Page 39 of Exit Strategy
Gilmour said, ‘Shampoo. Shower gel. Toothpaste. Things like that.’
‘Why are you dumping it in my car?’
‘Because I don’t want it. I’ll put it in the trash later. Unless you want it?’
‘I – I don’t. Why did you buy it?’
‘As cover. I only need the shower caps, but two of them on their own? That would be too specific. Too memorable, if the police question the clerk later. But a bunch of regular bathroom stuff? That doesn’t stand out. And I also needed four bags. It would look weird if they weren’t all full.’
‘How long were you seeing Dr Martin for?’
‘I gave it two sessions. Less than a week.’
‘Maybe you should have stuck it out a while longer.’
A slim white security camera was mounted at head height in the corner of the entrance lobby in Dr Martin’sbuilding, covering the door leading to the street. A thin wire was dangling down behind it. Gilmour tugged Reacher’s sleeve and pointed to it. He said, ‘Did you do that? Disconnect it?’
Reacher shook his head.
‘It’s a cheap piece of shit, anyway. A DIY webcam. You don’t even have to unplug it. You can just knock out the Wi-Fi. Take out all the cameras on the network in one go.’
Reacher believed him but figured that if he was up to something secret, he’d still rather pull a physical plug.
They continued up the stairs and Gilmour pointed to another camera that covered the length of the corridor. ‘Also disconnected.’
Reacher led the way toward Dr Martin’s office, but when they got close to the door, Gilmour stopped. He pulled on his shower cap and gestured for Reacher to do the same. Then he gave Reacher two of the plastic shopping bags. He said, ‘For your feet. Step into them.’
Reacher slipped the bags over his shoes one at a time, taking care not to rip them. They only just fit.
Gilmour took a roll of duct tape from his backpack. He tore off a long strip and handed it to Reacher. ‘Tape the bags in place. And the cap. It’ll hurt taking it off, but that’s better thanlife withoutif you leave a bunch of hairs behind.’ Gilmour rummaged in his pack again and pulled out two pairs of latex gloves like surgeons use.
Reacher tried to pull on one of the gloves, but it tore immediately. The second glove did the same.
Gilmour shrugged. ‘Just don’t touch anything, I guess. Put your hands in your pockets.’
Reacher opened the door with his elbow and steppedinto Dr Martin’s reception area. There was a desk with a phone and a computer, and an empty chair behind it for the receptionist. A pair of narrow couches with textured beige cushions sat facing each other across a woven area rug. A glass-and-steel coffee table filled the space between them. The furniture was lined up symmetrically in front of the window, and two paintings of the English countryside hung on the walls on either side. The blinds were closed and some kind of artificial floral scent hung in the air.
Reacher said, ‘Was the receptionist usually here when you came for your appointments?’
Gilmour said, ‘She was both times. You couldn’t get in without her checking your ID, and you couldn’t get out without her trying to fleece you for another session.’
‘We need to talk to her. Find out why she wasn’t here today.’
Reacher moved to an inner door. He leaned down and worked the handle with his elbow. Gilmour rummaged in his backpack, took out his gun, and followed Reacher inside.
TWENTY-THREE
Dr Martin’s office had a line of tall windows running the length of one wall. There were eight altogether. Each was covered with a venetian blind, angled upward but not closed, so that all the light wasn’t blocked, but anyone trying to peek in from the sidewalk or the building across the street would only get a view of the ceiling. The space was set up to form two distinct areas. The part farther from the door was the business end. It had a dark-blue rug covering the floor, a chrome desk with a glass top, an office chair, and a row of two-drawer file cabinets against the far wall. Four framed diplomas were hanging above them. A couple of dog-eared folders were sitting on the desk between Dr Martin’s computer and her landline phone, and a half-empty coffee mug had been left on a coaster.
The space nearer the door was laid out to be more friendly and casual, like a living room. The rug was sky blue. Two teal-colored couches made from soft fabric faced each other across another coffee table – this one made of wood, with a selection of magazines scattered across it – and there was a well-worn leather armchair on one side. The wall behind it was lined with tall bookcases. The shelves were full, mainly with novels and collections of poetry, but there was also a smattering of ornaments and statuettes. Reacher saw a box of Kleenex peeping out from behind a Greek-style urn. It was within arm’s length of the chair. He wondered how often it got used.
Gilmour glanced at the seating and said, ‘The couches are for the patients. You can take your pick. The chair is for the doctor.’
The doctor’s body was lying on its back beneath the line of windows, feet toward the desk, head toward the door. Her hair was deep auburn. It looked like it had been tied back originally but had come loose when she fell, and it was now spread around her face like a ragged, rusty halo. Her eyes were closed. Her arms were down by her sides and her legs were stretched out straight. She was wearing white sneakers, pale high-waisted jeans, and a navy blazer. Her blouse was white. A rough hole maybe three inches across had been torn out of the center of her chest, and a ragged one-inch margin around its edges was stained crimson. The air was heavy with a hard, coppery residue. Reacher and Gilmour stood by the body for a moment, looking down, not speaking. It was like they felt some unspoken obligation to pay their respects. To afallen enemy, in Gilmour’s mind. Reacher’s mental jury was still out.
Gilmour tucked his gun into his waistband and said, ‘Damn. If we’d gotten here an hour earlier …’
Reacher said, ‘But we didn’t. Where’s her purse?’
