STEALING THE PHONE was candy from a baby, but the reconnaissance is a bitch. Timing it right was the first priority. You needed to wait for complete darkness, and you wanted to wait for the daytime cop's final hour. Because the cop is dumber than the Bureau guy, and because somebody's last hour is always better than somebody else's first hour. Attention will have waned. Boredom will have set in. His eyes will have glazed and he'll be thinking ahead to a beer with his buddies or a night in front of the television with his wife. Or however the hell he spends his downtime.

So your window extends to about forty minutes, say seven to seven-forty. You plan it in two halves. First the house, then the surrounding area. You drive back from the airport and you approach on the through road. You drive straight through the junction three streets from her house. You stop at a hikers' parking area two hundred yards farther north. There's a wide gravel trail leading east up the slope of Mount Hood. You get out of your car and you turn your back on the trail and you work your way west and north through lightly wooded terrain. You're about level with your first position, but on the other side of her house, behind it, not in front of it.

The terrain means the houses don't have big yards. There are slim cultivated strips behind the buildings, then fences, then steep hillside covered in wild brush. You ease through the brush and come out at her fence. Stand motionless in the dark and observe. Drapes are drawn. It's quiet. You can hear a piano playing, very faintly. The house is built into the hillside, and it's at right angles to the street. The side is really the front. The porch runs all the way along it. Facing you is a wall dotted with windows. No doors. You ease along the fence and check the other side, which is really the back of the house. No doors there either. So the only ways in are the front door on the porch, and the garage door facing the street. Not ideal, but it's what you expected. You've planned for it. You've planned for every contingency.

"OK, COLONEL KRUGER," Leighton said. "We're on your ass now."

They were back in the duty office, damp from the jog through the nighttime rain, high with elation, flushed with cold air and success. Handshakes had been exchanged, high fives had been smacked, Harper had laughed and hugged Reacher. Now Leighton was scrolling through a menu on his computer screen, and Reacher and Harper were sitting side by side in front of his desk on the old upright chairs, breathing hard. Harper was still smiling, basking in relief and triumph.

"Loved that business with the stool," she said. "We watched the whole thing on the video screen."

Reacher shrugged.

"I cheated," he said. "I chose the right stool, is all. I figured visiting time, that sergeant sits on the one by the door, wriggles around a little because he's bored. Guy that size, the joints were sure to be cracked. The thing practically fell apart."

"But it looked real good."

"That was the plan. First rule is to look real good."

"OK, he's in the personnel listings," Leighton said. "LaSalle Kruger, bird colonel, right there."

He tapped the screen with his nail. It made the same glassy thunk they'd heard before. Like a bottle.

"Has he been in trouble?" Reacher asked.

"Can't tell, yet," Leighton said. "You think he'll have an MP record?"

"Something happened," Reacher said. "Special Forces in Desert Storm, and now he's working supply? What's that about?"

Leighton nodded. "It needs explaining. Could be disciplinary, I guess."

He exited the personnel listings and clicked on another menu. Then he paused.

"This will take all night," he said.

Reacher smiled. "You mean you don't want us to see anything."

Leighton smiled back. "Right first time, pal. You can smack the prisoners around as much as you want, but you can't look at the computer stuff. You know how it is."

"I sure do," Reacher said.

Leighton waited.

"That inventory thing about the jeep tires?" Harper said suddenly. "Could you trace some missing camouflage paint in there?"

"Maybe," Leighton said. "Theoretically, I guess."

"Eleven women on his list, look for about three hundred gallons," she said. "If you could put Kruger together with the paint, that would do it for me."

Leighton nodded.

"And dates," she said. "Find out if he was off duty when the women were killed. And match the locations, I guess. Confirm there were thefts where the women served. Prove they saw something."

Leighton looked across at her. "The Army is going to just love me, right? Kruger's our guy, and I'm busting my ass all night so we can give him away to the Bureau."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But the jurisdiction issue is clear, isn't it? Homicide beats theft."

Leighton nodded, suddenly somber.

"Like scissors beats paper," he said.

YOU'VE SEEN ENOUGH of the house. Standing there in the dark staring at it and listening to her play the damn piano isn't going to change anything. So you step away from the fence and duck into the brush and work your way east and south, back toward the car. You get there and dust yourself off and slide in and start it up and head back down through the crossroads. Part two of your task ahead, and you've got about twenty minutes to complete it in. You drive on. There's a small shopping center two miles west of the junction, left-hand side of the road. An old-fashioned one-story mall, shaped like a squared-off letter C. A supermarket in the middle like a keystone, small single-unit stores spreading either side of it. Some of them are boarded up and empty. You pull into the parking lot at the far end and you nose along the fire lane, looking. You find exactly what you want, three stores past the supermarket. It's nothing you didn't expect to find, but still you clench your fist and bang it on the rim of the steering wheel. You smile to yourself.

