We all went back into the rosewood office. Spread the Sherman Stoller stuff out on the desk and bent over it together. It was an arrest report from the police department in Jacksonville, Florida.
“Charlie,” I said blankly. “Charlie Hubble. His wife. She’s OK. They didn’t get her.”
“You think I don’t bring coffee to the guilty ones?” she said.
“I already know more than I should,” I said. “Finlay asked about the dead guy and Pluribus and you flipped. So I know there’s a link between you and the dead guy and whatever Pluribus is.”
“We got us a situation here, Mr. Reacher,” Finlay said. “A real situation.”
I didn’t want Roscoe to catch a chill. She ought to get out of that damp shirt. That’s what I told her. She giggled at me.