generations of maids. There was a grandfather clock taller than Reacher, ticking softly to itself once a second. An antique chaise like you see society women perched on in oil-painted portraits. Reacher wondered if it would break in the middle if he put his weight on it. He pressed on the velvet with his hand. Felt horsehair padding under it. Then the maid came back down the stairs the same way she had gone up, gliding, her body perfectly still and her hand just grazing the rail.
"He'll see you now," she said. "He's on the balcony, at the back of the house."
There was an upstairs foyer with the same dimensions and the same decor. French doors let out onto the rear balcony, which ran the whole width of the house and looked out over acres of hot grassland. It was roofed and fans turned lazily near the ceiling. There was heavy wicker furniture painted white and arranged in a group. A man sat in a chair with a small table at his right hand. The table held a pitcher and a glass filled with what looked like lemonade, but it could have been anything. The man was a bull-necked guy of about sixty. He was softened and faded from a peak that might have been impressive twenty years ago. He had plenty of white hair and a red face burned into lines and crags by the sun. He was dressed all in white. White pants, white shirt, white shoes. It looked like he was ready to go lawn bowling at some fancy country club.
"Mr. Hayes?" he called.
Reacher walked over and sat down without waiting for an invitation.
"You got children?" he asked.
"I have three sons," Brewer replied.
"Any of them at home?"
"They're all away, working."
"Your wife?"
"She's in Houston, visiting."
"So it's just you and the maid today?"
"Why do you ask?" He was impatient and puzzled, but polite, like people are when you're about to give them a million dollars.
"I'm a banker," Reacher said. "I have to ask."
"Tell me about the stock," Brewer said.
"There is no stock. I lied about that."
Brewer looked surprised. Then disappointed. Then irritated.
"Then why are you here?" he asked.
"It's a technique we use," Reacher said. "I'm really a loan officer. A person needs to borrow money, maybe he doesn't want his domestic staff to know."
"But I don't need to borrow money, Mr. Hayes."
"You sure about that?"
"Very."
"That's not what we heard."
"I'm a rich man. I lend. I don't borrow."
"Really? We heard you had problems meeting your obligations."
Brewer made the connection slowly. Shock traveled through his body to his face. He stiffened and grew redder and glanced down at the shape of the gun in Reacher's pocket, like he was seeing it for the first time. Then he put his hand down to the table and came back with a small silver bell. He shook it hard and it made a small tinkling sound.
"Maria!" he called, shaking the bell. "Maria!"
The maid came out of the same door Reacher had used. She walked soundlessly along the boards of the balcony.
"Call the police," Brewer ordered. "Dial 911. I want this man arrested."
She hesitated.
"Go ahead," Reacher said. "Make the call."
She ducked past them and into the room directly behind Brewer's chair. It was some kind of a private study, dark and masculine. Reacher heard the sound of a phone being picked up. Then the sound of rapid clicking, as she tried to make it work.
"The phones are out," she called.
"Go wait downstairs," Reacher called back.
"What do you want?" Brewer asked.
"I want you to meet your legal obligation."
"You're not a banker."
"That's a triumph of deduction."
"So what are you?"
"A guy who wants a check," Reacher said. "For twenty thousand dollars."
"You represent those... people?"
He started to stand up. Reacher put his arm out straight and shoved him back in his chair, hard enough to hurt.
"Sit still," he said.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm a compassionate guy," Reacher said. "That's why. There's a family in trouble here. They're going to be upset and worried all winter long. Disaster staring them in the face. Never knowing which day is going to bring everything crashing down around them. I don't like to see people living that way, whoever they are."
"They don't like it, they should get back to Mexico, where they belong."
Reacher glanced at him, surprised.
"I'm not talking about them," he said. "I'm talking about you. Your family."
"My family?"
Reacher nodded. "I stay mad at you, they'll all suffer. A car wreck here, a mugging there. You might fall down the stairs,