The Reacher Experiment Read online

  “You need to go look at the corpse again,” Wahlman said.

  “Pardon me?” Collins said.

  “The guy looks just like me. He could be my twin brother, if I had one. Don’t you think there’s something just a little bit odd about that?”

  “I think there’s something just a little bit odd about you,” Collins said. “We gave you a chance to cooperate, but—”

  “You Tased me and cuffed me and threw me into the back of this car for no good reason. Your rookie friend is wearing a body cam, and both your cars have dash cams. I know a good old-fashioned slimeball lawyer who’s going to have a field day with this. You’ll be lucky to still have a job when I get done with you.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Wahlman.”

  “It’s not a threat, Collins. It’s a promise. Go ahead and take me to the station.”

  “Give me one good reason not to.”

  “I’ll give you two good reasons.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My boots are over there on the bridge. They’re still dry. Not possible if I’d been in the cab with the driver. Whoever stabbed him did it east of here, and then got out of the truck. That’s the only way it could have happened. Unless he stabbed himself.”

  Detective Collins glanced pensively over at the wreckage.

  “I figured you might have knifed him right before he got to the bridge,” he said.

  “Why would I have done that?” Wahlman asked. “It would have been tantamount to suicide.”

  Collins shrugged. “It would have been a stupid thing to do,” he said. “But I don’t run across too many geniuses in my line of work. I was thinking our divers might be able to find the murder weapon, and of course that still might be the case. But if your boots are on the bridge, and they’re dry, then you’re right. You’re in the clear. You seemed to have worked that out like a pro.”

  “Believe it or not, I used to be a pretty good cop,” Wahlman said. “I might be able to help you get to the bottom of this thing. But I can’t do it from a jail cell.”

  “You were a cop?”

  “I was a Master at Arms in the navy. Twenty years of continuous active duty service.”

  “You’re retired? You don’t look old enough.”

  “I enlisted two days after I graduated from high school.”

  Collins pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. His eyes were bloodshot, and he needed a shave.

  “I’m going to need your service number,” he said. “I can check it out on the computer in my car.”

  “Not a problem,” Wahlman said.

  Detective Collins turned back to the patrolman.

  “Got a camera?” he asked.

  “Sure. On my phone. You’re not going to just let him go, are you?”

  “Did he tell you he used to be a law enforcement officer?”

  “He might have mentioned it. I don’t remember.”

  “Go take some pictures of the victim’s face and email them to me,” Detective Collins said to the patrolman. “And grab Mr. Wahlman’s boots while you’re at it.”

  4

  By the time the patrolman made it back with the boots, Detective Collins had already checked on Wahlman’s service record.

  “Take the cuffs off,” Collins said to the patrolman.

  “How am I going to write this up?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  Wahlman climbed out of the car. The patrolman took the cuffs off.

  “Here’s how you’re going to write it up,” Wahlman said, massaging some circulation back into his hands. “You’re going to tell the truth. You’re going to admit that you overreacted. It’s all on camera anyway, so there’s point in trying to deny it. You’ll probably get some desk time, maybe some remedial training. I’m not going to pursue this any further, but you need to think really hard the next time you decide to pull your gun out and point it at someone.”

  The patrolman nodded, but he didn’t apologize. Not to Wahlman, or to Detective Collins. He didn’t say anything. Collins instructed him to file his preliminary report from the computer in his cruiser.

  “After that you can get with your sergeant on what to do next,” he said.

  The patrolman walked around to the driver side of the NOPD cruiser, opened the door, took his hat off and climbed in.

  Wahlman sat down on the pavement and started pulling his dry boots on over his wet socks.

  “That could have ended badly for all of us,” he said.

  Collins nodded. “I’m going to go take a look at those pictures,” he said. “You’re welcome to join me whenever you’re ready.”

  Wahlman finished tying his boots, and then he walked to the passenger side of the unmarked police car, opened the door and slid into the front seat.

  “I’m going to need some dry clothes,” he said.

  “So here’s what I don’t understand,” Detective Collins said. “You’re retired from the navy. You get a paycheck every month. So why are you wandering around with no car, no—”

  “Who said I don’t have a car?”

  Collins looked puzzled. “Don’t tell me it’s at the bottom of the canal,” he said.

  “It’s parked on the shoulder,” Wahlman said. “On the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. Black pickup. It died and I couldn’t get it started again. The indicator panel is showing a fault at relay fourteen. I hope that’s all it is.”

  “You left it there and started hitchhiking? Why didn’t you call for help?”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t usually need to call anyone.”

  Collins laughed. “Got any more surprises for me?”

  “I have a house in Florida. And my application for a PI license is pending approval from Tallahassee.”

  “You want to be a private investigator?” Collins said. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to need a cell phone for that job.”

