Free Jack in the Green by Diane Capri Page B

and saw that Reacher was here in the late summer of 1997.”
    A few months after Weston’s family was murdered, Gaspar calculated. Also after the killer was arrested and Weston released. About six months after Reacher left the Army, too. He’d failed to get Weston for the murders the first time. His bulldog tenacity must have pulled him back again for another try after his Army discharge, long after he should have moved on.
    “I remembered meeting him. He’s not the kind of guy you’re likely to forget,” Carson said. “Weston ended up in Tampa Southern Hospital almost dead that time, too.”
    “Which explains why Weston didn’t attend the first annual memorial service once he was released from jail after his family was killed. And after that, he’s been out of the country,” Kimball voiced the thought that had occurred simultaneously to Gaspar.
    The food was delivered. Carson and Kimball fell on the meal like feral dogs, but Otto ignored her food, focused on Reacher like a heat-seeking missile. Gaspar felt his stomach growling, but felt he should hold back until Otto tucked.
    Carson gestured toward the plates. “We don’t have a lot of time. We can talk and eat simultaneously. I’ve done it for years.”
    Otto lifted her fork and Gaspar dug in as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. Which he hadn’t. The food was amazing, even better than he remembered. Exactly the sort of meal his wife loved. The beef was rare and crusted with mango chutney. The Madeira mushroom sauce was light but flavorful. The combination of ripe Bartlett pears, Gorgonzola cheese, candied walnuts and vinaigrette perfectly blended. A dry Cabernet would have made the meal one of his wife’s all-time top five. Which meant he couldn’t tell her about it. At least, not until he could bring her to experience the meal herself.
    “We’ve never met Reacher,” Otto said, barely moving her fork around the ambrosia on her plate. “What’s he like?”
    “Big. Quiet. No fashion sense at all,” Carson laughed. When Otto didn’t grin, Carson seemed to consider the question more seriously. Slowly, as if she was uncovering buried artifacts from the depths of memory, she said, “He stood out like a sore thumb, but he exuded confidence like a force field that repelled all challengers. He seemed American, but not American at the same time. In the way that military kids do. Like he held a valid passport but didn’t really belong here. He didn’t seem to care that he didn’t belong. He didn’t seem to care about much of anything, actually.”
    “Was he living in Tampa? Or visiting someone?” Kimball asked. Maybe she was thinking about the gambling situation. Or maybe she thought Reacher was looking for Weston, too.
    “He said he was passing through. He asked me where the bus station was. Headed north, I think. Atlanta, maybe?” She wiped the Madeira sauce off her mouth with her napkin and sat back from her plate. “Of course, everywhere in the country is north of here, and most roads lead to Atlanta.”
    Kimball said, “From what you’ve described, Reacher doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d even come into contact with, Judge. Where’d you meet him?”
    “Didn’t I start with that? Sorry. A fundraiser. We attend dozens of those things. This one was education scholarships for military orphans, I think.”
    “Where was the event held? At MacDill?”
    “Greyhound Lanes,” Carson replied. She must have noticed their bewilderment. “Not the bus station or a bowling alley. The dog track.”
    “Dog racing?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Was Weston there?”
    “If he was an officer at MacDill then, he might have attended the fundraiser. Sure. Quite a few military folks were there. It’s a big annual event. Very popular. Huge family affair.”
    Kimball looked toward the two Latin kings across the room. “Anything to do with those guys sitting over there? They look familiar to me, but I can’t place them.”
    Carson turned around to