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was amiable. But he had limited patience. He wasn’t to be messed with. That was clear. Theoretically it was possible to imagine him as a quiet and deadly foe of some sort. It was possible to imagine him as the kind of man who might merit a whispered heads-up voicemail. With an urgent warning and a pithy description. But the description would not have been like Bigfoot come out of the forest . Not for this man. It would have been a reference to a spy movie perhaps, about a faceless KGB killer blending in with the crowd. It would have been about how neat he was. How physically unobtrusive. He was almost dapper. He was the opposite of Bigfoot.
    So who was he?
    One sure way to find out.
    She sat down across from him, and took her badge from her purse. It was in a department-issued vinyl wallet, opposite a photo ID behind a plastic window. Nakamura, Gloria, Detective, and her signature and her picture.
    The guy took a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses from an inside pocket, and put them on. He glanced at the ID, and glanced away. He took a small notebook from another inside pocket. He opened it with his thumb. He glanced at it, changed pages, and glanced away.
    He said, “You’re with Property Crimes.”
    â€œYou got us all listed in there?”
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI like to know who does what in a place.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œMy job.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œBramall,” the guy said. “First name Terrence, but you can call me Terry.”
    â€œAnd what’s your job, Mr. Bramall?”
    â€œI’m a private investigator.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    â€œChicago.”
    â€œWhat brings you to Rapid City?”
    â€œA private investigation.”
    â€œOf Arthur Scorpio?”
    â€œI’m afraid I’m bound by a certain degree of confidentiality. Unless and until I believe a crime has been or is about to be committed. Which I don’t at this moment.”
    Nakamura said, “I need to know whether you’re for him or against him.”
    â€œLike that, is it?”
    â€œHe won’t be voted citizen of the year.”
    â€œHe’s not my client, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œWho is?”
    â€œCan’t say.”
    Nakamura asked, “Do you have a partner?”
    â€œRomantically?” Bramall said. “Or professionally?”
    â€œProfessionally.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you part of an agency?”
    â€œWhy do you ask?”
    â€œWe heard someone was on his way here. Not you. Someone else. He was in Wisconsin yesterday. I wondered if he was an associate.”
    â€œNot mine,” Bramall said. “I’m a one-man band.”
    Nakamura took a business card from her purse. She put it on the table, near Bramall’s coffee cup. She said, “Call me if you need me. Or if you decide to take the confidentiality stick out of your ass. Or if you need advice. Scorpio is a dangerous man. Never forget that.”
    â€œThank you,” Bramall said, his eyes on the window.
    Nakamura walked back to her car, with the guy at the laundromat door watching her all the way. She drove to work, and got there early. She woke her computer and opened a search engine. She typed Bramall, Terrence, private investigator, Chicago . She got a bunch of hits. The guy was sixty-seven years old. He was retired FBI. A long and distinguished career. Many successful cases. Senior rank. Multiple medals and awards. Now he was in business on his own account. He was high end. He didn’t advertise. He was hard to get. He was expensive. He was a true specialist. He offered only one service. All he did was find missing persons.

Chapter 7
    Reacher woke himself up when he figured the lunch rush would be over. He felt OK, after his exertions the previous evening. No real aches or pains. He checked the mirror. He had a light bruise on his forehead, from head-butting