by Chris Mooney
CHRIS MOONEY
Falling
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
Falling
Coming soon – The Killing House
PENGUIN BOOKS
Falling
Chris Mooney is the internationally bestselling author of the Darby McCormick series and the stand-alone thriller Remembering Sarah, which was nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. Foreign rights in the Darby McCormick series have sold in over twenty territories. The Killing House is the first book featuring former profiler and now the nation’s Most Wanted fugitive, Malcolm Fletcher. Mooney lives in Boston, where he is at work on the next Darby McCormick thriller.
For more information, visit chrismooneybooks.com
and follow him on Twitter and Facebook.
By the same author
The Killing House
The Soul Collectors
The Dead Room
The Secret Friend
The Missing
Remembering Sarah
The airport was busy and hot. Marlena had to walk fast to keep up.
‘The transmitter is very small, less than half the size of a pencil eraser,’ Special Agent Owen Lee said. He had the slender build of a swimmer and talked with a slight lisp. ‘Your job is to plant the transmitter and walk away, and then you’re off enjoying a few days of R&R here in the Caymans, courtesy of the federal government.’
‘I still don’t understand why you specifically requested me,’ Marlena said. It was a valid question. She was a lab rat. Her expertise was in forensics, not surveillance.
‘May I be frank, Miss Sanchez?’
‘Please.’
‘I requested a young, confident woman, someone who could think on her feet. She needed to be Cuban, because this guy has a thing for Cuban women, and she needed to be exceptionally good looking. That’s when your name came up.’
‘Who’s the subject?’
‘Malcolm Fletcher.’
Marlena felt her legs wobble.
Malcolm Fletcher, one of the brightest minds the FBI had ever produced, was now one of the FBI’s Most Wanted – their number three man, wedged between Bin Laden and Boston Mafia kingpin James ‘Whitey’ Bulger. Fletcher currently had a two-million-dollar price tag on his head for the deaths of at least three federal agents.
And that was just what the federal government was offering. For years Marlena had heard rumours of a reward somewhere in the neighbourhood of five million dollars being offered by Jean Paul Rousseau. His son, Special Agent Stephen Rousseau, was part of a team sent to apprehend Fletcher. Stephen Rousseau was brain dead and still on a feeding tube.
‘Judging by your expression, I take it you know who he is.’
Marlena nodded, swallowed. ‘Is it true about his eyes?’
‘No pigment at all, totally black,’ Lee said. ‘I hear you’ve applied for the open position in Investigative Support.’
‘Yes.’ Marlena was hoping her lab experience would give her an edge over the other applicants competing for the coveted spot inside the Investigative Support Unit, the section of the FBI that deals exclusively with serial murder.
‘Capturing Fletcher and bringing him home to justice – this is the kind of case that makes careers. I hope you take directions well.’
‘You can count on me, sir.’
‘Good. Now let’s go buy you a dress. You’re going to a cocktail party.’
Lee dropped Marlena’s suitcase into the back of a battered Jeep. Sitting behind the wheel was a man who could have easily passed as a body-double for the Incredible Hulk. He wore a Yankees baseball cap and a T-shirt stretched so tight it looked moments away from splitting. His name was Barry Jacobs, one of the members of Lee’s surveillance team.
Malcolm Fletcher, Lee explained, was a man with very particular tastes. Everything had to be just right. Lee insisted she model each dress for him.
Each time, Marlena stood in front of him while Lee sat in a leather chair, telling her to turn round or to the side. Lee didn’t smile or say much, but she felt his gaze lingering too long over the exposed parts of her body. To get past her discomfit, Marlena focused on different points in the store – the rows of expensive shoes and the glass jewellery cases, the bright smile of the helpful French woman who kept bringing her different cocktail dresses. Here she came again, holding up a tasteful yet revealing black Gucci.
When Marlena stepped out wearing the Gucci, Lee’s expression brought to mind a recent rape case she had worked on – a handsome, Ivy-educated young man who drugged women with Rohypnol and videotaped what he did with them. The way the young man smiled as he unbuckled his belt was a lot like the way Lee was smiling right now.
