immediately, instead of using the time to remove his sidearm, it was possible that… Useless, childish thinking. Theresa Herrera was dead.
Fletcher unbuttoned his shirt. The adrenalin had abated, leaving in its wake a growing pain in his chest and abdomen. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and undid the vest’s straps to relieve the pressure.
He gently pressed on his breastbone. Daggers of pain erupted from the left side of his chest; he had cracked at least two ribs.
While breathing was painful, he didn’t feel short of breath, dizzy, lethargic — all promising signs that he hadn’t suffered a flail chest, a life-threatening medical condition that occurred when part of the rib cage detached from the chest wall.
The next part would be difficult, but he had to do it.
Fletcher took in a slow, deep breath. Sparks of pain exploded through his brain and burned a bright white across his vision, but he fought his way through it. Having suffered such injuries in the past, he knew the importance of taking in the deepest breath possible in order to prevent pneumonia or a partial collapse of lung tissue known as atelectasis.
He took another deep breath and then repeated it again. Again. When he finished, he was flushed, drenched in sweat.
Fletcher took out his smartphone and dialled Karim’s private number. A small pause followed as the encryption software scrambled the call, and then Karim’s deep and smoky voice erupted on the other end of the line.
‘Well, that was bloody quick. I take it you found something good.’
Fletcher managed to speak clearly over the pain. ‘Theresa Herrera’s dead,’ he said, and walked Karim step by step through everything that had happened.
A long silence followed. In his mind’s eye Fletcher pictured Karim, a short, round man of Pakistani descent, seated behind the immense glass desk in his private office, leaning back in his chair and smoking one of his foul Italian cigarettes.
‘Do you need a doctor?’ Karim asked. ‘I can get you one, someone discreet.’
‘No. I know how to treat this.’
‘Do you always wear a bulletproof vest when visiting the home of a grieving family?’
‘My lifestyle demands that I live in a constant state of paranoia, Ali. I have to be prepared for any eventuality.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘I saw no signs of him, but I found two cars in the garage.’
‘And the woman who shot you?’
‘Just a glimpse,’ Fletcher said. ‘She’s Caucasian, late fifties to early sixties. Black hair pulled back across the scalp. I suspect she’s had a facelift.’
‘Would you recognize her if you saw her again?’
Fletcher, recalling the woman’s distinctive-looking smile, said, ‘Absolutely.’
On the other end of the line Fletcher heard the flick of a lighter. A pause as Karim drew on the cigarette, and then he said, ‘The police will go through Theresa Herrera’s phone records and see my number. Forgive me for asking this, but did you leave behind any evidence?’
‘No. I wore gloves the entire time.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Still, you need to do something about your car. Someone might have seen it.’
‘I plan on switching it when I reach Chicago.’
‘I hope you’re not planning on driving there right now. I was watching the Weather Channel in preparation for tomorrow morning’s flight. The storm has changed; Colorado is about to get slammed with at least two feet. Best to play it safe and wait it out. You can’t afford to get stuck, or in an accident.’
Karim was right. Visibility was poor; Fletcher could barely see the highway.
‘It goes without saying that I’d like your assistance on this, Malcolm. That being said, I’ve put you in an odd and uncomfortable situation. If you need to disappear, I understand.’
Fletcher thought about the shell casing in the evidence bag and said, ‘I need a portable mass spectrometer — a new model, and preferably one manufactured in the UK.’ British companies were always on the cutting edge of forensics.
‘I’ll get you one,’ Karim said. ‘When will you be arriving in Chicago?’
‘Let’s meet Monday morning, at six.’
‘Six it is. Give me the address.’
Fletcher gave it to him.
‘If you’re going to be late, please call me,’ Karim said. ‘A dark-skinned man like myself loitering on the streets and holding a big, bulky suitcase — well, we don’t need anyone conducting racial-profiling and summoning the police about a possible terror threat, now do we?’
‘Paulson won’t be driving you?’ Boyd Paulson was Karim’s personal bodyguard. Born in Dublin, raised in London, the pugnacious former boxer had been attached to Karim since the beginning of time — and rarely let Karim out of his sight, as Karim had been the target of many death threats over the years.
‘Boyd is on holiday,’ Karim said. ‘If you need anything else — anything at all — call me.’
‘I will.’
‘Malcolm… There’s nothing you could have done to save her.’
‘I’ll see you Monday,’ Fletcher said, and hung up.
10
When Lisa Alcione turned nineteen, she ran off to Los Angeles with the man she’d later marry, swearing to her parents she’d never return to Morrison, Colorado. She was forced to return once, to attend her mother’s funeral. Her husband, Tony, had not joined her. Business obligations.
He’s up to no good, her father had told her. A pig dressed up in a suit is still a pig, Lisa.
And now here she was, thirty-five and newly divorced, back in Morrison, back to working the front counter of her father’s ‘family-friendly’ motel, with its quick and easy access to the ski slopes. Maybe the family-friendly thing was true thirty years ago, but now the place catered to budget travellers and cost-conscious adulterers from Denver who paid for rooms in cash and registered under false names.
Standing behind the front counter, she watched her father clearing away the snow in his rickety Ford pickup. She’d been here only two months, and there didn’t seem to be a moment when dear old dad wasn’t reminding her how she had royally screwed up her life. I told you that good-for-nuthin’ had a wandering eye. Guys like Tony, with their Hollywood looks and money, they’re always gonna be lookin’ to upgrade to a younger, fresher model. Men got options, Lisa. Women don’t. Sure, the bright ones do, but God didn’t bless you with either brains or particularly good looks. You need to get your head out of the clouds and stop dreamin’ about some goddamn Prince Charming and settle for someone on your own level.
She’d told her father that Tony had simply wanted out — seven-year itch and all that bullshit. The truth was Tony had dumped her for a younger model, a neighbour’s 22-year-old Swedish au pair who, incidentally, was three months pregnant with Tony’s baby. Dale Alcione would have had a field day with that little nugget of info.
A black car pulled into the lot — an Audi. It drove into the space next to the front office.
Probably another bunch of rich teenagers on their way back from the slopes, looking to spend their Friday night getting wasted or high, she thought. That or some older guy with a young chippie looking to pork their way through the storm. The excitement never ended around here.
The car door opened. Not a teenager or some fat old bald guy but a very tall and very big man dressed in a sharp overcoat. He was alone. When the car door had opened, the interior light clicked on; she saw no one else inside.
The man smiled as he approached the front counter. He had nice teeth and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He
