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
