by Unknown
Hale remembers deeply believing in those words, in his faith. He doesn’t believe any more.
He reaches for his glass. It’s empty. He refills his glass with fresh ice. Susan’s old cookbooks sit on a shelf next to the stove. When she was alive, she always cooked. Now he has people who cook for him. Several times they have followed the recipes Susan had scrawled on index cards or marked off in her favourite cookbooks but the food never tastes the same.
On more than one occasion, he has tried to throw out the cookbooks. Each and every time he felt as though a part of him was being torn in half. He donated all of Susan’s clothing without a problem but he can’t part with the cookbooks. Dumping them – even giving them to a friend – it was like saying goodbye in pieces. I can only give you away in pieces. Hale thinks of all Emma’s things waiting to be packed up and wonders what items would tug at him, beg and plead not to be thrown away, to hang on to be remembered.
Glass in hand, Hale stumbles back to his office – he is intensely drunk – opens the door and sees Malcolm Fletcher sitting in a leather chair.
23
Jonathan Hale had met the man earlier this month. The meeting, at the Oak Room bar inside the beautiful Copley Fairmont Hotel, was arranged by Dr Karim.
It was difficult to sit still. His blood pounded against his ears, and every colour and sound inside seemed bright and loud – the murmured conversations of the business lunch crowd mixed with the clink of forks against china; the deep maroon of the table linens; the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows, reflecting off liquor bottles sitting on the shelves behind the bar with a mirrored wall.
Eyes watching the front door, Hale sipped his drink and replayed the previous day’s conversation with Dr Karim.
‘Mr Hale, I’ve talked about your daughter’s case with a consultant. This person is on his way to Boston. He’d like to speak with you privately.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘He’s very skilled at finding people who don’t want to be found. He’s had great success in these sorts of cases.’
‘Why won’t you tell me his name?’
‘It’s… complicated,’ Karim said. ‘I have known this man for thirty years. He’s been working exclusively with me for the past decade. He is, without a doubt, the best in his field. He found the men responsible for my son’s death.’
Hale was confused. During their initial conversation in which Karim outlined how his group worked on one case at a time until it was resolved, Karim had shared the painful loss of his oldest son Jason, an accidental victim in a gang shooting in the Bronx. New York police, Karim said, had never solved the case.
‘I thought you told me your son’s case was still active.’
‘That’s what the police believe,’ Karim said.
Hale grew still as the knowledge of what Karim was possibly suggesting sunk in.
‘Do we understand one another, Mr Hale?’
‘Yes.’ Hale’s mouth was dry, his skin tingling with an electric sensation. ‘Yes, we do.’
‘When you meet him you’re to answer all of his questions,’ Karim said. ‘If he agrees to work on your daughter’s case, you’re to do everything he asks. Whatever you do, don’t lie to him.’
A man wearing sunglasses and dressed in a sharp black wool topcoat over a black suit stepped up next to the table. The man was tall, well over six feet, with the kind of powerful build Hale associated with boxers. The man’s thick black hair was cut short, his pale skin looking bleached in the sunlight.
‘Dr Karim sent me,’ the man said. His voice, deep and rumbling, carried a slight Australian accent. The dark lenses hid his eyes.
Hale introduced himself. The man, wearing gloves, shook his hand but didn’t take them off as he slid into the opposite seat. He didn’t offer his name.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ Hale asked.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The man rested his forearms on the table and leaned closer. Hale smelled cigar smoke. ‘I’d like to talk to you about the religious statue found in your daughter’s pocket.’
‘What about it?’
‘Was it a statue of the Virgin Mary?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hale said. ‘The police refuse to tell me anything.’
‘Have you cleaned out your daughter’s apartment?’
‘No. Dr Karim told me to leave everything alone. He’s thinking of hiring investigators to come in and take a look at Emma’s things.’
‘What have you removed from her home?’
‘I haven’t… I can’t bring myself to remove anything.’
‘Don’t remove anything, don’t touch anything,’ the man said. ‘With your permission, I’d like to look through your daughter’s home.’
‘The building has a concierge. He’ll provide you with a key. I’ll call him.’
‘I want you to listen to me very carefully, Mr Hale. If we agree to work together, you’re not to tell the police about my involvement. For all practical purposes, I don’t exist. That condition is non-negotiable.’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Malcolm Fletcher.’
The man waited, as if expecting some sort of reaction.
‘And what do you do for a living, Mr Fletcher?’
‘I used to work for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit.’
‘And now you’re retired?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’m sure you have people who perform background checks before you hire an employee.’
‘It’s standard procedure.’
‘For your own safety, I insist you keep my name private. If you send my name bouncing through any of the computer databases, I’ll find out, and I’ll disappear. Dr Karim will swear under oath that he never mentioned my name. He’ll also stop working on your daughter’s case. Are you a man of your word, Mr Hale?’
‘I am.’
‘Make me a copy of your daughter’s keys and mail them to Dr Karim. I’ll be in touch with you shortly.’
‘Before you go, Mr Fletcher, I need to speak to you about something.’