While Lee paid for the dress and shoes, Marlena excused herself and went outside. Jacobs was leaning against the store wall, smoking a cigarette.
‘Can I bum one of those?’
Jacobs handed her a cigarette, then lit it for her. ‘You nervous about tonight?’ he asked.
‘Should I be?’
‘No. I’ll be at the yacht club, but you won’t see me. Lee and the other two agents on our team will be monitoring everything from the house about five or so miles down the road. That’s where we’ve been staying. Lee’s got you booked in a nice hotel.’
Having male and female agents sharing the same quarters was now against regulations; too many female agents had complained about lewd behaviour and sexual harassment. And after the creepy way Lee had looked her over Marlena felt relieved to be staying somewhere else.
‘Fletcher has never attacked anyone in public before. As long as you don’t go anywhere alone with him, you’ll be fine.’ Jacobs stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’ll go get the Jeep. Tell Lee it’s going to be a few minutes. I had to park in a garage.’
Two doors down, Marlena spotted a revolving cart holding rows of bright, colourful postcards of the Caymans. The postcards immediately brought to mind her mother. Ruthie Sanchez took the postcards family and friends had sent her over the years and taped them up on the wall inside her janitor’s closet. Someday, Marlena, I’m going to save up enough money and visit one of these places. Until then, she had her postcards with their scenic views.
Marlena picked out two postcards she thought her mother would have enjoyed. As she paid for them, along with a pack of cigarettes, she tried hard to push away the memory of her mother trapped on the fifty-sixth floor of the World Trade Center’s north tower, the fire and horrifying screams of the trapped and burning growing louder and closer as she stared at the broken window leading out to a blue sky thick with smoke, her only way out.
Lee insisted on conducting the briefing inside her hotel room. He handed her a folder and excused himself to talk with Jacobs in the hallway. Marlena read the file on the balcony overlooking a crowded beach.
The report was mostly about Fletcher’s movements over the past week. Twice he had been spotted talking to Jonathan Prince, a lawyer who owned a private bank on the island. According to an unnamed informant, Fletcher was supposed to meet Prince at tonight’s cocktail party to pick up his new identity, complete with passport and credit cards.
Here were four surveillance photos. The first one was of Jonathan Prince standing outside a pair of glass doors. He was an older man, with a shaved head and a nose shaped like a beak. The last three photographs were of Fletcher. In each, the former FBI profiler wore stylish clothing and different types of sunglasses. Marlena was wondering about the strange, black eyes hidden behind the dark lenses when Lee stepped on to the balcony and handed her a Prada handbag.
‘A Rolex watch and a pair of diamond stud earrings are in there to help you look the part,’ Lee said. ‘Take a look at the transmitters. They’re inside the small, zipped pouch.’
Mounted on a rectangular piece of pla
stic were six transmitters, each a different colour to match the target’s fabric.
Lee pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘The transmitter does two things: acts as a tracking unit, so we can follow Fletcher after you leave; and as a listening device, although its radius is extremely limited – that’s why Jacobs will be at the club. The top part of the transmitter is made with this Velcro-like substance, which attaches itself to any fabric. You barely have to apply any pressure. Go ahead and try it.’
Marlena peeled off a white disc, reached round Lee’s back and brushed her finger against the collar of his shirt, marvelling at the way it so easily stuck to the fabric. The transmitter was so small you could barely see it.
‘Good technique,’ Lee said, and smiled.
Marlena smelled the mint-scented mouthwash on his breath. His red hair was damp and neatly combed. She hoped to God he hadn’t spruced himself up for her.
‘You mind if I smoke?’
‘Not as long as you share,’ Lee said.
Marlena went into the bedroom and came back with her cigarettes. She lit one, then handed the pack and matches to Lee. ‘I read over the report.’ She casually moved her chair to give her some distance. ‘There was no mention as to where Fletcher is staying on the island.’
