The Secret Friend (8 page)

22

Jonathan Hale stands in front of the living-room window, rubbing the antique locket holding Susan’s picture between his fingers. During the day he carries the locket in his pant pocket; at night, he wears it to bed, afraid that if he places it inside a drawer he will somehow be leaving Emma, putting her on the same shelf as Susan, his dead wife, and start the process of forgetting.

Only you can’t forget your children. You won’t ever forget the frantic phone call from Kimmy, your daughter’s best friend, Kimmy asking why Emma is skipping class and not returning any phone calls. Is she sick, Mr Hale? Is everything all right? You’ll never forget that agonizing moment when you discover your daughter’s empty home or how you forced yourself to keep swallowing the fear minute-by-minute as those first few days bled into a week then stretched into two, then four, then seven, and yet you keep believing the police will find her alive as the months roll by, there’s still time, there’s still time. You’re still clutching that hope and your faith in God when the doorbell rings and you see the detective standing on your front step. You won’t forget the painful look on Detective Bryson’s face when he tells you the news that a woman matching your daughter’s description has been found floating in the river. He opens a folder and you see a picture of a woman’s bloated face, the skin waxy and white, picked apart by fish. She is wearing a platinum chain and antique locket – the same one you gave your daughter last Christmas. You remember Emma sitting in the chair tucked in the warm folds of her bathrobe, sunlight pouring through the window and the backyard full of fresh snow. You see her opening the locket and you remember the look on her face when she sees the picture of her mother, dead all these years. You remember that moment and a thousand other ones as you stare at the picture inside the folder, at the white card with the morgue number lying below her chin, and yet you still believe it’s a mistake, it has to be a mistake.

The detective waits for you to say, ‘Yes, this is my daughter. This is Emma.’ Only you can’t say the words because once you do, you are saying goodbye.

Hale turns his attention to the groundskeepers clearing away the snow. He wishes it was still fall, his favourite season. He pictures the leaves blowing across the front lawn, that wonderful crisp, clean smell in the air, and it triggers a memory of Emma at seven – she’s running across the colourful leaves, screaming, a shoebox gripped in her hands. Inside the box is a blue jay. One of its wings is injured; the other flaps frantically, trying to seek flight.

You need to help the bird, Daddy, he’s hurt.

Wanting to wipe away that look of fear from his daughter’s face, Hale grabs the phonebook and calls veterinarians as the bird makes high-pitched, painful sounds. Finally, he finds one that treats birds – it’s in Boston, a short distance away.

Hale knows how this is going to end. He is hoping to spare Emma but she insists on going with him.

When the vet delivers the news, Emma turns to him to solve the problem. He tells her how God has a plan for all of us, even if we don’t understand it. She cries and he holds her hand on the way back out to the car without the bird and she doesn’t talk on the way home. A year later she would hold his hand again as he led her away from her mother’s grave, reciting the same speech.

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 nodded.

‘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.’