  “Maybe.”

  There was a touch-screen computer monitor mounted on the center of the dashboard, the entire device about the size of a hardcover novel. Collins started tapping and swiping, and a few seconds later an image of the dead driver’s face appeared on the screen.

  Collins stared at the photo for a few seconds, and then he turned and looked at Wahlman. He went back and forth a few times, the expression on his face changing from neutral to something close to astonishment.

  “Unbelievable,” he said. “The guy looks just like you.”

  “Except for this,” Wahlman said, sliding his fingers along the curved length of faded scar tissue that ran from his right cheek bone to the bottom of his jaw.

  “Yeah,” Collins said. “Except for that.”

  “It’s possible that he really is my twin brother.”

  Collins looked puzzled again. “Okay, so when I asked you if you had any more surprises for me—”

  “I grew up in an orphanage,” Wahlman said. “I don’t remember anything about my mother and father. It’s possible that I have siblings that I don’t know anything about.”

  Detective Collins reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a pack of chewing gum, one of the expensive retro brands made from real sugar. He offered Wahlman a stick. Wahlman said no thanks.

  “Let’s say this guy is your twin brother,” Collins said, peeling away the foil wrapper and folding a piece of the chewing gum into his mouth. “What are the odds of something like this happening the way it did? You know? What are the odds?”

  “Slim to none, I guess,” Wahlman said. “Yet it happened.”

  Collins scrolled through some more pictures of the deceased truck driver.

  “What happened to your parents?” he asked.

  “They died in a car accident when I was two.”

  “You were in the car with them?”

  “I was. My face got slammed into the radio.”

  Collins clawed at the stubble on his chin. “So you don’t remember anything about having a br
other?” he asked.

  “How much do you remember from when you were two?”

  “Good point.”

  “Like I said, I don’t even remember my parents.”

  “Their name was Wahlman?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Ever try to get in touch with anyone? Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

  “Why should I? They knew where I was. I spent sixteen years in that shithole. Not one person ever came to see me. Not a single one. I could have used some family back then. Now I don’t care.”

  Collins tapped on the computer screen.

  “I just got an email with some information on the driver,” he said.

  “Let’s take a look,” Wahlman said.

  “Sorry. It’s confidential.”

  “This guy might be my brother.”

  “I still can’t share his personal information with you. Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll need to notify his next-of-kin. Then we can release the information to the media.”

  “I have to wait to hear about it on the news?”

  “Is there somewhere I can reach you?” Collins asked.

  “I have hotel reservations. But I don’t have any way to get there.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Wahlman told him the name of the hotel.

  “It’s on St. Charles Avenue,” Wahlman said. “Near the French Quarter.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a ride,” Collins said.

  Wahlman climbed out of the car, leaned on the fender and waited. A state trooper pulled up about ten minutes later and drove him into New Orleans, exiting the interstate at Canal Street.

  5

  Wahlman made it to the hotel a little after seven. He checked in, asked for a toothbrush and a razor and some toothpaste and some shaving cream. The guy at the desk didn’t say anything about the way he looked or the way he smelled or the condition of the dollar bills he pulled out of his wallet when he asked for change. He took the elevator to the fourth floor, found his room, unlocked the door and walked inside.

  It wasn’t a fancy place, but it was nice. There was a king size bed against one wall, and a long wooden unit that served as a desk and a dresser and a TV stand against the other. Bathroom, closet, ironing board, all the usual stuff.

  Wahlman peeled off his damp and sticky clothes and took a shower. He shaved and brushed his teeth, and then he took another shower, scrubbing himself until it hurt. He wrapped a towel around his waist, carried his dirty things down the hall to the laundry room, fed some quarters into the detergent dispenser and then some more into the washing machine. He returned to his room and watched the news for a while, and then he went back and loaded everything into the dryer.

  As he was turning to leave, a woman carrying a white plastic laundry bag walked into the room. Mid-thirties, long black hair, green eyes, olive complexion. She was very attractive. She seemed startled at first, and then embarrassed.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said, keeping her eyes on the bag of dirty clothes as she set it on the shelf beside the washing machine.

  “I was hoping nobody would be up this early,” Wahlman said. “I don’t usually go around with nothing but a towel on.”

  “I was hoping the same thing,” the woman said, picking the items of clothing out of the bag one-by-one and dropping them into the washing machine. “That nobody would be up this early, that is.”

  “Well, take care,” Wahlman said.

  He went back to his room, watched the news some more. They were talking about the fatal accident on the interstate, but they weren’t giving out any details about the driver. Westbound traffic was still backed up for several miles.

  Wahlman decided to close his eyes for thirty minutes or so while his clothes dried. He thought about setting the alarm clock on the nightstand, but he didn’t. When he woke up, it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon.