‘That’s because we don’t know. Fletcher’s highly educated with surveillance techniques, so we can’t use our normal methods. Plus, he tends to move around only at night, which presents its own set of problems. Now tell me what you’ve heard about him.’
‘Mainly that he’s brilliant.’
‘Without a doubt. When he worked for Investigative Support, he had the highest clearance rate on serial murder – and still does. Unfortunately, Fletcher crossed a line. Instead of bringing these monsters in, he acted as their judge, jury and executioner. When the Bureau found out what he was doing, they sent in three agents to Fletcher’s home to handle the matter discreetly. One agent is brain dead and hooked up to a feeding tube. The other two agents, we still don’t have any idea what happened to them. Fletcher’s been on the run ever since.’
‘There was a case from four, five years ago, a serial bomber in Massachusetts who killed families in their sleep and then blew up the houses just as the police arrived.’
‘The Sandman case,’ Lee said.
‘Rumour is Fletcher resurfaced and acted as a consultant with another former profiler, Jack Casey.’
‘It’s not a rumour. Fletcher did resurface.’
‘Did you try to bring him in?’
‘We did.’ Lee didn’t elaborate.
‘What went wrong?’
‘I can’t comment on the particulars of that case.’
‘I think I have a right to know what I’m heading into.’
Lee lit his cigarette, tossed the match off the balcony. ‘I’m the first to admit that we’ve encountered some problems in the past. This time is different. We have an inside line.’
‘The informant,’ Marlena said.
‘Yes. She works as a secretary in Prince’s firm. For years we’ve believed Fletcher used the Caymans to shift around his money and change identities. Now we know it’s true. The secretary supplied us with the aliases Fletcher’s been using, his bank accounts, you name it.
‘Fletcher’s scheduled to meet Prince at ten to pick up his new passport and papers,’ Lee said. ‘The cocktail party will be crowded, everyone holding drinks, trying not to bump into one another. What you’re going to do is walk behind Fletcher, touch the back of his arm and say excuse me – you know, pretend to bump into him. That sort of approach always works best.’
‘And if Fletcher approaches me?’
‘Then you talk to him. Be yourself, flirt with him, touch his arm or shoulder like you’re interested, and then find a way to put the transmitter on him – and, once you do, don’t disengage right away. That will look suspicious. Talk to him for a few minutes and then excuse yourself and go to the ladies’ room because you’ll need to make a phone call.’
Lee removed a small mobile phone from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘After you plant the transmitter, hit programme, then one. When you hear a beep, hang up – that means the transmitter’s been activated.’
‘Why did the secretary give up Fletcher?’
‘She’s planning on leaving her husband, and two million buys her a whole new life and a whole lot of distance. Now to answer your next question: why aren’t we using her to plant the transmitter? First off, she doesn’t have direct access to Fletcher. Fletcher never meets Prince at the office, only in public places where he has multiple escape routes. Second reason is – even if I could arrange some scenario to get the secretary next to Fletcher tonight, the woman is not what I’d call grace under pressure. If I send her in with an agenda, Fletcher will pick up on it right away.’
‘Why not just approach Fletcher directly? You certainly have the manpower.’
‘True, but then we’d have to bring in the locals. Prince has many friends on the inside, people who can be easily bought. There are extradition issues and some others that don’t concern you.
‘Look, Marlena, I can understand why you’re nervous. We’ve tried to apprehend Fletcher before and each time it ended badly, right? I wasn’t a part of those operations. And you’ve got to trust me when I tell you I have all the bases covered. The cell phone I gave you is equipped with a listening device. We’ll all be listening. If there’s a problem or a change in plans, Jacobs will get word to you. And if I think you’re in danger I’ll pull you out of there. We’ve got a boat standing by, just in case. You’ll be fine as long as you remember this rule: under no circumstances are you to go anywhere alone with Fletcher.’
‘Jacobs mentioned that.’
