Fletcher entered the hall and turned right, the carpet masking his footsteps. The door to the occupied bedroom was also open. He slid inside the room. The man was still lying on the bed, still unconscious. He appeared to be of Hispanic descent, early twenties, and relatively short in size and stature. Not bald but a shaved head thick with stubble. His jaw hung open, and he was breathing rapidly. The damp skin smelled of soap.
The piggyback IV stand was by the side of the bed facing the window. Fletcher moved to it and read the labels in the dull light: a ten-litre 0.9 per cent normal saline in one bag, the other holding a wide-spectrum antibiotic used to treat severe bacterial infections.
Fletcher pressed two fingers against the man’s damp, hot neck. The man did not stir or register the touch. Fletcher tracked time in his head. After a minute passed, he moved his hand away.
The young man had an elevated heart rate, and he seemed to be suffering from a fever.
Fletcher used one of the surgical-spirit prep pads on the nightstand to wipe the screen of his smartphone. He used it again to clean the man’s fingers.
Fletcher pressed the fingertips of the man’s right hand against the screen, holding them in place as a narrow beam of light scanned them. He wiped the screen and scanned the man’s thumb. Then he did the left hand. He sent off the prints to Karim’s private email, traded his phone for his sidearm and moved back into the hallway.
30
Fletcher found the stairs easily in the dark.
His movements were slow and smooth as he crept down the carpet runner, listening for movement and watching for shadows. He reached the foot of the stairs, stepped into the roomy kitchen and waited. No sounds, no movement. He walked across the tiles and followed the television voices, his footsteps whisper-quiet against the floor.
Sidled against a wall, he peered around a corner and found a large living room decorated to resemble a politician’s lair — burgundy-painted walls and dark leather sofas and club chairs arranged on a sweeping oriental rug; side tables holding crystal ashtrays and coasters. He could see part of a bar, the polished mahogany shelves stocked with top-shelf spirits.
In the room’s centre were three faux Chippendale armchairs made of cherrywood. They were arranged around a coffee table. Each chair faced a flat-screen TV above a black marble fireplace crackling with wood. An older Caucasian male sat in the middle chair, watching the TV. Fletcher could see only the back of the man’s head, the carefully combed white hair and the left elbow propped on the armrest. The man held his arm at a ninety-degree angle. Gripped in his hand was a hard rubber blue ball. He squeezed it and then relaxed his grip, squeezed and relaxed, all the while watching the television.
Minutes passed and then the man dropped the ball on his lap.
Now his left hand moved to the side table, which held an ashtray and a column of stacked coins. The man pushed the ashtray aside. His longer fingers gripped the top coin, a quarter. He held it in the air, studying his hand for a moment before placing the coin down on another part of the table.
The fingers moved back to the stack and picked up a dime. Again the man studied his hand before placing the dime on top of the quarter.
The man went back to watching the television as he repeated the process again. Again.
Fletcher holstered his SIG. He removed a leather sap, slid around the corner and entered the living room.
The man heard the heavy thump of footsteps. Startled, he jumped to his feet. He was tall and wore a navy-blue suit and a white shirt without a tie. He had half turned when Fletcher raked him hard and fast against the temple with the sap. The man’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor and lay as still as a clubbed fish.
Fletcher found the remote and shut off the TV. Kneeling, he grabbed the tactical knife strapped behind his calf muscle. A series of quick cuts, no more than a few minutes’ work, and the man’s clothing lay in a shredded heap on the carpet. He bound the man’s wrists and ankles with police-grade FlexiCuffs. Beneath the man’s cologne Fletcher caught a subtle yet distinctive medicinal odour.
He scanned the man’s fingerprints, stood and left the living room. Having already memorized the home’s layout, Fletcher knew the quickest route to the alarm’s main control panel in the basement. This he filled with liquid styrofoam, which hardened and immobilized the system. He darted back upstairs, found the security-alarm panel next to the front door and filled it with styrofoam. The remaining alarm panel was upstairs. He would deal with that in a moment. First, he took a moment to examine the surrounding rooms.
The dining-room table was covered with white Irish linen and held six place settings with crystal wine glasses. The man had smartly opened two bottles of Brunello di Montalcino, one of the best and most expensive Italian reds on the market, to allow the wine to breathe. Apparently he was expecting company sometime this evening.
Fletcher took a moment to consider his next course of action.
Returning to the living room, he found the man still unconscious. The left side of his face had started to swell. Fletcher saw a long camelhair overcoat draped over the back of a chair. He examined the coat and the torn clothing on the floor for a moment before rooting through the pockets. They held an iPhone, an elegant black leather billfold and a sterling silver Tiffany key ring. According to the man’s Baltimore driver’s licence, his name was Gary Corrigan, aged forty-eight. The credit cards had been issued in the same name.
An envelope holding five thousand dollars in greasy hundred-dollar bills was tucked inside the suit-jacket pocket along with a small plastic vial containing half a dozen pink and blue pills. Fletcher tucked the vial and iPhone in his pocket, then dragged Corrigan into the dining room and lifted him into the elegant high-backed chair at the head of the table. Fletcher cut off the FlexiCuffs. Then he took out fresh ones and secured the man’s wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs.
Fletcher selected two items from the kitchen. One came to rest inside Mr Corrigan’s mouth. The other was placed on his dinner plate. The man would see it, even in the gloom.
Back upstairs, Fletcher turned on the bedroom lights. The man tied to the bed did not stir, even when he was searched.
His pockets were empty. No identification. Fletcher studied the face. Karim had emailed him several pictures of Rico Herrera. Herrera had a round-shaped face, a gap between his front teeth and a birthmark along his right temple. The man on the bed had a square face, small and even teeth, and no birthmark. This man wasn’t Rico Herrera.
Fletcher moved into the adjoining bathroom. Inside the medicine cabinet he found a surgical-strength bottle of antiseptic. He soaked a facecloth in cold water, returned to the bedroom and placed it on the man’s forehead. Then he cut the zip ties. The man’s arms flopped against his head. He didn’t stir or make a sound. Fletcher laid the man’s arms by his sides. The light brown forearms were punctured and bruised by needle marks.
The nightstand drawers contained an assortment of surgical-spirit prep pads, gauze and plasters, packaged IV needles and syringes. He found vials of the narcotic pain medication Demerol mixed in between saline bags. A folding knife was in a bottom drawer.
Fletcher left to explore the room across the hall. The security-alarm keypad glowed from the wall next to the door. He turned on the lights and filled it with liquid styrofoam.
The master bedroom contained a king-sized bed and a pair of nightstands, a lamp on each one. Both nightstands held alarm clocks. One contained a bottle of hand cream, the other a biography of Winston Churchill. A leather club chair sat in a corner. The walls were bare. The bureau did not contain any framed pictures, and he had seen no pictures downstairs. Inside the bureau drawers he found a mix of men’s and women’s clothing.