch muffles the sound from the silencer. The guy steps over the body and runs crouched straight to the lip of the roof. Kneels and fires hastily, too soon, before he’s really settled, and he misses by four feet. The miss craters the brick and a small chip flies off and hits Reacher in the cheek. The guy racks the bolt and aims more carefully for the second shot.
He opened his eyes.
“I want you to work on how,” he said.
“How what, exactly?” Neagley said.
“How they lured Crosetti away from his post. I want to know how they did that.”
Neagley was quiet for a moment.
“I’m afraid Bannon’s theory fits best,” she said. “Crosetti looked up and saw somebody he recognized.”
“Assume he didn’t,” Reacher said. “How else?”
“I’ll work on it. You work on the shooter.”
He closed his eyes again and looked at the next roof along. Back down at the serving tables. Froelich, in the last minute of her life. He recalled the spray of blood and his immediate instinctive reaction. Incoming lethal fire. Point of origin? He had glanced up and seen . . . what? The curve of a back or a shoulder. It was moving. The shape and the movement were somehow one and the same thing.
“His coat,” he said. “The shape of his coat over his body, and the way it draped when he moved.”
“Seen the coat before?”
“Yes.”
“Color?”
“I don’t know. Not sure it really had a color.”
“Texture?”
“Texture is important. Not thick, not thin.”
“Herringbone?”
Reacher