Hale put down his glass and tried to look into the man’s eyes. All he could see were the dark lenses.
‘When you find the man who killed my daughter, I want to meet him. I want to talk to him alone before you deliver him to the police.’
‘Dr Karim told you about what happened to his son.’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Then you know I’m not going to involve the police.’
‘I want to speak to him.’
‘Have you ever killed a man, Mr Hale?’
‘No.’
‘Have you read Macbeth?’
‘That condition is non-negotiable.’
‘I don’t think you fully understand the implications of what you’re asking. You need to give the matter some serious thought. In the meantime, remember what I said about involving the authorities.’
Hale kept his word. He didn’t conduct a background check. What he knew about the man he had learned from the internet.
In 1984, Malcolm Fletcher, an FBI profiler, was suspected of assaulting three federal agents. One agent, Stephen Rousseau, was still on a feeding tube in a private hospital in New Orleans. The bodies of the two other agents were never recovered.
In 2003, the former profiler was placed on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Hale could not find a reason for the gap in time.
Now Malcolm Fletcher was inside his home office, sitting in one of the leather chairs.
The man had called this morning. Hale told him about the police; Fletcher stated he wanted to be present during the conversation. Not wanting to arouse any suspicion among the staff, Hale suggested he enter the house through the balcony doors leading to the office. The woods would provide excellent coverage.
Hale shut the office door. Fletcher had listened to the entire conversation from inside the coat closet.
‘I told them everything you told me to say.’
Fletcher n
odded.
‘They wouldn’t tell me about the statue,’ Hale said.
‘I know.’ Malcolm Fletcher stared at the fire. ‘Please have a seat. I want to talk to you about the man who killed your daughter.’
24
Jonathan Hale took the chair across from Fletcher. Everything the man wore was black – his suit and shirt, his shoes and socks. The colour was an odd choice for someone so pale.
‘Last night,’ Fletcher said, ‘while Miss McCormick was standing in the dark wondering why the lights went out, I was trying to ascertain the reason for her impromptu visit. I knew she would never tell me, so before I was forced to reveal myself to her, I took the liberty of planting a small listening device on top of the crown moulding above the closet door and another one inside the spare bedroom. Fortunately, I had the necessary surveillance gear inside my car, so I listened to Miss McCormick’s conversation with Detective Bryson. I know the reason for her sudden urgency to gain access to your daughter’s home.’
Fletcher turned his attention away from the fire. Hale could not look away from the man’s strange eyes. For some reason they made him think of the mystery stories he read when he was a boy – Hardy Boys stuff where they hunted for buried treasure hidden in dank old castles full of cobwebs and skeletons, rooms full of terrible secrets.
But there was something calming behind the man’s eyes. Hale felt his heartbeat slow.
‘When Emma disappeared,’ Fletcher said, ‘the operating theory shared by both the Boston police and the FBI was that she had been kidnapped.’
‘That’s right.’
‘The photograph Detective Bryson showed you to identify your daughter, do you remember it?’
‘Yes.’ Hale could see the photograph clearly in his mind’s eye. He remembered wanting to reach through it and brush away the soot and sand from her face, pick out the twigs tangled in her wet hair.
‘In the picture, Emma is wearing a platinum chain with a locket,’ Fletcher said.
‘I gave it to her for Christmas.’ Hale reached inside his pocket and squeezed the locket between his fingers.
‘The locket and chain were inside your daughter’s home after she was abducted,’ Fletcher said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The man who killed your daughter came back for the necklace. The police believe he’s on one of the security tapes – that’s why they asked for access to your Newton office building. They want to review the backlog of tapes. They’re now in my possession.’
‘You’re the one who broke into the office?’
‘Yes. I want the police to believe I’m acting independently.’
Malcolm Fletcher handed him a cell phone. ‘Keep this with you at all times. The phone is disposable, so there’s no way the police can trace the call. If you have any questions, dial the number programmed into the phone’s memory. There’s only one. Do you know Judith Chen?’
‘The missing college student from Suffolk,’ Hale said.
‘Her body was found yesterday. The police discovered a religious statue sewn in her pocket – a statue of the Virgin Mary. The same statue was found with Emma. I heard Miss McCormick talk about it last night. It reminded me of something, so I decided to investigate. I’ve come across some information that could be problematic for the Boston police.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘I’d rather discuss it with you later, after I’ve had a chance to review the security tapes. I want to see if my theory is, in fact, correct.’
‘Marsh told me the police took last night’s tapes. I’m sure you’re on them.’
‘I have no doubt.’
‘Then it’s only a matter of time before they find out who you are.’
‘Yes, I realize that,’ Fletcher said, standing. ‘I’m going to create a diversion.’
‘With what?’
‘The truth,’ Fletcher said.
Hale’s Newton office building was conveniently located off the Mass Pike. The parking lot, cleared of snow, contained a single patrol car. The front door, made of glass, was shattered. Darby saw a brick lying on the lobby floor.
The place was trashed. Computer monitors were smashed against the floor, desk drawers overturned, contents spilled everywhere. Plants had been thrown against the white walls, some of which were spray-painted with bright neon swastikas and the phrases ‘Jews Go Home’ and ‘White Power’.
