The Killing House

by Chris Mooney

  ‘Where’s the driver now?’

  ‘An agent escorted her into the elevator.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Five, maybe eight minutes. I want to go take a look at the SUV.’

  ‘You’re familiar with the term CYA?’

  Wolfe nodded. Cover Your Ass was rule numero uno of every federal investigation.

  ‘Let me call upstairs,’ Ratner said, reaching for his radio, ‘see what they want us to do.’

  71

  M stood by the elevator, alongside the agent who had accompanied her upstairs. Alexander Borgia had excused himself to answer a phone call. She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but his gaze was locked on her.

  The first part of the plan had worked out perfectly. Entering the garage at this late hour, she had found only one agent inside. Now he was standing next to her on the fourth floor and no one was inside the garage, not as yet. Fletcher was no doubt already underneath the Jaguar. No one could see or hear him. He had told her about the EMP device that would scramble the cameras.

  Alexander Borgia may very well be inside your father’s home, Fletcher had told her. If he is, he’ll want to question you. You’re to fight back verbally – act upset and put out at being detained when you’re in a rush to get a list of Karim’s medications faxed to the hospital. I doubt they’ll waste time trying to track down the doctor by phone to see if such a request was made.

  This afternoon, M had prepared for the possibility that Borgia or another federal agent would try to contact Karim’s physician, Dr Segal, who was, in fact, at the Cape May Hospital in New Jersey. Karim’s bodyguard, Bar Lev, had explained the situation to the doctor. Segal had agreed to cooperate to keep Karim safe.

  Karim is a powerful man, with a cadre of lawyers at his disposal, Fletcher had told her. They’ll be fearful of a wrongful-death lawsuit and, most likely, allow you to collect Karim’s medications under the supervision of an agent. The important thing is to give me enough time to secure myself inside the Jaguar’s hidden compartment. It should take no more than ten minutes. I’ll contact you once I’m inside.

  Borgia hung up and approached her. He didn’t dress in the usual drab colours she associated with federal agents. He wore a pinstriped grey suit with a pale lavender tie and good shoes. Gold cufflinks. The suit, along with his grey hair and the stiff way he walked, gave him the appearance of a private Swiss banker – someone who dealt exclusively with rich clients because he could be trusted to keep their secrets. She saw smudges of TV makeup on his starched collar.

  ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss White.’ He glanced at her hearing aid. ‘Am I speaking loud enough for you to hear me?’

  ‘You are. Now may I go to collect Mr Karim’s medication?’

  ‘I have someone doing that.’

  ‘I need to do it. Mr Karim is a bit of a slob. This person you assigned won’t know where they all are.’

  ‘I think we’ll manage just fine.’ Borgia pressed the elevator button.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘We’re going downstairs,’ Borgia said. The doors chimed opened and he motioned with a hand for her to enter. ‘Mr Ortega, you can remain here. I’ll contact you when I’m done.’

  Fletcher hadn’t contacted her yet; she needed to stall Borgia.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said. ‘Privately.’

  ‘You can tell me downstairs.’ When she didn’t move, Borgia smiled politely, grabbed her forearm and escorted her into the elevator.

  72

  Fletcher, lying on his back in the tight space underneath the Jag, had just unlocked the levers for the false bottom when he heard M’s conversation with Borgia.

  There’s something I need to tell you, M had told Borgia. Privately.

  What was she doing? Fletcher had discussed this with her earlier in the day. Under no circumstances was she to be alone, anywhere, with Borgia – or any other federal agent, given what had happened to Karim.

  They were coming down in the elevator. Over his earpiece he heard Borgia say: ‘Strangest thing happened when you pulled into the garage. The surveillance cameras? They suddenly stopped working. Nothing but snow on the screens, from what the technical engineers told me.’

  Fletcher grabbed the handles disguised as pipes and pulled down. Now he slid the door across him, revealing the false bottom.

  ‘Any idea what may be causing it?’ Borgia asked M.

  ‘I’m a secretary, Mr Borgia, not a bloody engineer. I need to get Mr Karim’s med –’

  ‘I understand Karim’s personal physician is in New Jersey.’

  Fletcher picked up his tactical belt and tossed it inside.

  ‘Yes,’ M said. ‘Dr Segal.’

  ‘Dr Segal doesn’t know Karim’s medications?’ Borgia asked.

  Fletcher grabbed the fibre-optic camera and tossed it inside.

  M said, ‘I was told he couldn’t access them from the hospital’s computer system.’