  In the distance, someone was pounding on a bass drum. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Probably a parade somewhere nearby, Wahlman thought. He’d heard that they have a lot of them in New Orleans.

  He wrapped the towel around his waist again and walked back down to the laundry room. His things were on top of the dryer. Someone had folded them for him. Pants, shirt, socks, underwear. There was a note on top of the stack:

  I needed the dryer. Your stuff wasn’t quite dry, by the way. You owe me fifty cents.

  —Allison, room 427

  Wahlman picked up his things and walked back to his room and got dressed. He looked out the window. He still couldn’t see the parade, but he could tell that it was getting closer. Boom, boom, boom, boom. After everything that had happened earlier, his body felt a little bit like that. Like something that had been beaten with mallets.

  He emptied his wallet and spread some things out on the dresser to dry. Cash, driver’s license, bank cards, proof of insurance. There were a variety of business cards that he’d accumulated over the past couple of years, along with dozens of receipts from restaurants and filling stations. Some of the business cards had phone numbers on the backs of them, none of which were legible anymore. He tossed the ruined items into the trash can, feeling like some kind of pathological packrat for hanging onto them in the first place.

  He was about to leave the room when the phone started ringing. He picked up and said hello.

  “Detective Collins, NOPD Homicide Division. How are you, Mr. Wahlman?”

  “Better. I slept for a while.”

  “Good. I was wondering if you could stop by the station tomorrow morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine if you can make it. I’m at the District Seven Police Station on Dwyer Road. I just need to go over a few things with you, and I’m going to need a written statement regarding your involvement with the accident this morning.”

  “I’ll be there,” Wahlman said.

  “Great. See you then.”

  Wahlman hung up the phone. He slid his room key and his debit card and two quarters into the back pocket of his jeans, and then he walked down to room 427. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. The deadbolt clicked and the door opened. It was the woman he’d seen in the laundry room earlier. She was the one wearing a towel this time. Her shoulders were the same shade as her complexion. No tan lines, so it wasn’t from the sun. It was just her natural color. She smelled wonderful.

  “Sorry,” Wahlman said. “I just wanted to pay you back for the dryer.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the quarters and handed them to her.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Thanks for folding my clothes.”

  “No problem. Is this your first time in New Orleans?”

  “It is. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just curious. Anyway, maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Okay.”

  Allison closed the door. Wahlman stood there for a few seconds, and then he took the elevator down to the first floor and used the ATM to withdraw some money from his checking account. Opposite the check-in desk there was an area with dining tables and booths and a counter where you could order food and drinks, and behind all that there was an alcove with some computers set up for guests of the hotel. Wahlman sat down at one of the computers and searched for automotive repair shops. He wrote down some numbers, went back up to his room and made some calls. The first three places didn’t answer their phones. The fourth one did, but it was Sunday and they were closing early, and they asked if he could please call back tomorrow. Wahlman finally found a place that was open until seven, but the guy he talked to said that he would need some kind of guarantee of payment before he could send a tow truck way over to Slidell. Wahlman didn’t want to give the guy his credit card number over the phone, so he told him to forget about it.

  Wahlman went back down to the first floor and asked the guy at the desk if he knew anyone who worked on cars.

  “My brother-in-law might be able to help you,” the clerk said. “He ha
s a landscaping business, but he does that kind of thing on the side sometimes.”

  “I’m pretty sure it just needs a relay,” Wahlman said.

  The clerk pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. Apparently his brother-in-law’s name was Sam, and apparently Sam didn’t have a lot going on today. He agreed to pick Wahlman up at the hotel, take him to an auto parts store to buy a new relay, and then take him to his truck. All for a hundred dollars. If it wasn’t the relay, he would tie a rope to Wahlman’s bumper and tow the vehicle to his place over on the West Bank and try to figure out what the problem was at thirty dollars an hour.

  Wahlman agreed to those terms.

  As it turned out, Relay 14 was indeed the problem, and two hours later Wahlman was back at the hotel with his truck. He pulled to the curb and climbed out and walked inside and arranged for valet parking, and then he trotted over to the sandwich shop across the street, where he was late for an appointment with a man named Drake.

  6

  It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon, and there weren’t many people in the sandwich shop. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. There was a middle-aged couple at one table and two women who might have been college students at another. Wahlman didn’t see any men sitting alone. He walked to the service counter, where he was greeted by a hairy fellow wearing a red t-shirt and a white apron.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked. He had a full beard and forearms that looked like Chia Pets.

  “I was supposed to meet someone here,” Wahlman said. “Was there a guy here earlier who looked like he was waiting for someone?”

  “There were lots of guys here earlier.”

  “I was supposed to meet him about twenty minutes ago. He said he was going to be wearing a Tulane football jersey.”