“We have two male suspects, nonresponsive. Two guns secured at the scene.”
A second voice said, “Looks like they got into it over something. Got into it pretty good. No ID. No smell of booze. Better send a bus right away.”
The first voice came back, quieter. “They can stay in the hospital overnight. The detective can question them in the morning, if he wants to. We better seal this place, just in case.”
* * *
—
Reacher lay on the roof and watched an ambulance arrive. A pair of paramedics rolled the two guys out on gurneys, loaded them up, and drove off. The cops left a couple of minutes later. Reacher stayed where he was for another hour, until he was satisfied that there were no cops lurking and no nosey guests snooping around. Then he climbed down and walked to the office. A couple was leaving as he went in. They looked young. Flushed. Happy. And a little bit furtive.
The same guy was at the counter, wearing the same ridiculous clothes and looking just as sickly and malnourished. He saw Reacher and said, “You’re OK?”
Reacher said, “I’m fine. Why?”
“The cops let you out already?”
“They never took me in. I went for a walk. Came back and found my door sealed up with crime scene tape. What’s that all about?”
“It wasn’t my fault. Two guys came. Made me give them a passkey.”
“Then you dialed 911?”
“I guess the guy in 11 did that. He’s a real asshole.”
“I told you I didn’t want any neighbors.”
The guy pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Reacher. “He comes here all the time. With his girlfriend. She’s also an asshole. That’s their favorite room. He insisted. I’m sorry.”
Reacher handed the twenty back. “Give me another room. No one on either side. And this time, no excuses.”
Chapter 11
Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.
That’s what Lev Emerson was told by his father, years ago when he was still in high school. It wasn’t an original concept. It wasn’t the result of radical new thinking. But nonetheless, the advice was sound. Old Mr. Emerson had followed it himself. He had died happy at the age of seventy-four, at his workbench, after a lifetime making ladies’ hats in the corner of a little workshop in Brooklyn. Lev Emerson walked the same talk. Just as enthusiastically. Although it led him down a path his father could never have anticipated.
On the face of it Lev Emerson owned and operated a fire safety business out of a pair of nondescript warehouses on the south side of Chicago. It was a legitimate corporation. It was in good standing with the State of Illinois. It had articles of association. Shareholders. Executive officers. Employees. Accounts with all kinds of recognizable brand-name suppliers. It had plenty of customers, most of whom were satisfied. It paid taxes. It sponsored a local kids’ softball team. And it provided cover for certain other materials that Emerson had to have shipped in from a handful of less-well-known sources.
The bulk of the corporation’s reported income came from sprinkler installations and alarm systems. There was no shortage of co-ops and condo buildings in Chicagoland, as well as offices and industrial premises. New ones were constantly going up. Old ones were always getting refurbished. The pickings were rich for an outfit like Emerson’s. And it didn’t hurt that the rules and regulations changed so frequently. Something that was up to code one year could be condemned as dangerous the next. And again a couple of years after that. Hidden interests were served. The way things had always been in the Windy City. Pockets got lined. Companies got busy. Plenty of them. Including Emerson’s. Corporate clients were its bread and butter. But that didn’t mean it turned its back on the little guys. Emerson insisted on offering a full range of services to the safety-conscious homeowner, too. That helped to broaden the customer base, which was good from a business point of view. And the steady flow of station wagons and minivans through the parking lot added to an impression of banal normality. Which was good for another reason.
Emerson’s name might have been over the door but he had nothing to do with the banal, normal side of the business. For that he hired people who knew what they were doing. Who could be trusted to keep their fingers out of the register. And he left them to get on with it. Partly because he was naturally a good delegator. Partly because he had no interest in sprinklers and alarms or anything else that helped to prevent fires. But mostly because his time was fully occupied elsewhere. He had a parallel operation to run.