‘Head over to the party around eight and get a feel for the place. Your name is already on the guest list. The set of keys on your bed belongs to a black Mercedes parked out in the back lot. The directions for the yacht club are under the seat.’
Marlena stared out at the water.
‘Wipe that look off your face,’ Lee said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
You keep saying that, Marlena thought, wondering who Lee was really trying to convince.
The yacht club was located at the opposite end of the island, a remote and stunningly beautiful spot overlooking a sprawling dock packed with sailboats and yachts. Apparently this was the place to be if you were in the market for a trophy wife. There wasn’t a woman here over the age of thirty-five, each one gorgeous and wearing a dress worthy of a red-carpet show. Now Marlena understood Lee’s obsession about picking out the perfect dress.
It was coming up on ten. For the past half hour, Marlena had been forced to listen to a fossil named William Bingham, a.k.a. Billy Bing, the Mercedes King of Fresno, California, talk about sailing the way you’d talk about great sex. As she pretended to listen, scanning the well-dressed crowd for Malcolm Fletcher and Jonathan Prince, her thoughts kept drifting back to the postcards.
This wasn’t the first time she had purchased something for her mother – this past Christmas she had dropped $200 on a cashmere sweater at Talbots. It wasn’t like she could take the sweater or the postcards to her mother’s grave. Ruthie Sanchez didn’t have a grave. Like so many 9/11 victims, her remains were never found – and they would never be found because Marlena had signed away all the rights to her mother’s remains in exchange for a lucrative settlement that had allowed her to put her severely autistic brother in a special home.
Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of psychology would say her need to purchase gifts for her dead mother was about not wanting to let go. Fine. No argument there. But there was another reason, something Marlena had told no one, not even her therapist. Every time she held the postcards, the Christmas sweater, the crystal vase she had bought on the first anniversary of her mother’s death, the feeling that kept boiling to the surface was rage. The highjackers and planners, the CIA and FBI bureaucrats and politicians who had chosen to ignore the warning signs, Mar
lena wanted to take these people and, just like in the Bible, stone them to death over a period of weeks. Thinking about the different ways she could punish the people responsible – that was the feeling that kept coming to her over and over again.
Marlena snapped her mind back to the present. Billy Bing was still talking; something to do with golf. Thank God, here came the waiter with her glass of wine.
‘A gentleman at the bar wanted me to give this to you,’ the waiter said, and handed her a folded napkin.
Written in black ink was a message: Retrieve phone on top of cooler inside boat Falling Star, near end of dock. Untie boat then call and follow instructions. Jacobs. A phone number was written under his name.
Marlena politely excused herself from the conversation and headed for the docks, remembering Lee’s words from this afternoon: If I think you’re in danger, I’ll pull you out of there. We’ve got a boat standing by.
So something had gone wrong.
The Falling Star was an oversized Boston Whaler, the kind of charter boat most likely used for deep-sea fishing. The boat was dark and empty, but the one moored next to it, a Sea Ray motor yacht, was lit up and packed with well-dressed people drinking highballs, and smoking cigarettes and cigars. The breeze blowing off the water was cool, filled with soft piano music.
Marlena took in her surroundings. A lot of people were milling around on the docks, but nobody was heading this way. Okay, get moving. She stepped on board, the boat rocking beneath her heels, and set her wine glass and purse on the table inside the Falling Star’s cabin. Underneath the table were two matching extra-large Coleman coolers wrapped with chains and secured by padlocks. A third Coleman sat against the wall behind her, near the cabin door. This cooler wasn’t locked; the chains had been removed and lay in a ball on the floor. Sitting on the cooler’s top were two items: a mobile phone and a set of keys. The top, she noticed, wasn’t fully shut.
As instructed, Marlena went to work untying the boat from the dock, glancing up every few seconds to survey the area. People were minding their own business, their laughter and voices mixing with the old-time jazz music now coming from the Sea Ray. After she’d hoisted the last rubber fender on to the stern, she moved back inside the cabin, grabbed the phone and dialled the number written on the napkin.
