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“Thereby insulating you from interference and guaranteeing your independence.”

“That’s the plan.”

“But also tying you to heavy-duty politics. Because the Chief of Staff is all wrapped up with the National Security Council, and the national security adviser, and the cabinet, and the president himself. Who just gave him his own private FBI. You OK with that?”

“So far,” she said. “It means people take my calls real quick. Like your bank, for instance.”

“Where’s your office?”

“In the Pentagon. D-ring.”

“A short step away from the folks with the outside windows. You do know, right?”

“Of course I know.”

“Say it out loud for me.”

“I’m independent of everyone except him. And he’s political.”

“You OK with that?” he asked again.

“So far,” she said again.

“Why the call to my bank?”

“Maybe I miss you.”

“Why so much on that particular day?”

“I need your help,” she said. “I have a problem.”

—

The waitress came back and cleared their empty plates. Turner ordered nothing more. Reacher got a third refill of coffee and asked for a slice of peach pie.

Turner said, “I’m amazed you don’t weigh four hundred pounds by now.”

“Mental energy,” Reacher said. “Burns it up like crazy. Tell me about your problem.”

“I lost a guy.”

“How?”

“Unrelated to his duties.”

“What happened?”

“He was mugged. Stabbed during the crime. Wallet gone, watch gone, phone gone, left to die behind a bar.”

“Who and where?”

“He was a CID Special Agent named Bisley. Young guy, very smart, very focused. Working cybercrime. Which is a big deal now. He had a case he suddenly needed to develop. I said yes. He went out to Colorado. It happened the first night he was there. He went to get a beer, and he didn’t come back.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago,” she said.

“What do the Colorado cops say?”