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They were walling it off, burying it, drawing a line under something somebody had been only half-suspicious about to begin with. They wanted a negative answer to every question, so that the file could be closed and the matter put to bed. They wanted a positive absence of loose ends, and they didn’t want to draw attention to the issue by making it a big drama. They wanted to get back on the road with the whole thing forgotten.
    The second question was: Did I know a woman called Lila Hoth?
    I said, “No,” because I didn’t. Not then.
    The third question was more of a sustained dialog. The lead agent opened it. The main man. He was a little older and a little smaller than the other two. Maybe a little smarter, too. He said, “You approached the woman on the train.”
    I didn’t reply. I was there to answer questions, not to comment on statements.
    The guy asked, “How close did you get?”
    “Six feet,” I said. “Give or take.”
    “Close enough to touch her?”
    “No.”
    “If you had extended your arm, and she had extended hers, could you have touched hands?”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Is that a yes or a no?”
    “It’s a maybe. I know how long my arms are. I don’t know how long hers were.”
    “Did she pass anything to you?”
    “No.”
    “Did you accept anything from her?”
    “No.”
    “Did you take anything from her after she was dead?”
    “No.”
    “Did anyone else?”
    “Not that I saw.”
    “Did you see anything fall from her hand, or her bag, or her clothing?”
    “No.”
    “Did she tell you anything?”
    “Nothing of substance.”
    “Did she speak to anyone else?”
    “No.”
    The guy asked, “Would you mind turning out your pockets?”
    I shrugged. I had nothing to hide. I went through each pocket in turn and dumped the contents on the battered table. A folded wad of cash money, and a few coins. My old passport. My ATM card. My clip-together toothbrush. The Metrocard that had gotten me into the subway in the first place. And Theresa Lee’s business card.
    The guy stirred through my stuff with a single extended finger and nodded to one of his underlings, who stepped up close to pat me down. He did a semi-expert job and found nothing more and shook his head.
    The main guy said, “Thank you, Mr. Reacher.”
    And then they left, all three of them, as quickly as they had come in. I was a little surprised, but happy enough. I put my stuff back in my pockets and waited for them to clear the corridor and then I wandered out. The place was quiet. I saw Theresa Lee doing nothing at a desk and her partner Docherty walking a guy across the squad room to a cubicle in back. The guy was a worn-out mid-sized forty-something. He had on a creased gray T-shirt and a pair of red sweatpants. He had left home without combing his hair. That was clear. It was gray and sticking up all over the place. Theresa Lee saw me looking and said, “Family member.”
    “The woman’s?”
    Lee nodded. “She had contact details in her wallet. That’s her brother. He’s a cop himself. Small town in New Jersey. He drove straight over.”
    “Poor guy.”
    “I know. We didn’t ask him to make the formal ID. She’s too messed up. We told him that a closed casket is the way to go. He got the message.”
    “So are you sure it’s her?”
    Lee nodded again. “Fingerprints.”
    “Who was she?”
    “I’m not allowed to say.”
    “Am I done here?”
    “The feds finished with you?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Then beat it. You’re done.”
    I made it to the top of the stairs and she called after me. She said, “I didn’t mean it about tipping her over the edge.”
    “Yes, you did,” I said. “And you might have been right.”
    * * *
    I stepped out to the dawn cool and turned left on 35th Street and headed east. You’re done . But I wasn’t. Right there on the corner were four more guys waiting to talk to me. Similar types as before, but not federal agents. Their suits were too expensive.

Chapter 10
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