The Killing House (24 page)

The driver's side door for the Interceptor swung open. Fletcher tapped a key. The computer window enlarged and he saw a tall, burly man who hadn't bothered to have his navy-blue suit properly tailored; the jacket had a tent-like effect on his stature. One look at his face and Fletcher knew this man was too young to be the one in charge.

But the gentleman unbuttoning his dark grey overcoat could very well be.

Diminutive in both size and shape, this man had his back turned to the driveway's security camera. He had a folder tucked under his arm and stood a few feet away from the car, speaking to a cluster of law-enforcement officers. Fletcher couldn't hear what was being said, but he had a clear view of the faces staring down at the Napoleonic man, and they all seemed displeased at having him in their presence; a federal agent, perhaps. That would explain the wide berth they had given him. A federal presence in a local investigation was treated with the same distant contempt as a leper at a skincare clinic.

The man brushed past the group and disappeared from the computer screen.

Fletcher found him a moment later, standing inside the living room and slicking back his grizzled, windblown hair with his long and delicate fingers. He wore a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. Fletcher was about to zoom in on the face when the man darted up the stairs.

Fletcher switched to the camera showing a view of
the upstairs hall. The small man had taken off his sunglasses. The folder that had been tucked under his arm was now gripped in a gloved hand. Fletcher saw the federal badge hanging on the man's belt, stared at it as he walked across the hall, on his way to speak to Ali Karim.

54

Fletcher felt as though he were an invisible spectator standing in the back of the treatment room. On the computer screen he watched as the federal agent stepped inside with a companion he'd picked up along the way - another Hostage Rescue operator, this one tall and burly, his face and head covered with a balaclava and a tactical helmet. Unlike the other operators, he wore a tactical backpack. Clipped to its side was a military-grade gas mask, one equipped with the new voice-amplification system. Fletcher, his senses vibrating like a tuning fork, was set to register any anomaly.

The two operators guarding Karim left the room. The new operator had his HK aimed at Karim, who was still lying face down on the floor. The federal agent conducted a leisurely examination of the room's bloodstained items. When he turned to the bed where Nathan Santiago had been treated, Fletcher got his first solid, clear view of the man's features - the razor-thin lips, weak jawline and pronounced forehead. The man appeared to be somewhere in his late forties to early fifties.

Fletcher had turned up the volume on his earpiece. Still, he had to strain to hear the agent's calm and cultured voice: 'Get Mr Karim a chair.'

The operator rolled a desk chair over and helped Karim into it. Fletcher couldn't see Karim's face, just the back of his head.

The agent said, 'You know why I'm here, Mr Karim.'

'To assist me in finding out what happened to Boyd, I hope.'

'Boyd?'

'One of my employees. Boyd Paulson.' Karim had shelved his grief for the moment; he spoke clearly, and well. 'His car is here - that's his BMW parked in the garage.'

'And the body in trunk?'

'Boyd Paulson. That's what
I'm
doing here, Mr -'

'Alexander Borgia. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

Karim feigned surprise. Then he said, 'I hope you have a warrant.'

Borgia nodded. He removed a piece of paper from the folder and placed it on Karim's lap. Karim, not wearing his bifocals, had to slump forward in order to read it.

Borgia's gaze roved over the shelves packed with supplies. 'Are you opening up some sort of medical office here along the seashore, Mr Karim?'

'A plastic surgeon is.'

'And this plastic surgeon, does he have a name?'

'She does. Dr Dara Sin, from Manhattan.'

'And where can I find this Dr Sin?'

'Good question. She's missing. She called my business
partner because she was worried about someone stalking her and he came here to investigate.'

'What happened in this room?'

'I don't know, and I'm done answering your questions. I want to talk to my lawyers.'

Borgia sighed. 'Where is he, Mr Karim?'

'Who?'

'Malcolm Fletcher. We know he came here with you. We've had you under surveillance since you left New York.' Borgia's voice was cordial, but his eyes had taken on the spit-sheen of a rat. 'Where did you hide him?'

'I came here alone. But, please, feel free to take a look around - oh, wait, you're already doing that.'

Fletcher's heart rate hadn't accelerated, but his mouth felt dry.
Colorado
, he thought.
Somehow the
FBI
found out I was at the Herrera home
.