Then you turn the car around and idle back through the lot, checking it out, and your smile dies. You don't like it. You don't like it at all. It's completely overlooked. Every storefront has a direct view. It's badly lit now, but you're thinking about daylight. So you drive around behind the arm of the C, and your smile comes back again. There's a single row of overspill parking back there, facing plain painted delivery doors in the back walls of the stores. No windows. You stop the car and look around. A complete circle. This is your place. No doubt about it. It's perfect.

Then you drive back into the main lot and you park up alongside a small group of other vehicles. You kill the motor and wait. You watch the through road. You wait and watch ten minutes, and then you see the Bureau Buick heading by, not fast, not slow, reporting for duty.

"Have a nice night," you whisper.

Then you start your car again and wind around the parking lot and drive off in the opposite direction.

LEIGHTON RECOMMENDED A motel a mile down Route 1 toward Trenton. He said it was where the prisoners' visitors stayed, it was cheap, it was clean, it was the only place for miles around and he knew the phone number. Harper drove, and they found it easily enough. It looked fine from the outside, and it had plenty of vacancies.

"Number twelve is a nice double," the desk clerk said.

Harper nodded.

"OK, we'll take it," she said.

"We will?" Reacher said. "A double?"

"Talk about it later," she said.

She paid cash and the desk guy handed over a key.

"Number twelve," he said again. "Down the row a piece."

Reacher walked through the rain, and Harper brought the car. She parked it in front of the cabin and found Reacher waiting at the door.

"What?" she said. "It's not like we're going to sleep, is it? We're just waiting for Leighton to call. May as well do that in here as in the car."

He just shrugged and waited for her to unlock the door. She opened up and went inside. He followed.

"I'm too excited to sleep, anyway," she said.

It was a standard motel room, familiar and comforting. It was overheated and the rain was loud on the roof. There were two chairs and a table at the far end of the room by a window. Reacher walked through and sat in the right-hand chair. Put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. Kept very still. Harper moved around, restlessly.

"We've got him, you know that?" she said.

Reacher said nothing.

"I should call Blake, give him the good news," Harper said.

Reacher shook his head. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Let Leighton finish up. Quantico gets involved at this point, they'll pull him off. He's only a captain. They'll haul in some two-star asshole, and he'll never get near the facts for the bullshit. Leave it with Leighton, let him get the glory."

She was in the bathroom, looking at the rack of towels and the bottles of shampoo and the packets of soap. She came out and took her jacket off. Reacher looked away.

"It's perfectly safe," she said. "I'm wearing a bra."

Reacher said nothing.

"What?" she asked. "Something's on your mind."

"It is?"

She nodded. "Sure it is. I can tell. I'm a woman. I'm intuitive."

He looked straight at her. "Truth is I don't especially want to be alone in a room with you and a bed."

She smiled, happily, mischievously. "Tempted?"

"I'm only human."

"So am I," she said. "If I can control myself, I'm sure you can."

He said nothing.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said.

"Christ," he muttered.

IT'S A STANDARD motel room, like a thousand you've seen coast to coast. Doorway, bathroom on the right, closet on the left, queen bed, dresser, table and two chairs. Old television, ice bucket, awful pictures on the wall. You hang your coat in the closet, but you keep your gloves on. No need to leave fingerprints all over the place. No real possibility of them ever finding the room, but you've built your whole life on being careful. The only time you take your gloves off is when you're washing, and motel bathrooms are safe enough. You check out at eleven, and by twelve a maid is spraying cleaner all over every surface and wiping everything with a wet cloth. Nobody ever found a meaningful fingerprint in a motel bathroom.

You walk through the room and you sit in the left-hand chair. You lean back, you close your eyes, and you start to think. Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. You plan the timing by working backward. You need dark before you can get out. That's the fundamental consideration. That drives everything else. But you want the daytime cop to find her. You accept that's just a whim on your part, but hey, if you can't brighten things up with a little whimsy, what kind of life is that? So you need to be out after dark, but before the cop's last bathroom break. That specifies a pretty exact time, somewhere between six and six-thirty. Call it five-forty, for a margin. No, call it five-thirty, because you really need to be back in position to see the cop's face.

