A notebook with phone numbers and names. He flipped through it. Most of the names were first names only, or nicknames. "Hank," "Shooter," "Big Mike." Militia contacts, probably. He handed it to Simmons.
"Bag this," Reacher said. "We'll need to run these names."
Simmons pulled an evidence bag from his jacket and sealed the notebook inside.
They moved to the living room. The couch had been gutted, foam and fabric spilling out like entrails. Reacher knelt and ran his hands along the frame, checking for anything taped underneath. Nothing. He checked the cushions themselves, feeling for hard objects sewn inside. Nothing.
The coffee table had been overturned. Reacher righted it and checked the underside. Clean.
He moved to the bookshelf. It had been swept clean, books and magazines scattered across the floor. Reacher picked through them. Mostly gun magazines, hunting catalogs, a few paperback thrillers. He opened each one, shaking them to see if anything fell out. Loose papers, receipts, photographs. Anything someone might use as a bookmark and forget.
He found a receipt from a gun show in Lansing dated three weeks ago. He bagged it.
A photograph of Koshak with two other men, all of them holding rifles, standing in front of a pickup truck. The truck had a Confederate flag decal on the rear window.
Reacher studied the faces. One of the men was older, maybe fifty, with a gray beard and a gut that hung over his belt. The other was younger, lean, with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck that Reacher couldn't make out in the photo.
"Recognize these guys?" Reacher asked, showing Simmons the photo.
Simmons looked at it and shook his head. "No. But I can run them through our database when we get back."
They moved to the bedroom. Koshak's body was still on the bed, the blood still tacky. Reacher ignored it and focused on the room. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and dumped. Clothes everywhere. He went through them piece by piece, checking pockets, feeling for anything sewn into linings. He found nothing of use.
The closet was small, barely big enough for a few hanging shirts and a shelf above. The shelf had been cleared, its contents—shoeboxes, a duffel bag, some folded blankets—thrown to the floor. Reacher picked up the shoeboxes one by one. Empty. He checked the duffel bag. Also empty, but it smelled like gun oil. He set it aside.
The bathroom was tiny, barely room for a toilet, sink, and shower stall. The medicine cabinet had been emptied, pill bottles and toiletries scattered in the sink. Reacher picked through them. Aspirin, antacids, a prescription bottle for antibiotics dated six months ago.
He checked the toilet tank. People hid things there sometimes, wrapped in plastic bags. The tank was empty except for the mechanism.
He checked under the sink. Cleaning supplies, a plunger, a rusted toolbox. He opened the toolbox. Screwdrivers, a hammer, a tape measure, some nails and screws. He closed it.
"Nothing," Simmons said from the doorway.
"Not yet," Reacher said.
He went back to the main room and stood in the center, turning slowly, looking at everything again.
Reacher thought about it. Koshak was low level. Not sophisticated. Not trained. If he wanted to hide something, where would he put it?
Somewhere he could get to it easily. Somewhere he wouldn't forget about it. Somewhere that felt safe but wasn't obvious.
Reacher's eyes went to the walls. They were paneled in cheap fake wood, the kind that came in sheets and was nailed up over insulation. The panels were intact. The killers hadn't pulled them down.
"Help me with this," Reacher said.
He went to the wall near the kitchen and pressed his palm against it, feeling for loose spots. The panels were nailed in place, but nails could be pulled. He moved along the wall, pressing and listening. Most of it was solid. But near the corner, one section felt different. Not loose, exactly, but not as tight as the others.
He pulled out his pocketknife and worked the blade into the seam between two panels. The nails had been removed and replaced, but not carefully. He pried the panel away from the wall. Behind it was insulation, pink fiberglass batting. He pulled it aside.
Nothing.
He moved to the next section. Same thing. Solid.
"What are you looking for?" Simmons asked.
"I'll know when I find it," Reacher said.
He worked his way around the room, checking each section of paneling. It took twenty minutes. Most of it was solid. But near the back corner, behind where the couch had been, he found another loose section. He pried it away.
