Leaving Franz's house, Jack checked the time. He had learned about the case from Stella Bonasilla the night before, and had spent the day arranging various matters. This
included, but was not limited to, handing over the case to the NYPD, contacting Joey Reacher, and using his FBI authority to search for Jack Reacher's whereabouts. He then contacted the BAU team, which was dealing with a certain psychopath in Pennsylvania, and early this morning borrowed their Gulfstream and headed straight for Arkansas.
Returning to New York, the two of them immediately visited Franz's widow. By this time, it was already 5 p.m.
Flatbush was located in the heart of Brooklyn, and its main thoroughfare was Flatbush Avenue. Jack had counted the house number to find the tiny office.
Although there was some traffic, it took no more than 20 minutes to get there from Franz's house. It could even be said that driving was a waste of time; walking might have been faster.
Jack looked up at the shops on either side of the office. To the left was a comic book store, to the right a kitchenware store. If it weren't for the "Three Rivers Consulting" sign on the glass door, he might have mistaken it for the entrance to the upstairs apartment.
"For a private investigator dealing with Wall Street, this place isn't too low-key?" Jack turned his head and glanced around. The location was actually quite nice. There were no tents on the sidewalk, and no needles on the ground.
"Unassuming, close to home, and I can spend more time with my family. It's definitely a place Franz would choose." Reacher took out his keys and walked to the door, pausing slightly when he saw the pry marks near the door lock.
Although Franz's wife had given him a bunch of keys, there were actually only three keys on the keychain: one for Franz's house, one for his office, and one she couldn't identify; it looked like the key to some kind of safe.
By then, Reacher had already opened the office door. Although Jack had been prepared, he still sighed when he saw the mess inside. It looked like a tornado had passed through it; it looked like there was no hope of finding anything.
Franz's office was small, a room no more than 60 square meters, divided by a simple glass door into two areas.
Both the inner and outer rooms felt like they had nowhere to stand. Every upholstered sofa and chair had been slashed to pieces with a knife, and the drawers had been pulled out, their contents dumped out onto the floor.
Reacher looked down at it for a moment, then said confidently, "It looks like they found nothing."
Jack was a little curious about how he could tell. The large man pointed to the shattered glass separating the inner and outer partitions and said,
"If it was a specific target, they wouldn't have gone to such lengths. They spent a lot of time and found nothing. When they left, they took the phone and smashed the glass there. It was simply an act of venting their frustration."
"You sound more knowledgeable about psychology than I am,"
Jack said, picking up a broken chair and shaking it. "But what they're looking for shouldn't be big. At least it should fit into a small secret compartment. Otherwise, they wouldn't have broken off four chair legs to see if it was hollow."
After he finished speaking, he noticed Reacher didn't seem to react. Turning back, he saw the large man picking up a broken photo frame, lost in thought.
"Is this the group you led back then?" Jack leaned forward curiously to take a look. The frame contained a photo of a group of people gathered in front of a campfire.
The photo showed seven men and two women, all dressed in camouflage or military T-shirts. Everyone was smiling, including Reacher.
"It seems like yesterday," the large man muttered to himself.
Jack looked from the photo to Reacher. Some people's older looks weren't entirely without merit. Franz in the photo looked like a young man in his early twenties, quite different from the 30-something he appeared to be in his profile.
Reacher looked practically the same in person as in the photo, looking just as weathered.
The two didn't spend too much time in Franz's office because they had no idea what they were looking for. As they were leaving, Reacher took out his key again to lock the door, but Jack stared across the street, lost in thought.
"Can you show me that bunch of keys?"
Reacher was slightly taken aback before handing the keys to Jack.
Jack pulled out the key that looked like it belonged to a safe and tilted his head towards the other side of the street. "Do you think it could be a mailbox key? It's surprisingly secure, and you don't even need to register with your real name. Just cross the street when you need it."
The United States Postal Service offers private mailboxes, which are lockers placed inside the post office that can only be opened with your own key.
Reacher's eyes lit up, and he quickly crossed the street. Then, looking at the combination lock on the post office door, he frowned.
"It's already 5:40," Jack, who had followed, waved his phone to indicate the time.
The United States Postal Service (USPS), also known as the Federal Postal Service, is one of the few state-owned enterprises in the country. Thanks to the country's continued use of paper mail for bill delivery, in this information age, the USPS handles a quarter of the world's mail each year.
However, like all state-owned enterprises, the post office closes with uncanny punctuality, closing at 5:00, never a second later.
"Can't you just use your FBI privileges to open the door? I hate guessing combinations," Reacher
said, a little frustrated. "I'm just a private investigator, and the Post Office has its own enforcement unit. I don't recommend breaking in." Jack was referring to the famous Postal Police.
The Postal Police were the first to use the term "Special Agent" in federal history, and the Postal Inspection Service (PSI) they belong to is the oldest federal law enforcement agency in the United States, bar none.
Back in the 18th century, with Benjamin Franklin's appointment as the first Postmaster General, the Postal Inspection Service was established.
The title "Special Agent" was later changed to "Inspector," a term that persists to this day, but the law enforcement role remains unchanged.
Jack didn't know any Postal Police, but that didn't stop him from seeking help from friends who knew them. An hour later, when Reacher's stomach began to growl, Danny Reagan and a white-bearded old man appeared before them.
The old man quickly opened the combination lock for them, and Reacher stood in front of a row of cabinets, trying each one with his key.
"Normally, I should ask for a search warrant," the old man muttered, somewhat dissatisfied.
"A bottle of Jack Daniels No. 7 Black Label. Uncle Ed, my father's best bourbon collection." Danny smiled and put his arm around the old man's shoulders.
"Try the big cabinet down there. As a private investigator, Franz should have a lot of mail," Jack suggested.
With a click, Reacher opened the mailbox on the far left and took out a large stack of mail.
(End of this chapter)