OK, five-thirty. Twilight, not really dark, but it's acceptable. The longest time you spent in any of the previous places was twenty-two minutes. In principle this one won't be any longer, but you're going to allow a full half hour. So you need to be inside and started by five. Then you think it through from her point of view, and it's pretty clear you need to be making the phone call at about two o'clock.

So, check out of this dump before eleven, you're over there before twelve, you wait and watch, you make the call at two. It's decided. You open your eyes and stand up. Undress and use the bathroom. Pull back the covers and slide into bed, wearing nothing but your gloves.

HARPER CAME OUT of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. Her face was scrubbed and her hair was wet. Under the weight of the water, it hung down past her waist. Without makeup, her face looked vulnerable. Cornflower-blue eyes, white teeth, cheekbones, skin. She looked about fourteen, except she was more than six feet tall. And that kind of height made a standard-issue motel towel seriously deficient in terms of length.

"I think I better call Blake," she said. "I should really check in."

"Don't tell him anything," Reacher said. "I mean it, things will spin out of control."

She nodded. "I'll just tell him we're close."

He shook his head. "Vaguer than that, OK? Just say we're seeing some guy tomorrow who might have something connected."

"I'll be careful," she said. She sat down at the mirror. The towel rode up. She started looking at her hair.

"Can you get my phone out of my pocketbook for me?" she called.

He walked to the bed and slipped his hand into her bag. Things in there released faint fragrance as they moved. He found the phone and slipped it out and carried it over to her.

"Be real vague, OK?" he said again.

She nodded and opened the phone.

"Don't worry," she said.

"I guess I'll shower too."

She smiled. "Enjoy. I won't come in, I promise."

He went into the bathroom and closed the door. Harper's clothes were hanging from the hook on the back. All of them. The underwear was white and lacy. He thought about setting the shower icy cold, but decided to rely on willpower alone. So he set it hot and stripped off his clothes. Dumped them in a pile on the floor. Took the folding toothbrush from his jacket pocket and cleaned his teeth with plain water. Then he stood under the shower and washed with the same soap and shampoo Harper had used. He stood for a long time, trying to relax. Then he gave it up and turned the handle to cold. He held it there, gasping. One minute. Two. Then he shut it off and groped for a towel.

She knocked on the door.

"Are you done?" she called. "I need my clothes."

He unfolded the towel and wrapped it around his waist.

"OK, come in," he called.

"Just pass them out," she called back.

He bunched them into his hand and lifted them off the hook. Cracked the door and passed them through. She took them and walked away. He toweled himself almost dry and dressed, awkward in the narrow space. Combed his hair with his fingers. He stood still for a minute. Then he rattled the door handle and came out. She was standing by the bed, wearing some of her clothes. The rest of them were folded over the back of the dresser chair. Her hair was combed back. Her phone was closed, lying next to the ice bucket.

"What did you tell him?" he asked.

"Just what you said. We're meeting some guy in the morning, noting specific."

She was wearing the shirt, but the tie was draped over the chair. So was the bra. And the suit trousers.

"He have anything to say?" he asked.

"Poulton's in Spokane," she said. "The Hertz thing came to nothing, just some woman on business. But the UPS guy is coming through with stuff. They're talking tonight, but they're three hours behind, so we won't hear anything until morning, probably. But they identified the date from the baseball thing and UPS is pulling the records."

"Won't say LaSalle Kruger on the paperwork, that's for sure."

"Probably not, but that doesn't matter anymore, does it? We found him."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her back to him.

"Thanks to you," she said. "You were absolutely right, a smart guy with a good solid plain-vanilla motive. "

She stood up again, restless. Paced the small area between the bed and the table. She was wearing the underpants. He could see that, through the shirttails. Her ass was wonderful. Her legs were lean. And long. Her feet were small and delicate, for her height.

"We should celebrate," she said.

Reacher propped the pillows on the far side of the bed and leaned back against them. Looked up at the ceiling and concentrated on the sound of the rain battering on the roof.

"No room service in a place like this," he said.

She turned to face him. The first two buttons on her shirt were undone. Thing like that, the effect depends on how far apart the buttons are. If they're close together, it doesn't mean much. But these were well spaced out, maybe three or four inches between each of them.

"It's Jodie, isn't it?" she said.

He nodded. "Of course it is."

"Wasn't for her, you'd want to, right?"

"I do want to," he said.

Then he paused.

"But I won't," he said. "Because of her."

She looked at him, and then she smiled.

"I like that in a guy, I guess," she said.