And then Borgia said it: 'Let's talk about Theresa Herrera. I understand you agreed to look into the disappearance of her son, Rico.'

Karim didn't answer.

'And from her phone records,' Borgia said, 'we know you spoke to her twice on the day she died. You told the local police you were planning on meeting her at her home the following afternoon - Saturday. Am I correct?'

Karim didn't answer.

Borgia opened his folder again. 'Right up the road from the Herrera home there's this ... a retirement community, I guess you could call it. They have security
cameras installed at the front gate. The night Theresa Herrera and her husband died, the cameras captured this.' Borgia placed a photograph on Karim's lap. 'This car, an Audi A8, drove right past the cameras roughly ten minutes before the bomb went off. It was the only car spotted in that area that night.

'The car is registered to a New York man named Richard Munchel,' Borgia said. 'The man doesn't exist. The windows are tinted, so you can't see the driver - not yet. Our lab is working on that. Now let me show you this. It's a photograph we took this morning.'

Borgia placed it on Karim's lap. 'What do you think?'

'I don't have my glasses on,' Karim said.

'Then I'll describe it for you. The car is a Jaguar with tinted windows. If you had your glasses on, you would see that it's driving down the ramp leading to the entrance of your home's private garage.
This
car is registered to a man named Robert Pepin. You invited this man into your home, but here's the strange thing, Mr Karim. Robert Pepin doesn't exist either. But I have a feeling you already knew that, didn't you?'

Karim said nothing.

'Of course you did,' Borgia said. 'You can't see it in the picture, but the Jag has Chicago plates. Here's where the story gets interesting, Mr Karim, so please pay attention.'

55

On the computer screen Fletcher saw a slight grin tugging at the corner of Borgia's mouth. The federal agent couldn't keep the satisfaction out of his face. He beamed with the pride of a hunter who had finally ensnared his elusive prey.

'Less than a week ago, early on Monday morning, you boarded your private plane with your assistant, Emma White, and flew out to Chicago. There you picked up a third passenger, a man named Robert Pepin. We know this because your pilot wrote the name down on the passenger manifest. According to the pilot, Robert Pepin bore a rather uncanny resemblance to Malcolm Fletcher.'

Borgia let the words hang in the air for a moment, then continued: 'The pilot told us he flew the three of you to the Dothan Regional Airport in Alabama, where Mr Pepin departed for a number of hours. We know Mr Pepin went to the Hertz counter and rented a burgundy-coloured Ford Escape and drove approximately 126 miles. When he returned to the airport, you flew Mr Pepin back to Chicago.'

Another dramatic pause, and then Borgia added, 'We know all of this because your pilot is one of our informants.'

Fletcher's gaze narrowed in thought, knowing where Borgia was heading.

Borgia leaned forward, close to Karim's shoulder, and said, 'Your connection to Fletcher is no secret. Your son's murder was similar to a number of others at the time; New York homicide thought they had a serial killer lurking in their city and called the Bureau to consult. Guess which profiler we sent?'

Karim didn't answer.

'That's right, Malcolm Fletcher,' Borgia said. 'We sent Fletcher and your son's killer ... well, no one knows what happened to him as this person was never caught.'

And never will be
, Fletcher thought. Three men had killed Jason Karim - three young men whose gang-initiation rite involved the murder of a wealthy Manhattan resident. Fletcher had scattered their remains along the bottom of the Hudson River.

'And then we have Boston,' Borgia said. 'Five years ago you offered your services to a wealthy businessman whose daughter was, in fact, a victim of a serial killer. We know Fletcher was involved because a Boston forensic investigator named Darby McCormick met Fletcher face to face - twice. We couldn't prove your involvement with him then, but I can certainly prove it now, as we know Fletcher came here with you.'

Borgia straightened and resumed his position in front of Karim. 'The penalty for harbouring a fugitive carries a maximum five-year sentence. I'd quote you the six-figure fine involved, but the amount is a drop in the ocean
to a man of your financial means. What's more disconcerting - what I suspect you're thinking about right now, Mr Karim - is what will happen if the news gets out that you, the owner of one of the country's most respected and highly visible security firms, are not only working with but hiding the nation's most wanted fugitive.'

