Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers by J. F. Penn, Cheryl Bradshaw, Diane Capri, J. Carson Black, Aaron Patterson, Vincent Zandri, M A Comley, Carol Davis Luce, Joshua Graham, Michele Scott, Allan Leverone, Linda S Prather Page A
Authors: J. F. Penn, Cheryl Bradshaw, Diane Capri, J. Carson Black, Aaron Patterson, Vincent Zandri, M A Comley, Carol Davis Luce, Joshua Graham, Michele Scott, Allan Leverone, Linda S Prather
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the white lines around Roscoe’s eyes and made an effort to stop wrinkling her face.
“I doubt she’d appreciate a call back at this hour. It’s got to be after four in the morning.” Gaspar worked his laptop as fast as any college kid. “I’ve got an ace analyst in my office. She could find this stuff in a Miami Minute.”
“Which is what? Two hours?”
“Funny. The point is: I’m getting nowhere. Are you?” He ran a hand through his hair, stood briefly to stretch, and restarted.
“She’s talking about Sylvia, right?”
“Who?”
“Roscoe.”
“Can’t imagine who else she’d be that pissed about, can you?”
“Why would we take Sylvia? Why would anyone? That’s crazy, isn’t it?”
Gaspar shrugged, not looking up from his work. “Our flight leaves in forty minutes.”
“I haven’t been this confused since I tried to learn Mandarin,” she said, not joking.
“What’s to learn? Little oranges in a can.” He glanced at her and said, “Look up Joe Reacher’s date of death. That’ll give us a way to figure out the exact date Jack Reacher arrived in Margrave, right?”
Kim said, “Joe died Thursday, September 4, 1997, about midnight.”
Gaspar stared at her. “Did you just pull that out of thin air?”
She shrugged. “It’s in Jack Reacher’s file. I’ve got a good memory for dates. As in: June 6, 1998, Roscoe’s daughter was born. Jacqueline Roscoe Trent. Nine pounds, two ounces. Thirty inches long. Fair hair. Blue eyes.”
“Big kid,” Gaspar said. “My wife would’ve killed me if any of ours were that size.”
“Beverly Roscoe and David Trent were married on Christmas Day 1997. December 25th. The bride was nearly four months pregnant at the wedding.”
Gaspar pointed and clicked. He said, “Finlay was promoted from Chief of Detectives to Chief of Police on September 30, 1997, after the former top cop died on September 7, 1997. He was called Morrison. Which means that Joe Reacher and this Morrison guy died within three days of each other. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No, it can’t,” she said. “And I just found Joe Reacher’s obituary.”
“Interesting?”
“Born in Palo, Leyte, Philippines, August 1958, died at the age of 38 years. Parents Stan and Josephine both predeceased him, his only sibling Jack survived him. Educated on military bases around the world, then West Point, then Military Intelligence, and then Treasury.”
“That’s an odd trajectory.”
“You bet. Military Intelligence and Treasury are about as divorced from each other as it’s possible to get and still be in government service. He was killed in the line of duty. As a Treasury agent. Cremated. Ashes scattered in Margrave, Georgia. Which is weird.”
“I know,” Gaspar said. “He was a veteran. Why wasn’t he buried at Arlington?”
“That’s not what’s weird. What’s weird is how a treasury agent gets killed in the line of duty in a sleepy little town like Margrave, Georgia, in September 1997? How would that happen? Why was he even there?”
“Were you even born in 1997?” Gaspar asked.
“There’s no death certificate online. This is nuts. We’re the FBI. The most sophisticated and best equipped and most comprehensive agency in the world. And we can’t get any information from our own sources on an active investigation?”
“Welcome under the radar, baby. If it was easy, they wouldn’t need high-octane talent like us, now would they?” He closed his laptop and began packing up.
“I’m calling Roscoe.”
“Good luck with that.”
She picked up her phone and pressed the call back button.
Gaspar stretched and limped around the room, limbering up. She noticed the limp and knew he was shaking it off. The list of things she intended to discuss with him was already long, but maybe that one should be moved to the top. She put the call on speaker while she shoved cords into her bag and pulled the zippers. Roscoe’s cell rang ten times, twelve, fifteen.
“I doubt she’d appreciate a call back at this hour. It’s got to be after four in the morning.” Gaspar worked his laptop as fast as any college kid. “I’ve got an ace analyst in my office. She could find this stuff in a Miami Minute.”
“Which is what? Two hours?”
“Funny. The point is: I’m getting nowhere. Are you?” He ran a hand through his hair, stood briefly to stretch, and restarted.
“She’s talking about Sylvia, right?”
“Who?”
“Roscoe.”
“Can’t imagine who else she’d be that pissed about, can you?”
“Why would we take Sylvia? Why would anyone? That’s crazy, isn’t it?”
Gaspar shrugged, not looking up from his work. “Our flight leaves in forty minutes.”
“I haven’t been this confused since I tried to learn Mandarin,” she said, not joking.
“What’s to learn? Little oranges in a can.” He glanced at her and said, “Look up Joe Reacher’s date of death. That’ll give us a way to figure out the exact date Jack Reacher arrived in Margrave, right?”
Kim said, “Joe died Thursday, September 4, 1997, about midnight.”
Gaspar stared at her. “Did you just pull that out of thin air?”
She shrugged. “It’s in Jack Reacher’s file. I’ve got a good memory for dates. As in: June 6, 1998, Roscoe’s daughter was born. Jacqueline Roscoe Trent. Nine pounds, two ounces. Thirty inches long. Fair hair. Blue eyes.”
“Big kid,” Gaspar said. “My wife would’ve killed me if any of ours were that size.”
“Beverly Roscoe and David Trent were married on Christmas Day 1997. December 25th. The bride was nearly four months pregnant at the wedding.”
Gaspar pointed and clicked. He said, “Finlay was promoted from Chief of Detectives to Chief of Police on September 30, 1997, after the former top cop died on September 7, 1997. He was called Morrison. Which means that Joe Reacher and this Morrison guy died within three days of each other. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No, it can’t,” she said. “And I just found Joe Reacher’s obituary.”
“Interesting?”
“Born in Palo, Leyte, Philippines, August 1958, died at the age of 38 years. Parents Stan and Josephine both predeceased him, his only sibling Jack survived him. Educated on military bases around the world, then West Point, then Military Intelligence, and then Treasury.”
“That’s an odd trajectory.”
“You bet. Military Intelligence and Treasury are about as divorced from each other as it’s possible to get and still be in government service. He was killed in the line of duty. As a Treasury agent. Cremated. Ashes scattered in Margrave, Georgia. Which is weird.”
“I know,” Gaspar said. “He was a veteran. Why wasn’t he buried at Arlington?”
“That’s not what’s weird. What’s weird is how a treasury agent gets killed in the line of duty in a sleepy little town like Margrave, Georgia, in September 1997? How would that happen? Why was he even there?”
“Were you even born in 1997?” Gaspar asked.
“There’s no death certificate online. This is nuts. We’re the FBI. The most sophisticated and best equipped and most comprehensive agency in the world. And we can’t get any information from our own sources on an active investigation?”
“Welcome under the radar, baby. If it was easy, they wouldn’t need high-octane talent like us, now would they?” He closed his laptop and began packing up.
“I’m calling Roscoe.”
“Good luck with that.”
She picked up her phone and pressed the call back button.
Gaspar stretched and limped around the room, limbering up. She noticed the limp and knew he was shaking it off. The list of things she intended to discuss with him was already long, but maybe that one should be moved to the top. She put the call on speaker while she shoved cords into her bag and pulled the zippers. Roscoe’s cell rang ten times, twelve, fifteen.
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