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stretching long arms and long legs across the entire bulkhead before he stood, slouched into his overcoat, and limped out behind her onto the jetway ramp.
    New York’s JFK airport was no better place for a private conversation than Reagan National, so Kim saved the benefit of her flight wisdom for a safer location. The Boss, his enemies, and Reacher himself could all be listening or watching or both. They’d done it before.
    The ice storm they’d left in DC was worse here. After another, much longer ride into the city in silence, the taxi driver deposited them a block away from Karla Dixon’s apartment. Again, Gaspar paid the fare in cash and was not offered a receipt. By tomorrow, there was an excellent chance the driver would have forgotten them completely.
    Hours of pelting sleet coated New York in clear ice that glistened like cellophane gift wrap. They slipped and slid along the sidewalk toward Dixon’s apartment building, as alert as possible to their surroundings. Half a block away, Kim spied as good a briefing location as they were likely to find.
    “Let’s stop in here for a couple of minutes,” Kim said, tilting her head toward the door of the café. She was chilled and wet and she wanted a chance to talk.
    They entered a surprisingly busy eatery of indeterminate ethnicity. People packed the front, waiting out diners reluctant to leave the fragrant warmth inside for the inhospitable November storm.
    Kim wiggled to the side of the crowded holding pen and leaned against the wall, allowing her to see toward Dixon’s apartment outside the plate glass window. Gaspar followed, leaned next to her with a view of the café’s entrance while he bent his head closer to hear her.
    Quietly, beneath the chatter buzz, Kim offered the results of her mental heavy lifting while he’d napped on the plane.
    “Given O’Donnell’s execution, I think we proceed under the assumption that both Dixon and Neagley are either dead or about to be, too. We could barge in and confirm that’s the case with Dixon, but that would only light us up on the radar.”
    “Agreed,” Gaspar said.
    She didn’t know who was watching Dixon and Neagley other than the Boss. But she knew it was safer to assume others were engaged in the same surveillance. Reacher could be watching, too. She’d seen him three times in the DC area recently, including the night O’Donnell was murdered. The last time, Reacher was headed north. It wasn’t foolish to consider that he’d come to New York for Dixon. It would be foolish to assume otherwise.
    “Maybe Reacher killed them all,” she said. “Maybe not.”
    “Agreed,” Gaspar said again.
    “If he didn’t kill Dixon, he’ll want to see the crime scene for himself before he makes any decisions.”
    Gaspar’s right eyebrow popped up. “You think so?”
    “He was a homicide investigator. That’s what you and I would do.”
    A group of four finally departed. They opened the door wide just as Kim inhaled, filling her lungs with cold New York fuel exhaust. She controlled her cough while she exhaled long and slow.
    Gaspar shrugged. “And if Reacher shows up, knowing she’s dead or not, he could get pissed off.”
    “Reacher gets pissed off?” she cracked. “What makes you say that?”
    “Besides the dead bodies, not to mention the maimed and mangled? Ignoring fires, explosions, and various other forms of destruction we’ve found in his jet-stream over the past ten days alone?” Gaspar grinned, wagged his head. “Nah. No anger issues with this guy.”
    Kim chuckled. “Maybe he is a little angry. Now and then. When provoked.”
    Gaspar guffawed, which made Kim feel better. But his laughter also drew stares from the immediate crowd, which didn’t. They didn’t need to be remembered at a place so close to Dixon’s apartment. Maybe they weren’t that hungry. She stood quietly for a moment, allowing patrons to return to their private conversations, before she said, “Let’s go,