The Killing House

9

Fletcher backed up and drove away, the car tyres slipping and skidding on the snow until they found purchase. Everywhere he looked he saw home windows bright with light. He caught more than one face pressed against the glass, examining the street for the source of the gunshots. They couldn’t see him; he was hidden behind the Audi’s tinted windows.

But they could see his car.

During his early years as a fugitive, Fletcher had invested his considerable savings in the stock market. Through careful management, he had amassed a small fortune, which had allowed him to purchase a number of safe houses under the names of various well-crafted identities and corporations. The closest home was in Sturgis, South Dakota — a small ranch house with a private garage holding a Honda Accord.

The townhouse in Chicago, however, had a custom-made Jaguar stored in the small garage. Armoured and bulletproof, the car contained other useful features that would be beneficial during the course of his investigation.

Fletcher cracked open the windows and listened to the cold night.

Two minutes passed with no sirens.

Ten minutes passed and he saw no police cruisers.

The city snowploughs, however, were out in full force, busy clearing the roads. Their numbers suggested a major snowstorm was about to descend upon central Colorado.

It was only when he reached the highway that he allowed himself to turn his attention inward to examine what had happened at the Herrera home.

Fletcher started at the beginning, seeing each frame with remarkable clarity, as though it had been filmed. He ran the movie forward and backward, sometimes pausing to study a particular frame.

He kept wondering if his actions — or lack thereof — had contributed to Theresa Herrera’s death.

It was clear the moment the petite woman cracked opened the door that something was wrong. The fringe of her short blonde hair was matted across her damp forehead. Her face was pale, her bloodshot eyes wide with terror. She had dark rings of sweat underneath the arms and collar of her long-sleeved grey T-shirt. I’ve got that rotten stomach flu that’s going around, she’d told him.

A logical explanation, and one he might have believed if she hadn’t told him the reason why she and her husband had decided to forgo Ali Karim’s investigative services at the last minute: Finances. We simply couldn’t afford Mr Karim’s fee.

Karim, Fletcher knew, hadn’t charged the Herrera family for his services. He didn’t charge anyone.

Karim, a former CIA operative, had left the Agency at a relatively young age. Instead of entering the lucrative private sector, he established his own security company in Midtown Manhattan. Having recently divorced, and with his ex-wife taking their only child, their son, Jason, back to live in her family home in London, Karim put his time and energy into his business.

In less than a decade, he had opened additional offices in several major US cities. Then, with the explosive growth of the Internet during the nineties, Karim’s careful and well-timed investments had allowed him to expand his business and purchase several private forensic companies in the United States and abroad. By the dawn of the twenty-first century, Ali Karim was the owner of a global security empire — and one of the nation’s richest men. Karim devoted his considerable wealth, talents and resources to providing pro bono investigative services for the victims of crime.

When Theresa Herrera said she couldn’t afford Karim’s fee, Fletcher thought the woman was trying to warn him — about what, he had no idea. He had drawn his weapon, wanting to be prepared, and he saw her relief before she looked sideways and held her gaze where the shooter was hiding, watching and listening. He was about to grab Theresa Herrera and take her to the safety of his car when the woman in the fur coat fired.

Still, he wondered if there was something he could have done to change the outcome. If he had acted immediately, instead of using the time to remove his sidearm, it was possible that… Useless, childish thinking. Theresa Herrera was dead.

Fletcher unbuttoned his shirt. The adrenalin had abated, leaving in its wake a growing pain in his chest and abdomen. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and undid the vest’s straps to relieve the pressure.

He gently pressed on his breastbone. Daggers of pain erupted from the left side of his chest; he had cracked at least two ribs.

While breathing was painful, he didn’t feel short of breath, dizzy, lethargic — all promising signs that he hadn’t suffered a flail chest, a life-threatening medical condition that occurred when part of the rib cage detached from the chest wall.

The next part would be difficult, but he had to do it.

Fletcher took in a slow, deep breath. Sparks of pain exploded through his brain and burned a bright white across his vision, but he fought his way through it. Having suffered such injuries in the past, he knew the importance of taking in the deepest breath possible in order to prevent pneumonia or a partial collapse of lung tissue known as atelectasis.

He took another deep breath and then repeated it again. Again. When he finished, he was flushed, drenched in sweat.

Fletcher took out his smartphone and dialled Karim’s private number. A small pause followed as the encryption software scrambled the call, and then Karim’s deep and smoky voice erupted on the other end of the line.

‘Well, that was bloody quick. I take it you found something good.’

Fletcher managed to speak clearly over the pain. ‘Theresa Herrera’s dead,’ he said, and walked Karim step by step through everything that had happened.

A long silence followed. In his mind’s eye Fletcher pictured Karim, a short, round man of Pakistani descent, seated behind the immense glass desk in his private office, leaning back in his chair and smoking one of his foul Italian cigarettes.

‘Do you need a doctor?’ Karim asked. ‘I can get you one, someone discreet.’

‘No. I know how to treat this.’

‘Do you always wear a bulletproof vest when visiting the home of a grieving family?’

‘My lifestyle demands that I live in a constant state of paranoia, Ali. I have to be prepared for any eventuality.’

‘What about the husband?’

‘I saw no signs of him, but I found two cars in the garage.’

‘And the woman who shot you?’

‘Just a glimpse,’ Fletcher said. ‘She’s Caucasian, late fifties to early sixties. Black hair pulled back across the scalp. I suspect she’s had a facelift.’

‘Would you recognize her if you saw her again?’

Fletcher, recalling the woman’s distinctive-looking smile, said, ‘Absolutely.’

On the other end of the line Fletcher heard the flick of a lighter. A pause as Karim drew on the cigarette, and then he said, ‘The police will go through Theresa Herrera’s phone records and see my number. Forgive me for asking this, but did you leave behind any evidence?’

‘No. I wore gloves the entire time.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Still, you need to do something about your car. Someone might have seen it.’

‘I plan on switching it when I reach Chicago.’

‘I hope you’re not planning on driving there right now. I was watching the Weather Channel in preparation for tomorrow morning’s flight. The storm has changed; Colorado is about to get slammed with at least two feet. Best to play it safe and wait it out. You can’t afford to get stuck, or in an accident.’

Karim was right. Visibility was poor; Fletcher could barely see the highway.

‘It goes without saying that I’d like your assistance on this, Malcolm. That being said, I’ve put you in an odd and uncomfortable situation. If you need to disappear, I understand.’

Fletcher thought about the shell casing in the evidence bag and said, ‘I need a portable mass spectrometer — a new model, and preferably one manufactured in the UK.’ British companies were always on the cutting edge of forensics.

‘I’ll get you one,’ Karim said. ‘When will you be arriving in Chicago?’

‘Let’s meet Monday morning, at six.’

‘Six it is. Give me the address.’

Fletcher gave it to him.

‘If you’re going to be late, please call me,’ Karim said. ‘A dark-skinned man like myself loitering on the streets and holding a big, bulky suitcase — well, we don’t need anyone conducting racial-profiling and summoning the police about a possible terror threat, now do we?’

‘Paulson won’t be driving you?’ Boyd Paulson was Karim’s personal bodyguard. Born in Dublin, raised in London, the pugnacious former boxer had been attached to Karim since the beginning of time — and rarely let Karim out of his sight, as Karim had been the target of many death threats over the years.

‘Boyd is on holiday,’ Karim said. ‘If you need anything else — anything at all — call me.’

‘I will.’

‘Malcolm… There’s nothing you could have done to save her.’

‘I’ll see you Monday,’ Fletcher said, and hung up.