The Killing House

11

Fletcher woke early on Saturday, looked out the window and found the snowstorm was still raging. There was no way he could drive today. He paid for a second night and spent the morning inside his motel room working on his netbook. He wrote several pages of notes, ate the protein bars he kept in his rucksack, and used the room’s coffee-maker and complimentary packs of coffee.

Under normal driving conditions, it would take him sixteen hours to reach Chicago. But he had to factor in the storm. That would add extra time. He was on the road by early Sunday morning.

He reached Chicago on Monday morning, in the hour before dawn.

While he enjoyed most big cities — their large and fluid populations allowed him to wander without arousing suspicion — he was particularly fond of Chicago, drawn to its cosmopolitan history, its noted architecture and varied nightlife. He especially enjoyed watching the Cubs play at Wrigley Field.

Fletcher had purchased the townhouse for a song when the real-estate bubble burst during the financial crisis of 2007, which was, at least according to some prominent economists, still ongoing. Located in the historic Prairie Avenue District and nestled between multimillion-dollar mansions, the spacious, four-level brick home had been upgraded with modern amenities by the previous owner, who had also invested a considerable amount of money into custom lighting, two marble baths and a dual-zone HVAC system. Two large decks offered sweeping views of the area that had formed the city’s cultural and social fabric until the late 1800s.

The gourmet food shops near his townhouse were closed at this hour, as were the chain grocery stores. He would have to make do with the meagre and subpar offerings available at convenience stores. He made two stops and then continued to his destination.

Fletcher turned on to the private, tree-lined parkway. With the Jaguar taking up most of the garage’s small space, he had to edge his way carefully inside. He exited the Audi, retrieved the house and car keys from their hidden location, and left the garage through the side door. It was the middle of February; an unforgiving, bitterly cold Chicago wind greeted him as he made his way across the narrow flagstone walkway crusted with a film of ice and hard snow.

He knew no one had accessed the townhouse while he’d been away. He had installed a sophisticated, hidden security system in each of his homes; an email and text message would alert him of any intrusion. The townhouse had remained vacant and quiet. He was safe.

Fletcher entered through the patio-deck door and stepped into a well-designed and airy kitchen of beige walls and white crown moulding, stainless-steel appliances and rich cherry hardwood floors and units. Several paintings adorned the walls, the only decorations inside the house.

He drew back the curtains and opened the windows to let out the stale air. Stiff and sore from fighting crosswinds during the long drive, he headed upstairs to relax with a long shower.

Now he needed to change his appearance.

Fletcher shaved off his beard and then, using a pair of clippers, cut his hair short to conform to the shape of his head. He opened a cupboard door and surveyed the various salon-quality hair dyes he always kept on hand. He decided to go grey. Half an hour later, the process was complete.

He examined his new appearance in the mirror. He thought he looked like a retired Marine, but one who was still physically capable of battle.

The passports and accompanying documentation he needed were stored in a floor safe inside the master bedroom’s walk-in closet. He found the one for Robert Pepin and noted the man’s green eyes before slipping the passport, driver’s licence and credit cards into the pocket of a pair of pinstriped light grey trousers. He selected a white shirt. Like all of his clothes, it had been custom-made to accommodate his 50-inch chest, large neck and long arms.

Fletcher rolled up the shirt cuffs, put on a dark navy-blue vest and retired to the corner leather armchair to meditate. Twenty minutes later, he blinked awake. Rested, his head clear, he retrieved the notes he had made inside his motel room. He transferred the information to three sheets of paper, tucked them inside a manila folder and headed back downstairs to the kitchen.

The doorbell rang promptly at 6 a.m. Fletcher opened the front door and saw Karim. The man wore a beat-up driving cap that matched the rest of his bargain-basement attire — a threadbare flannel shirt, wrinkled chinos and scuffed burgundy loafers that needed to be resoled.

‘You didn’t have to dress up on my behalf,’ Karim said.

‘It’s called blending in, Ali. If I dressed like you, I’d draw attention from the neighbours.’

