Reacher opened the door and let the detective in. Harewood glanced around the space. He waited for Reacher to sit on the bed and then took the only chair. It was a fluffy turquoise thing with a loose arm and it wasn’t at all comfortable. Harewood fidgeted in vain for a moment then put a file he’d been carrying down on the floor.
He said, “You should get a cellphone.”
Reacher said, “Why?”
“So that people can call you.”
“Like who?”
“Like me.”
“You likely to do that often?”
Harewood paused. “No. But that’s not the point. You’re a hard man to find. It would have been easier if I could have called you. Asked you where you were.”
“But you did find me.”
“Eventually. I called all the hotels in town and asked if they had a guy named Reacher registered. Of course they all said no. So I figured you were using an alias. I remembered you told me you came to town to see the exhibition about Pea Ridge. So I called all the hotels back. Asked for a guest named Samuel Curtis. The victorious general from the battle. And boom. Here you are.”
“I’m impressed. You should be a detective.”
Harewood smiled, but without any humor. “About that. It’s why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to let you know that the case—the woman killed by the bus—has been closed.”
Reacher thought about the two men he’d seen being wheeled away on gurneys the night before. They’d been in bad shape. Maybe the beating they’d taken had made them open to a deal. He said, “You caught the guys?”
“It’s been ruled a suicide.”
Reacher said nothing.
Harewood closed his eyes and shook his head. “Look, I know what you told me. About the guy in the hoodie. How he pushed the woman. I believe you. But here’s the problem. Another witness came forward. He swears he saw the woman dive in front of the bus. Deliberately dive.”
“He’s wrong.”
“I believe you. But this other guy? He’s…respectable.”
“And I’m not?”
“I didn’t say that. My lieutenant—”
“This witness is wrong. Or he’s lying. Maybe he’s in on it. Or maybe he was paid off.”
Harewood shook his head. “He’s a solid citizen. He’s lived right here in town his whole life. Has a house. A wife. A job. Doesn’t gamble. Doesn’t drink or use drugs. Isn’t in debt. Never even got a parking ticket.”
“Other witnesses, then? Passengers on the bus. Someone must have seen something.”
“One passenger thinks she saw the woman jump. But she wasn’t wearing her glasses so she’s not much use either way. And another passenger saw you. Fleeing the scene. Which is one reason why my lieutenant—”
“Is there a note?”
Harewood paused. “She left one at her home. In Mississippi. On her kitchen table. We got prints from the ME, pulled her ID, and asked the local PD to check her house. They found it right away.”
“Was the note typed?”
“No. It was handwritten. And signed. No red flags there.”
“What makes you think it’s genuine?”
Harewood retrieved his file, took out two sheets of paper, and handed them to Reacher. “The first is her most recent job application. The company she works—worked—for makes all their candidates fill in these forms by hand. Supposedly that reveals all kinds of hidden stuff about people’s personalities. Helps to weed out sociopaths and other undesirable characters. The second is her note.”
Reacher started with the job form. He didn’t have much experience with employment paperwork but what he read struck him as generic and banal. The first box was headed Please state your reasons for seeking this position. Angela’s writing was large and rounded and a little childish. She had claimed she wanted to help people. To build on the skills she had developed in previous roles. To make a contribution to the community at large. There was nothing to suggest she had been a stand-out candidate. Or that she was looking to work in a prison. It could have been an application for work as a dog warden. Or at a candy store.
The second sheet had no structure. No questions to answer or information to provide. It had started life as a regular piece of blank paper. The kind that gets used in printers and copiers in homes and offices all over the country. All over the world. Pumped out of giant factories by the million. Used and filed and forgotten. Or thrown away. Or shredded. Only this one had not wound up as something ordinary. Something trivial. The words began about an eighth of the way down, close to the edge. If you’re reading this, I’m sorry, but it’s because I’m dead…