  ‘Someone from his office couldn’t fax or email Karim’s file to the hospital?’

  ‘Dr Segal’s office is closed. Do you know what time of the morning it is?’

  Fletcher had grabbed the interior handles; he lifted himself into a sitting position, the undercarriage’s pipes and metal edges rubbing against his chest, ripping his shirt.

  Borgia said, ‘He couldn’t call someone from his office, ask them to –’

  ‘I was asked, since I live near by,’ M said.

  ‘The doctor called you?’

  ‘No. Bar Lev did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Karim’s personal bodyguard,’ M said.

  Fletcher threaded his way inside the cramped compartment, his head, elbows, knees and feet bumping against the walls, creating noise.

  Borgia said, ‘Why does your employer have a bodyguard posted at his bedside?’

  ‘I suggest you direct these questions to Bar Lev and Karim’s doctor. I’m just Mr Karim’s assistant.’

  Fletcher, wedged inside the hidden compartment’s cramped space, was about to slide the false bottom’s door shut when he remembered his smartphone. He’d left it on the floor. He couldn’t see it, then remembered he had left it lying next to his head.

  Quickly he snaked the upper half of his body out, his fingers splayed across the floor as though he were about to perform a push-up. The phone sat near the rear wheel. Slowly he crawled his way to it.

  A door slammed open, shoes clicking their way across the garage.

  ‘Bobby,’ a woman’s voice called out, ‘take cameras three and four.’

  ‘It’s not the damn cameras, it’s the SUV,’ Bobby replied. ‘You said so yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the boys upstairs want someone else to take a look at it. We’re ordered to examine the cameras.’

  Fletcher, his weight balanced on his left hand, grabbed the phone. He placed it inside his mouth and, biting down, crawled backwards slowly and carefully.

  A pair of shoes whisked past the Jaguar’s back bumper.

  The elevator doors chimed open.

  The man named Bobby said, ‘You need help with the ladder?’

  The woman answered from the other end of the garage: ‘I’m a big girl. I think I can manage.’

  Fletcher’s arms trembled slightly as he inched his way back, sweat from the exertion and increased adrenalin dripping from his face and leaving small puddles on the floor. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of M’s boots and Borgia’s polished black loafers heading down the steps.

  Borgia said, ‘Would you mind if I take a look at your vehicle?’

  ‘As you Americans say, knock yourself out,’ M said.

  ‘So I have your permission to examine it?’

  ‘You have my permission. I have nothing to hide, Mr Borgia.’

  ‘You said you wanted to tell me something.’

  ‘I do. But I prefer to have the conversation privately.’

  Borgia didn’t reply, possi
bly mulling over the question.

  With much effort and concentration, Fletcher had managed to hoist himself back inside the compartment. He couldn’t move any further without making noise. He hovered over the opening, muscles straining, sweat pouring freely down his face and splashing against the floor.

  A cell trilled inside the garage and then stopped as Borgia said, ‘Go ahead.’

  Fletcher needed to create a diversion. He grabbed the phone from his mouth.

  Borgia said, ‘Good news, Miss White. The list of Karim’s medications has been faxed to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you,’ M replied. ‘I still want a copy. I was told to personally hand-deliver it to the hospital.’

  ‘I had a copy emailed to my phone. We can print it out at the hospital. I’ll drive you.’

  ‘I think I can manage, Mr Borgia.’

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Karim’s physician, so we might as well go together. We can speak along the way, privately, like you asked.’

  No, Fletcher thought. Don’t go with him.

  M’s voice inside the garage: ‘Where are you parked, Mr Borgia?’

  ‘I’ll have a car meet us – where are you going?’

  Fletcher didn’t hear M’s reply; the garage door was rising, the sound loud enough for him to mask his movements.

  Clever girl, he thought, and grabbed the door, gently slid it forward and quietly locked it into place. Now he was safely hidden inside the cramped, dark chamber.

  His thoughts turned to M. Her safety.

  She’s quite capable of handling herself, Karim had said.

  Phone in hand, Fletcher counted off time in his head. He would wait twenty minutes – that should give M enough distance from the house. Then he would use the phone and turn up the EMP unit’s frequency to its maximum setting and escape.

  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 o
ffice 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.

  74

  M placed her BlackBerry in Borgia’s line of vision. The video played, Borgia’s confident voice echoing over the phone’s speakers: ‘I’m going to go check your gun permit. When I return, Mr Karim, if you don’t tell me where you’ve hidden Fletcher, I’ll have tear gas launched inside every room of this house.’