He said nothing.

"Steadfastness," she said.

He said nothing. There was silence. Just the sound of the rain on the roof, relentless and insistent.

"It's an attractive characteristic," she said.

He looked at the ceiling.

"Not that you're short of attractive characteristics," she said.

He listened to the rain. She sighed, just a tiny sound. She moved away, just an inch. But enough to ease the crisis.

"So you're going to stick around New York," she said.

He nodded again. "That's the plan."

"She'll be pissed about the house. Her father willed it to you."

"She might be," he said. "But she'll have to deal with it. The way I see it, he left me a choice, more than anything. The house, or the money I'd get for it. My choice. He knew what I was like. He wouldn't be surprised. Or upset either."

"But it's an emotional issue."

"I don't see why," he said. "It wasn't her childhood home or anything. They never really lived there. She didn't grow up there. It's just a wooden building."

"It's an anchor. That's how she sees it."

"That's why I'm selling it."

"Therefore naturally she'll worry."

He shrugged. "She'll learn. I'll stick around, house or no house."

The room went quiet again. The rain was easing. She sat down on the bed, opposite him. Tucked her bare knees up under her.

"I still feel like celebrating," she said.

She put her hand palm down in the space between them and leaned over.

"Celebration kiss," she whispered. "Nothing more, I promise."

He looked at her and reached around with his left arm and pulled her close. Kissed her on the lips. She put her hand behind his head and pushed her fingers into his hair. Tilted her head and opened her mouth. He felt her tongue on his teeth. In his mouth. He closed his eyes. Her tongue was urgent. Deep in his mouth. It felt good. He opened his eyes and saw hers, too close to focus on. They were shut tight. He let her go and pulled away, full of guilt.

"Something I need to tell you," he said.

She was breathless, and her hair was a mess.

"What?"

"I'm not being straight with you," he said.

"How not?"

"I don't think Kruger's our guy."

"What?"

There was silence. They were inches apart, on the bed. Her hand was still laced behind his head, in his hair.

"He's Leighton's guy," Reacher said. "I don't think he's ours. I never really did."

"What? You always did. This was your theory, Reacher. Why back away from it now?"

"Because I didn't really mean it, Harper. I was just thinking aloud. Bullshitting, basically. I'm very surprised there even is such a guy."

She pulled her hand away, astonished.

"But this was your theory," she said again.

He shrugged. "I just made it up. I didn't mean any of it. I just wanted some kind of a plausible excuse to get me out of Quantico for a spell."

She stared at him. "You made it up? You didn't mean it?"

He shrugged. "It was halfway convincing, I guess. But I didn't believe in it."

"So why the hell say it?"

"I told you. I just wanted to get out of there. To give myself time to think. And it was an experiment. I wanted to see who would support it and who would oppose it. I wanted to see who really wants this thing solved."

"I don't believe this," she said. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"We all want it solved," she said.

"Poulton opposed it," Reacher said.

She stared at him, from a foot away.

"What is this to you? A game?" she said.

He said nothing. She was silent, a minute, two, three.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said. "There are lives at stake here."

Then there was pounding at the door. Loud, insistent knocking. She pulled away from him. He let her go and put his feet on the floor and stood up. Ran his hand through his hair and walked toward the door. A new barrage started up. A heavy hand, knocking hard.

"OK," he called. "I'm coming."

The pounding stopped. He opened the door. There was an Army Chevrolet parked at an angle outside the room. Leighton was standing on the stoop, his hand raised, his jacket open, raindrops on the shoulders.

"Kruger's our guy," he said.

He pushed past, inside the room. Saw Harper buttoning her shirt.

"Excuse me," he said.

"It's hot in here," she said, looking away.

Leighton looked down at the bed, like he was surprised.

"He's our guy, for sure," he said. "Everything fits like a glove."

Harper's mobile started ringing. It was over by the ice bucket, on the dresser, squawking like an alarm clock. Leighton paused. Gestured I can wait. Harper scrambled over the bed and flipped the phone open. Reacher heard a voice, feathery and distorted and faraway. Harper listened to it and Reacher watched the color drain out of her face. Watched her close the phone and put it down like it was fragile as crystal.

"We're recalled to Quantico," she said. "Effective immediately. Because they got Caroline Cooke's full record. You were right, she was all over the place. But she was never anywhere near weapons. Not ever. Not within a million miles, not for a minute."

"That's what I'm here to tell you," Leighton said. "Kruger's our guy, but he isn't yours."

Reacher just nodded.