The Killing House

73

Borgia escorted M back into the house. He stopped inside the foyer.

‘Please turn and face the wall,’ Borgia said. ‘Spread your arms and your legs.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘I need to check you for weapons.’

M recalled Fletcher’s warning: Someone may frisk you. I know you detest being touched, but if you don’t cage your anger, you’ll fail Karim.

Failing Karim was unacceptable; she wouldn’t allow it. She turned and faced the wall.

His hands were rough. She felt as though they were made of fire, leaving burns in the places he touched.

Borgia had arranged for a car to be brought around the back of the house, where there were fewer reporters. Her skin was throbbing as she slid into the passenger’s seat of a black Mercury Grand Marquis. The grey interior smelled of fast-food and cigarettes. M cracked open her window to let in some fresh air.

Manhattan, even at this hour, was still a hive of activity. The noise and bright lights did not bother her, as she had acclimatized herself to this environment over the course of many, many years of living here.

‘We’re all alone now,’ Borgia said. He was leaning back in his seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

She didn’t want to do it here, in the city, with witnesses. She needed to wait until she reached the highway. She needed to draw it out. She needed to act troubled. Concerned and upset.

M had never cried (at least she couldn’t remember having ever done so), and when she’d learned what had happened to Boyd Paulson, a hollow space had formed inside her chest. But she hadn’t cried. With the exception of anger, she was denied most emotions.

Neurotypicals had a range of facial expressions and gestures to show when they were troubled. She had her mental flashcards ready and consulted them now.

M sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped and she swallowed.

Borgia concentrated on driving. He kept watching her from the corner of his eye.

Minutes passed.

‘Whatever you tell me, I’ll keep in confidence,’ he said.

M didn’t speak. Drew out the silence.

‘It has to do with Mr Karim,’ she said.

Borgia nodded, waited.

Again she didn’t speak. Borgia kept driving, kept shifting in his seat.

‘This is… difficult,’ M said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Then she leaned forward, arms wrapped around her midsection as though experiencing stomach pain, and said, ‘Mr Karim has been very good to me.’

‘That seems to be the general consensus from the employees I’ve spoken to so far. Your boss seems to engender a great deal of loyalty.’

‘He’s been very kind to me. Very generous.’

‘I’m sure he is. But, the fact of the matter is, your boss has been aiding and abetting a known fugitive. You know the man I’m referring to.’

M nodded, eyes wide as she stared down at the dirty car mat littered with an empty Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. Borgia was watching her closely.

‘Malcolm Fletcher,’ she said. ‘I thought he was an honest man.’

‘Fletcher?’

She looked up sharply. ‘No, not Fletcher. Karim. I thought he was a man of integrity.’ Her hatred for Borgia made the lying much easier.

‘How many times have you seen Fletcher with Karim?’

‘Just the one time, aboard Mr Karim’s plane. I recently accompanied Mr Karim to Chicago.’

Borgia nodded, urging her along. M leaned back in her seat and stared out of her window, reminding herself to draw out her words, as if speaking them were the cause of her great discomfort.

‘Mr Karim left after we touched down,’ she said. ‘I stayed on board to catch up on some paperwork. When he returned, he’d brought along a passenger — a man he introduced as Robert Pepin.’

‘And then you knew.’

‘No, not then. Robert Pepin had short grey hair, and he was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t realize he was Malcolm Fletcher until this afternoon. I saw Fletcher’s picture on the front pages of all the newspapers. On the telly. And then I thought back to Robert Pepin because his face… his face was very, very similar to Fletcher’s.’

‘Why didn’t you call the hotline?’

M had anticipated the question. ‘I’ve worked as Mr Karim’s personal assistant for the better part of my adult life,’ she said. ‘I believed he was a man of impeccable integrity. My home phone and my cell haven’t stopped ringing over the past forty-eight hours, different people calling to tell me that Karim was stabbed. That he was rushed to a New Jersey hospital and clinging to life. That he’s in a coma and is most likely going to die.’

‘Is that what the doctors told you?’

‘And the nurses. I was in a state of shock — I still am, I think.’

‘Understandable,’ Borgia said.

‘Then I wake today only to find out that Malcolm Fletcher, a man who suspiciously looks like the man who boarded Karim’s plane — the papers and the news are saying that this man attacked Karim, and I’ve been trying to figure out why.’

She waited for Borgia to speak.

When he didn’t, she said, ‘Is it true? That Fletcher tried to kill Karim?’

‘It is, but I’m afraid I can’t get into specifics,’ Borgia said. ‘You also saw Pepin — Fletcher — inside Karim’s house.’

M found the flashcard for confusion. She tilted her head to the side, her gaze narrowing when she said: ‘No. I’ve never once seen him inside the house.’

‘You were there when Fletcher arrived in the Jaguar.’

‘The one parked in the garage?’

Borgia nodded. ‘Fletcher was inside the house for over an hour.’

‘I didn’t see him.’

‘You went to his house that morning. At 6.43 a.m.’

‘Mr Karim had some paperwork to give me.’

‘And you didn’t see Fletcher.’

‘No. I took the paperwork and left.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘To do errands for Mr Karim.’

‘Such as?’

‘Dry cleaning, post office and what have you.’

‘What about the basement?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The in-ground apartment,’ Borgia said. ‘Have you ever stayed there?’

‘No.’

‘It’s the only locked place inside the house — secured by a steel door that can be only accessed by a code. Odd, don’t you think?’

‘I’m the man’s assistant, not his bloody wife.’ M had purposely expressed her anger, wanting to keep Borgia off guard. She let it linger for a moment, then said: ‘I apologize for my tone. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m worried about Mr Karim, and I’m confused, as you can imagine.’

‘Have you heard him speaking about a man named Nathan Santiago?’

She pretended to think about it. She had seen the video of the room, all that blood. Santiago had left behind his DNA and fingerprints; Borgia had found a match in the federal databases.

‘The name doesn’t sound familiar,’ she said. ‘Who is he?’

‘It’s not important. Is this what you wanted to tell me? That you saw Fletcher on board Karim’s plane?’

‘There’s one other thing,’ she said, sliding the BlackBerry from her jacket pocket. ‘When Mr Karim left for New Jersey, he asked me to do him a… favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’

M didn’t answer. She read his face and found the corresponding flashcard: discomfort.

They were travelling along the New Jersey Turnpike now, the highway dotted with many lights but only a few cars.

‘If you know something, Miss White — if you’re in possession of information that can benefit my investigation, I would encourage you to tell me now before this escalates. I would hate to see you go down with your boss.’

‘Pull over. I have to show you something.’

‘Show me now.’

‘You can’t watch and drive at the same time.’

‘Watch what?’

‘This,’ M said, and tapped a finger on the screen to play the video.