After leaving Franz's home, Jack checked the time.
He had first learned about the case two nights ago from Stella Bonasera. He then spent a day making arrangements—coordinating with the NYPD, contacting Joey Reacher, and using his FBI clearance to track down Jack Reacher's whereabouts. After that, he had reached out to the BAU team, who were dealing with a psychopath in Pennsylvania, and borrowed their Gulfstream to fly straight to Arkansas early this morning.
Now, after a whirlwind visit to Franz's widow, it was already 5 PM.
—
Flatbush was in the heart of Brooklyn, and its main road, Flatbush Avenue, was easy to navigate. Jack counted the addresses until he found the small, nondescript office.
Despite some traffic, the drive from Franz's home to the office had taken less than 20 minutes. Walking might have even been faster.
Jack glanced at the storefronts flanking the office—on the left, a comic book shop, and on the right, a kitchen supply store. If not for the small sign on the glass door that read Three Rivers Consulting, he might have mistaken it for an entrance to the apartments above.
"For a private investigator dealing with Wall Street clients, isn't this place a bit too low-key?" Jack commented as he scanned the area. The neighborhood seemed decent—no tent encampments, no discarded needles on the ground.
"Low-key, practical, close to home—fits Franz's style. He wanted to spend more time with his family."
Reacher pulled out the keys and approached the door. He hesitated slightly when he noticed pry marks around the lock.
Angela had given them a small keyring, but it only held three keys: one for Franz's house, one for his office, and one that she couldn't identify—possibly for a safe.
Reacher unlocked the door and pushed it open. They had expected a mess, but Jack still sighed at the sight inside. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the office. Clearly, they weren't going to find anything easily.
The office was small—no more than 600 square feet—divided into two sections by a glass partition.
Both areas were completely trashed. Every upholstered chair and couch had been slashed open, every drawer had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor.
Reacher surveyed the scene for a moment before stating matter-of-factly, "Looks like they didn't find what they were looking for."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know that?"
Reacher pointed at the shattered glass in the partition. "If they had a specific target, they wouldn't have made such a mess. They spent a long time searching and found nothing. Smashing the phone into the glass on their way out? That's frustration."
"Sounds like you're better at psychology than I am," Jack muttered, picking up a broken chair. He shook it slightly. "Whatever they were after, it wasn't large. It had to fit into a small hidden compartment—otherwise, why bother snapping four chair legs to check if they were hollow?"
When Reacher didn't respond, Jack turned to see him holding a shattered picture frame, staring at it intently.
"This your old unit?" Jack leaned in to take a look.
The photo was of a group gathered around a campfire—seven men and two women, all in fatigues or military t-shirts, grinning at the camera. Reacher was among them.
"Feels like yesterday," Reacher murmured.
Jack glanced between the photo and Reacher. Some of the people in the picture looked significantly younger than their official files suggested, especially Franz, who had been in his early twenties back then.
Reacher, on the other hand, looked exactly the same. Some people just have that permanently weathered look.
—
They didn't stay long at the office. Since they had no idea what they were looking for, searching the mess was pointless.
As they left, Reacher reached for the keys to lock up. Jack, however, was staring thoughtfully across the street.
"Let me see that keyring."
Reacher handed it over, and Jack singled out the unidentified key. He tilted his head toward the other side of the street.
"You think this could be for a mailbox? Unexpected, but secure. No ID required, and it's just a short walk away when needed."
The U.S. Postal Service offered private PO boxes—small, locked compartments inside post offices that could only be accessed with a personal key.
Reacher's eyes lit up. He strode across the street, only to frown when he reached the post office's entrance.
A digital keypad lock.
"It's 5:40," Jack noted, checking his phone.
The United States Postal Service (USPS) was one of the few state-run enterprises in the country. Thanks to America's insistence on mailing paper bills in the digital age, USPS still processed a quarter of the world's annual mail volume.
But, like most government agencies, they had one unshakable rule: they closed on time.
Five o'clock sharp. Not a second later.
"Can't you use your FBI privilege to open this place up?" Reacher grumbled. "I hate guessing passcodes."
Jack smirked. "I'm just a private investigator, remember? Besides, the post office has its own law enforcement agency. You really don't want to break in."
He was referring to the Postal Inspection Service—the oldest federal law enforcement agency in the United States.
Long before the FBI existed, the first "Special Agents" were actually postal inspectors. Their division had been created back in the 1700s when Benjamin Franklin was appointed the first U.S. Postmaster General.
The title "Special Agent" was later changed to "Inspector," but their authority had never diminished.
Jack didn't personally know any postal inspectors. But he did know someone who did.
An hour later, just as Reacher's stomach started grumbling, Danny Reagan arrived with an older man sporting a thick white beard.
The old inspector wasted no time punching in the access code and unlocking the door. Reacher walked inside, key in hand, and started testing it on various boxes.
"Normally, I'd require a warrant," the old man grumbled.
"One bottle of Jack Daniel's Black Label No. 7, Uncle Ed. Straight from my dad's stash," Danny grinned, slinging an arm over the inspector's shoulder.
"Try the larger boxes on the bottom row," Jack suggested. "Franz was a PI—he probably got a lot of mail."
With a soft click, Reacher unlocked the largest compartment on the far left. He pulled the door open and retrieved a thick stack of envelopes.
______
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