'I want to speak to my lawyers,' Karim said.

Borgia went on. 'Fortunately, I'm in a position to bargain. Tell me where you hid Fletcher and not only will I guarantee no further damage to your house, I can
guarantee
you probation, no more than six months. More importantly, we'll keep your name out of the papers.'

'I want to talk to my lawyers.'

Borgia, unfazed by Karim's defiance, turned his attention to the HRT operator and said, 'I understand Mr Karim was armed.'

The operator nodded. 'We confiscated a 10-mm sidearm, a BUL M-5.'

'Any other weapons?'

'No, sir.'

'Does Mr Karim have a permit to carry in the state of New Jersey?'

Karim answered the question: 'The permit's in my pocket.'

'Untie him,' Borgia said.

'Sir?' the operator asked.

'I think Mr Karim's bindings are cutting off the blood supply to his head. He might as well be comfortable while we talk. You won't be any trouble, will you, Mr Karim?'

Karim didn't answer. The operator didn't wait for one. He clipped the submachine gun to his vest. The video camera mounted to the weapon had been turned off.

Why? Fletcher didn't know but wanted to warn Karim, had no way of warning him. Karim was no longer wearing the headset, had tucked it in his breast jacket pocket.

Fletcher watched as the operator removed the nine from the holster strapped to his leg. Then the man unsheathed a tactical knife, cut Karim's bindings and stepped back with the nine raised.

Slowly Karim reached inside his back pocket. He came back with a thin leather wallet and placed it on Borgia's waiting palm.

'I'm going to go check your gun permit,' Borgia said. '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. If for some reason Fletcher doesn't appear, I'm going to have Hostage Rescue, New Jersey SWAT and every other officer I brought here take a sledgehammer to each and every wall - I'll raze the foundations if I have to. We
will
find him, Mr Karim, because we know he's here. You, sir, will go to jail and you'll be all over the news. I already have a press release prepared.'

'I want to speak to my lawyers,' Karim said for the third time.

'This is a limited, one-time offer, Mr Karim. Take a few minutes to think it over.'

Borgia left the bedroom. Karim stared after him, absently rubbing the red circulation marks left on his wrists. The operator was pulling something from underneath his watchband.

It was a folding knife.

Fletcher found himself reacting as though he was actually standing inside the room - as though he could grab the operator's wrist and disarm the man.

On the screen the operator opened the knife and dropped it to the floor. Karim saw it, and was about to stand when an elbow smashed across his jaw.

Fletcher was already on his feet. Over his earpiece he heard a garbled scream from Karim. He punched the code into the glowing keypad, knowing that if he didn't act quickly Karim would surely die.

56

Special Agent Alexander Borgia slipped on his sunglasses when he reached the living room. The local SWAT agent he'd put in charge of guarding the front door, a former Marine who had seen plenty of combat in his time, hand-signalled to the nearby officers to stand down. Borgia was glad to see the man bark a quick order into his chest mike. At least this one knew what the hell he was doing.

The cold wind blew sand across the driveway packed with FBI and New Jersey police officers. They wore bulletproof vests underneath their winter jackets, each man braced behind the vehicles and holding their weapons on car roofs and hoods. FBI snipers were set up on the dunes around the house. Technical Investigative Equipment teams had finished setting up auditory surveillance devices mounted to stationary platforms.

As Borgia moved down the driveway, threading his way through the bodies, he caught men glancing away from their gun sights, their high-powered binoculars and thermal-imaging devices, to take the measure of him, to see if they could read something in his body language that would hint at what had happened inside the house. Everyone here knew this wasn't an ordinary fugitive situation.

Borgia wasn't a natural gambler; he hadn't felt entirely comfortable rolling the dice on this. While all the information he collected pointed to Malcolm Fletcher's involvement with Karim (especially the description from Karim's pilot), Borgia still had no visual or auditory confirmation that Fletcher had been inside Karim's home that morning. The agents had tried. Their thermal-imaging devices couldn't penetrate through Karim's garage door or his mansion walls. The laser mikes aimed at the windows had failed to pick so much as a single noise - not entirely surprising, as Karim was in the security business and had access to the same counter-surveillance toys the federal boys played with. The man had remodelled his home to prevent every conceivable surveillance scenario.