by Chris Mooney
She’d told her father that Tony had simply wanted out – seven-year itch and all that bullshit. The truth was Tony had dumped her for a younger model, a neighbour’s 22-year-old Swedish au pair who, incidentally, was three months pregnant with Tony’s baby. Dale Alcione would have had a field day with that little nugget of info.
A black car pulled into the lot – an Audi. It drove into the space next to the front office.
Probably another bunch of rich teenagers on their way back from the slopes, looking to spend their Friday night getting wasted or high, she thought. That or some older guy with a young chippie looking to pork their way through the storm. The excitement never ended around here.
The car door opened. Not a teenager or some fat old bald guy but a very tall and very big man dressed in a sharp overcoat. He was alone. When the car door had opened, the interior light clicked on; she saw no one else inside.
The man smiled as he approached the front counter. He had nice teeth and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He had beautiful blue eyes, intense and intelligent. Straightening, she pulled on the edges of her angora crewneck sweater, wanting to show off her figure.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you might have a room available.’
Definitely from somewhere overseas, she thought. ‘I’m sure I can accommodate you.’
‘Thank you so much.’
She told him the rate.
The man took a wad of cash from his pocket.
‘I need a licence and a credit card,’ she said. ‘Security deposits and all of that fun stuff.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve lost my licence.’ The man handed her a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Will this be enough to cover a security deposit?’
‘That’ll do it. Just give me a name and address.’
‘Ted Parker.’
‘Your accent,’ she said, typing in his information. ‘What is it, British or Australian?’
‘Australian, mostly, although I did spend a good number of my formative years in London.’
Something about the man triggered a comparison with one of her favorite actors, Russell Crowe. Maybe it was simply the Australian connection, because this guy certainly didn’t talk like Crowe did in his movies, and there was absolutely no physical resemblance. That wasn’t a bad thing. Ted Parker was certainly doing just fine in both the looks and the body departments, and he had that same animal magnetism Crowe gave off in his movies, that rugged sense of … well, manliness. The kind of testosterone-fuelled alpha male who always won in a bar fight and had his pick of women. A man, she suspected, who knew how to treat a woman right.
‘I’m pretty sure the bars and restaurants in the area are closing down for the night on account of the storm,’ she said. ‘If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich. Dale – that’s my father, he owns the place – he has some beers in the fridge. Bud cans, nothing fancy. I can bring some on by if you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I’ve already eaten this evening.’
Lisa gave him her best smile as she placed the key on the counter.
He paid in cash, thanked her again and left. Lisa watched him all the way to the car, wanting to know more about the mysterious and charismatic Ted Parker, why he made her feel safe.
Fletcher parked around the side of the dingy motel, where his car couldn’t be seen from the highway. In a few minutes’ time, it would be covered with snow, and no one would recognize it.
He popped the trunk, selected the rucksack and carried it with him to his room. The stale air smelled of bleach and industrial cleaners. He drew the curtains and turned on one of the bedside lamps. Dust swarmed in the cone of light. He suspected the room hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.
Not wanting to leave fingerprints, he switched his leather gloves for a pair of latex. He slid the desk chair across the room and wedged it underneath the doorknob to prevent intrusion. He doubted anyone would come inside, but he had to be careful. He hung up his coat and carried the rucksack to a bathroom decorated with salmon-coloured tiles.
Fletcher removed his contacts. Wearing them even for a few short hours irritated his eyes. He put in a few antihistamine drops and turned on the shower to allow the water to warm up. He undressed carefully, his ribs screaming in protest.
One of the rounds had managed to penetrate the vest’s Kevlar fabric, lodging itself in the cracked ceramic plating – not surprising, given the short distance from which it had been fired.
Slowly, Fletcher bent down and reached for the tactical knife strapped to his calf. He used it to remove the slug, then pitched the edges between his long fingers and held it up to the cheap fluorescent bulbs mounted above the mirror. It was a 9-mm round, but not one he recognized. His suspicions had been confirmed. He dropped the slug inside an evidence bag and continued to undress.
Standing under the hot water, he examined his chest. The tanned skin above his abdomen and left pectoral was red and swollen, tender to the touch. Encouraged by his steady but painful breathing, he doubted he had suffered any internal injuries. He’d been lucky. If he had been shot with a .44 Magnum or an armour-piercing round, he would have bled to death.
Within a few days’ time, the skin would bruise and then fade. The cracked ribs would take at least six weeks to heal. The pain could be managed with ibuprofen.
Dressed in fresh clothing, he removed a Ziploc bag from his rucksack, went outside and packed it with snow. He wedged the chair back underneath the doorknob, propped up the pillows and sat down on the stiff bed. He took out a pad of paper, and with the cold plastic bag placed over his cracked ribs he sketched the face of the woman who’d shot him.
Time passed. Fortunately, there was no need to return to Key West. Before leaving Florida, he had wiped down the rental home and packed his meagre possessions inside the pair of suitcases resting in the Audi’s trunk. He had called the woman he’d been seeing, an art-gallery dealer, and told her that he had business in France and didn’t believe he would be returning to the States in the foreseeable future. The woman expressed her disappointment. It was a shame, she said; she’d liked the time they had spent together and had hoped their relationship would develop into something more serious.
Fletcher had thought about her during the long drive to Colorado. He wished he could have got to know her better. Stayed a bit longer.
Even if Karim hadn’t called, it was time to move on. Fletcher hadn’t been caught because he had followed a certain set of rules, the first of which was not staying in one spot for too long. He always had to be on the move, ready to run at a moment’s notice. He didn’t get too friendly with the locals, he didn’t make friends, and he avoided emotional entanglements. He had to lead a compartmentalized life and stay forever vigilant; if he grew, he would make mistakes. No rational person would choose to live this way, but this was his life, and there was nothing he could do to change it. It was what it was.
Fletcher stopped sketching and examined the result. Satisfied, he put the pad and pen aside and then lay down. He stared at a cobweb on the ceiling, wishing he had a bottle of Château Latour to keep him company.
The wind battered the motel room’s rickety windows. Fletcher wondered if he would die this way – alone in a motel room of beige frieze carpet, seeing, as his last images, bad watercolour landscapes hung in cheap frames on mustard-coloured walls.
He closed his eyes and, as though he had entered a private screening room, again replayed what had happened at the Herrera home. His attention kept drifting back to Theresa Herrera, kept seeing the woman sprawled across the foyer floor, her limp arm hanging over the threshold.
Malcolm Fletcher did not indulge much in regret. Still, he wished he could have saved the woman’s life. Wished he had acted sooner.
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 pa
ges 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-à-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 Cafetière 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.’
12
‘I assumed you’d heard it on the news or read about it on the Internet,’ Karim said.
Fletcher shook his head. He had taken few breaks on his journey from Colorado to Chicago, and these had been spent processing the information he’d collected, forming possible theories about the Herrera family, the female shooter and what had been occurring inside the house before he showed up.
‘What happened?’
‘An explosion took down most of Theresa Herrera’s house,’ Karim said. ‘It happened before the police arrived. The shock wave shattered the windows of nearby homes, and the falling debris caused significant property damage. No casualties, thank God, just minor injuries from the exploding glass and the usual trauma one experiences in such things.’ Karim flicked his ash on the plate. ‘The Applewood police station is small, and since they’re ill-equipped to deal with something like this, they called on their brothers in blue in Denver for assistance. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, incidentally, has a field office in Denver, so they too were summoned.