The patrolman, short with thick shoulders and a doughy face, stifled a yawn. ‘Assholes came in here and, as you can see, tossed the place to shit,’ he told Bryson. ‘The little bastards were pretty smart. They cut the wires for the alarm.’
‘Why do you think kids did this?’
‘Every time we get one of these hate-crime things, teenagers are always behind it. Probably one of those Aryan Brotherhood groups from Southie. They came here last year, broke into a synagogue and spray-painted the same lovely phrases all over the walls. It’s an initiation thing.’
‘And now they’re ransacking office buildings?’
‘Hey, I’m just throwing out ideas. You’re the detective, so why I don’t let you go and detect?’
‘Who called it in?’
‘One of the plough guys,’ the patrolman said. ‘The two of ’em got here this morning at around nine. When they made their way around to the front, they saw the door, took a quick peek inside, called it in and here we are.’
Bryson nodded, looking at a security camera mounted against the ceiling.
‘You can forget that,’ the patrolman said. ‘The tapes were removed from the recorders.’
‘Show me.’
The door to the security room had been pried open. Given the marks, Darby suspected something like a crowbar was used.
Like the lobby, the small room had been ransacked – recorders, computer monitors and cheaply made pressboard bookcases were smashed against the floor covered in hundreds of DVDs stored inside clear jewel cases. Some of the DVDs were smashed into pieces. Darby noticed pieces of equipment that transferred VHS tape to DVD.
Bryson picked up one of the cases. It was neatly labelled with the building’s name, month and year of the recording.
‘How much you want to bet the recording we need is missing?’ Bryson asked.
‘That’s a sucker’s bet,’ Darby said. ‘Still, we should get people here to catalogue the DVDs and see what’s missing.’
‘I’ll make the call. We’re going to have to process this. I’ll call Ops, get some people here.’
‘I’m going to get back to the lab. I’d also like to look at Chen’s place.’
‘She’s renting in Natick. They have a key. I’ll let them know you’ll be calling.’
‘I’d like to view last night’s security tape.’
‘I already made you a copy. I put it in the overnight drop-off.’ Bryson sighed as he tossed the DVD case onto the floor. ‘I’ll have patrol drive you into town.’
25
The lab’s overnight drop-off box contained only one item: a sealed padded mailer. Darby saw her name written across the front. She opened the mailer on her way to the conference room.
The VHS security tape showed, in grainy colour, Emma Hale’s parking garage. Sitting on the edge of the table, Darby watched a man with short black hair, pale skin and a black wool coat walk quickly across the garage to the delivery elevator. He pressed the button and waited, his back facing the camera. The man’s hair colour and clothing matched the intruder she had met last night – Malcolm Fletcher.
When the elevator doors opened, Fletcher stepped inside and moved to the right, out of the camera’s view. The doors shut.
If Fletcher was working for Hale, he wouldn’t have to sneak inside the building.
Darby rewound the tape and watched it again.
What were you doing inside the penthouse? What were you looking for?
She watched the tape three more times and, failing to find anything useful, left the conference room.
Coop and Keith Woodbu
ry were working inside a small evidence room. Pieces of Emma Hale’s jewellery sat inside a clear fuming cabinet slowly filling with a cyanoacrylate vapour. Off-white latent fingerprints appeared on the jewellery.
‘How’s the humidity level?’ Coop asked.
Woodbury, tall and sleek, with a shaved head and a runner’s build, examined the gauge. ‘It looks good,’ he said, his voice, as always soft and pleasant. He saw Darby, said hello and then turned his attention back to the gauge.
Coop put down his clipboard. ‘The AFIS results came back – no good news, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘The partial thumb we found on the jewellery drawer’s metal handle not only failed to find a corresponding match, it couldn’t even find a probable match. We’ll need a better-quality print.’
‘Any luck with the jewellery?’
‘We’ve only done one tray. So far, all the prints belong to Emma Hale. It’s going to take a few days to get through this.’
Darby nodded. Fuming with cyanoacrylate, the main chemical in superglue, yielded great latent prints but the process was slow. Then there was the additional step of dusting the prints to preserve them so they could be lifted.
‘How did the meeting with the father go?’ Coop asked.
Darby hopped up on the back counter and filled them in on her talk with Hale and the subsequent burglary.
‘Nice timing,’ Coop said. ‘You think Fletcher knows about the missing necklace?’
‘The only way he could know about it is if he had access to our evidence file,’ Darby said. ‘Hale doesn’t have a copy.’
‘So what the hell was Fletcher doing there?’
‘I have no idea. I want to talk about the Virgin Mary statue.’
‘No prints.’
‘I know,’ Darby said. ‘Either our man wiped it clean before he placed it in the pocket or he was wearing gloves. But wearing gloves while holding a sewing needle would be tricky, don’t you think?’
‘Depends on the type of gloves he was wearing. If they were ski gloves or ones made of thick leather then, yeah, it would be hard to hold a sewing needle and thread the pocket. But if he was wearing latex…’ Coop shrugged.