Karim chuckled as he stepped inside the wide marble foyer. Gripped in his hands were a bulky plastic case and a brown shopping bag. He dropped the case on the floor and with a grim smile handed the shopping bag to Fletcher.

Inside was a new bulletproof vest.

‘It’s a Modular Tactical Vest — the same one used by the Marines,’ Karim said, taking off his cap. His hair, as thick as porcupine needles, was still black, but his grey sideburns had turned white. ‘Modular PALS webbing, integrated side SAPI pouches and a quick-release system to remove it in case of an emergency. There are also integrated channels for communications wiring.’

‘Completely unnecessary, but thank you.’

‘It’s the least I can do, since this latest errand almost got you killed.’

Fletcher hung Karim’s coat and hat in the foyer closet, and then motioned to the hall leading to the kitchen.

Karim was believed to be somewhere in his early sixties, but during the three decades Fletcher had known him the man moved like someone who seemed a moment away from collapsing. He shuffled into the kitchen and groaned as he sat in one of the high-backed chairs arranged around the centre island.

‘I believe this is the first time I’ve ever set foot inside one of your pieds-a-terre,’ Karim said. ‘Do you spend a lot of time here?’

‘When I can.’ Fletcher, standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island, picked up the Cafetiere and poured coffee into two white mugs.

‘That oil painting,’ Karim said, pointing to the far wall inside the dining room. ‘Why does it look familiar?’

‘It’s a poor imitation of Monet’s Waterlillies at Giverny. ’

‘So why did you buy it?’

‘I didn’t. I painted it.’ Fletcher slid a plate across the black-speckled marble.

‘What’s this?’

‘Breakfast,’ Fletcher said. ‘More specifically, an omelette.’

Karim prodded it with a fork. ‘Why would you put lettuce in an omelette?’

‘It’s spinach.’

‘Same thing.’ Karim sighed and took a bite. ‘These eggs have no bloody taste.’

‘I made yours with egg whites.’

‘And here I was, thinking we were friends.’

‘The last time we spoke, you were enraged that your physician ordered you to change your diet and lose weight in order to decrease your soaring cholesterol levels.’ He glanced at Karim’s considerable paunch and added, ‘Either you’re carrying triplets, which I highly doubt, or nothing has changed.’

Karim picked up his coffee mug. ‘Cream?’

‘No cream, no sugar. It’s coffee, Ali. Not candy.’

‘You’ll make some lucky man a wonderful wife, Malcolm. You’ve got the nagging part down.’

Karim put down the cup and pushed aside the plate. Then, in an act of defiance, he lit a cigarette. He had the courtesy, however, to tilt his head back and blow the smoke up at the ceiling.

Fletcher opened a manila folder. ‘This is the woman who shot me,’ he said, and placed the sketch in front of Karim. ‘Do you recognize her?’

‘No. I would have remembered seeing a face like that. Is that really her smile?’

Fletcher nodded as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. ‘She grinned at me just before she started shooting,’ he said, and picked up his fork. ‘I take it you’ve spoken with the Colorado police.’

‘Rather, they spoke to me. They pulled Theresa’s phone records, saw my name and started dialling. I told them the truth — leaving your name out of it, of course.’

Karim flicked cigarette ash on to his plate. ‘I also spoke with my contact at the Applewood police station — the homicide detective who referred Theresa Herrera to me. No one saw your face, but two people reported seeing what they believed was a black car with tinted windows leaving the house. No licence plate, thank God.’

‘They wouldn’t have found anything.’ The address listed for the licence belonged to an apartment complex in Queens, New York.

Fletcher forked the last bite of his omelette. ‘What about our shooter?’

‘The woman in the fur coat? What about her?’

‘Did anyone see her?’

‘My contact didn’t mention anything, and he’s involved in the investigation. Then again, he’s not looking for her.’ Karim inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

‘What about the crime scene?’ Fletcher asked.

Karim peered at him through the smoke. ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘There is no crime scene, Malcolm. The house is gone.’