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receiver.
    “Murder,” Roscoe said.
    Kim wasn’t surprised. An army-trained expert killer prowling under all available radar for fifteen solid years, invisible even to the mighty FBI. What else had Reacher been doing besides murder? That was the relevant question. Gaspar looked equally skeptical. He’d read the same file Kim had. No way would he believe Reacher innocent of murder, either.
    Maybe disappointed in their reaction, Roscoe offered something that did astonish. “And then he saved my life, too.” 
    Roscoe smiled at their surprise. Finally she picked up her phone. She said, “Yes, Brent?”  And then her smile died. She said, “What?”  All business now. Short concise questions, longer periods of listening. Controlled. No tears. “He’s sure?  When?”  Concentration, closed eyes, deep furrows in her brow. “OK, call crime scene, paramedics and medical examiner, too. Phones only. Keep listeners out as long as we can.”
    Roscoe stood up, rested the receiver against her shoulder with her chin to free her hands, patted her waist in two places, one where her gun would be holstered and the other where her badge would likely rest. She said, “Good plan. Both in the air?”  She looked around for a cell phone, found it, picked it up, and dropped it into her jacket pocket. She put the phone down and picked up her car keys. She glanced across the desk and said, “My sergeant, the one who didn’t come in today?  He’s been killed.”  Her voice was soft, but the rest of her behavior was purely professional. “So can we pick this up later?” she asked, on her way to the door.
    Gaspar moved fast. “We could ride along, like a couple of extra hands. If you like. Purely informal.”
    Roscoe hesitated, pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes again, breathed deep. Then she said, “Yes, that would be great.”
    Before Kim had a chance to say anything at all, Gaspar headed out, Blazer keys in hand. “I’ll drive. You can brief us as we go. Have Brent bring your car out.”
    Roscoe followed close behind, issuing instructions to Brent along the way.
    Kim remained seated in the abandoned man-cave. She checked her watch again to confirm the timing. She collected Reacher’s photo from Roscoe’s desk and looked around to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
    No reason to rush. Plenty of reasons not to. For the first time in eight hours she felt she finally understood where this assignment was going.
     

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Roscoe and Gaspar were already belted into the front seats of the Blazer. The engine was running, the air conditioning was blasting, and the left rear door was open. Kim stepped up into the back seat half a second before Gaspar took off. She didn’t fall out, so maybe she was getting used to his style. He drove as fast as he could without a bubble light to clear traffic, straight back the way they had come less than an hour ago. They’d reach the interstate in about fourteen minutes.
    “The deceased is Sergeant Harry Black,” Gaspar said, glancing into the rearview mirror to meet her eyes, catching her up on what he’d heard while waiting. “Shot and killed at home. With his own gun. By his wife, Sylvia.”
    “Did you know him well?” Kim asked Roscoe.
    “Since we were kids,” Roscoe said. “Harry Black grew up here. He’s worked in our department about five years, I guess. Second marriage. Sylvia worked as a secretary in our shop a while. That’s how they met. Married three years or so.”
    “So what happened today?” Gaspar asked.
    “You were there when I took the call. I have limited data. Sylvia called 911 at 11:28 a.m. I haven’t heard the tape yet. At some point, we’ll get a copy and a transcript. I’m told she said, quote, ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’  The operator asked her all the appropriate questions, and Sylvia just repeated those three sentences over and over again. She hasn’t uttered another