'My point is the rich think they operate on a different playing field,' Bryson said. 'And guess what? They do.'
'Do you want to talk to Karim?'
'You're a peer. He might be more willing to share information with you.'
Darby wasn't expecting much. Legally, Karim didn't have to share anything.
'What do you think about our conversation in there?' Bryson asked.
'When we spoke about the intruder, Hale kept fidgeting – stubbing out the cigar, shifting in his chair and looking at his drinking glass. He barely gave us any eye contact.'
'It could be that he's pissed off at us because we won't share information and we haven't been able to give him any closure.'
'He seemed nervous.'
'I picked up that, too. Then again, I'd be nervous if I employed the services of the nation's number four Most Wanted felon.'
'That's quite a leap, Tim.'
'Maybe.' Bryson put the car in gear and drove down the driveway.
'He seemed genuinely surprised about the break-in,' Darby said.
'It's awfully convenient.'
'It is. Still, Fletcher might be working alone.'
When Bryson reached the end of the driveway he said, 'Do you have kids?'
'No.'
'I had one, my daughter, Emily. She had this really rare form of leukaemia. We took her to every specialist under the sun. Seeing everything she went through, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spare her life. I know that sounds overly melodramatic, but it's the honest-to-God truth. You'll do anything for your kids. Anything in the world.'
Darby thought of her mother as Bryson turned onto the main road.
'The other thing they don't tell you is that the pain never goes away. It hurts as much now as it did the day she died.'
'I'm sorry, Tim.'
'Guys like Hale aren't used to living with question marks. The man can buy anything he wants. His net worth, I hear, is somewhere north of half a billion dollars.'
'You think he's made some sort of Faustian deal with Fletcher?'
'His daughter was kept somewhere for half a year, endured only God knows what and then the son of a bitch decides to put a bullet in the back of her head,' Bryson said. 'Hale's been very vocal in the press about his opinions of us. He believes we've done a shit job. If he feels he can't get justice from us, maybe he's decided he can get it somewhere else.'
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
