But the gentleman unbuttoning his dark grey overcoat could very well be.
Diminutive in both size and shape, this man had his back turned to the driveway’s security camera. He had a folder tucked under his arm and stood a few feet away from the car, speaking to a cluster of law-enforcement officers. Fletcher couldn’t hear what was being said, but he had a clear view of the faces staring down at the Napoleonic man, and they all seemed displeased at having him in their presence; a federal agent, perhaps. That would explain the wide berth they had given him. A federal presence in a local investigation was treated with the same distant contempt as a leper at a skincare clinic.
The man brushed past the group and disappeared from the computer screen.
Fletcher found him a moment later, standing inside the living room and slicking back his grizzled, windblown hair with his long and delicate fingers. He wore a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. Fletcher was about to zoom in on the face when the man darted up the stairs.
Fletcher switched to the camera showing a view of the upstairs hall. The small man had taken off his sunglasses. The folder that had been tucked under his arm was now gripped in a gloved hand. Fletcher saw the federal badge hanging on the man’s belt, stared at it as he walked across the hall, on his way to speak to Ali Karim.
54
Fletcher felt as though he were an invisible spectator standing in the back of the treatment room. On the computer screen he watched as the federal agent stepped inside with a companion he’d picked up along the way — another Hostage Rescue operator, this one tall and burly, his face and head covered with a balaclava and a tactical helmet. Unlike the other operators, he wore a tactical backpack. Clipped to its side was a military-grade gas mask, one equipped with the new voice-amplification system. Fletcher, his senses vibrating like a tuning fork, was set to register any anomaly.
The two operators guarding Karim left the room. The new operator had his HK aimed at Karim, who was still lying face down on the floor. The federal agent conducted a leisurely examination of the room’s bloodstained items. When he turned to the bed where Nathan Santiago had been treated, Fletcher got his first solid, clear view of the man’s features — the razor-thin lips, weak jawline and pronounced forehead. The man appeared to be somewhere in his late forties to early fifties.
Fletcher had turned up the volume on his earpiece. Still, he had to strain to hear the agent’s calm and cultured voice: ‘Get Mr Karim a chair.’
The operator rolled a desk chair over and helped Karim into it. Fletcher couldn’t see Karim’s face, just the back of his head.
The agent said, ‘You know why I’m here, Mr Karim.’
‘To assist me in finding out what happened to Boyd, I hope.’
‘Boyd?’
‘One of my employees. Boyd Paulson.’ Karim had shelved his grief for the moment; he spoke clearly, and well. ‘His car is here — that’s his BMW parked in the garage.’
‘And the body in trunk?’
‘Boyd Paulson. That’s what I’m doing here, Mr — ’
‘Alexander Borgia. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’
Karim feigned surprise. Then he said, ‘I hope you have a warrant.’
Borgia nodded. He removed a piece of paper from the folder and placed it on Karim’s lap. Karim, not wearing his bifocals, had to slump forward in order to read it.
Borgia’s gaze roved over the shelves packed with supplies. ‘Are you opening up some sort of medical office here along the seashore, Mr Karim?’
‘A plastic surgeon is.’
‘And this plastic surgeon, does he have a name?’
‘She does. Dr Dara Sin, from Manhattan.’
‘And where can I find this Dr Sin?’
‘Good question. She’s missing. She called my business partner because she was worried about someone stalking her and he came here to investigate.’
‘What happened in this room?’
‘I don’t know, and I’m done answering your questions. I want to talk to my lawyers.’
Borgia sighed. ‘Where is he, Mr Karim?’
‘Who?’
‘Malcolm Fletcher. We know he came here with you. We’ve had you under surveillance since you left New York.’ Borgia’s voice was cordial, but his eyes had taken on the spit-sheen of a rat. ‘Where did you hide him?’
‘I came here alone. But, please, feel free to take a look around — oh, wait, you’re already doing that.’
Fletcher’s heart rate hadn’t accelerated, but his mouth felt dry. Colorado, he thought. Somehow the FBI found out I was at the Herrera home.
And then Borgia said it: ‘Let’s talk about Theresa Herrera. I understand you agreed to look into the disappearance of her son, Rico.’
Karim didn’t answer.
‘And from her phone records,’ Borgia said, ‘we know you spoke to her twice on the day she died. You told the local police you were planning on meeting her at her home the following afternoon — Saturday. Am I correct?’
Karim didn’t answer.
Borgia opened his folder again. ‘Right up the road from the Herrera home there’s this… a retirement community, I guess you could call it. They have security cameras installed at the front gate. The night Theresa Herrera and her husband died, the cameras captured this.’ Borgia placed a photograph on Karim’s lap. ‘This car, an Audi A8, drove right past the cameras roughly ten minutes before the bomb went off. It was the only car spotted in that area that night.
‘The car is registered to a New York man named Richard Munchel,’ Borgia said. ‘The man doesn’t exist. The windows are tinted, so you can’t see the driver — not yet. Our lab is working on that. Now let me show you this. It’s a photograph we took this morning.’
Borgia placed it on Karim’s lap. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t have my glasses on,’ Karim said.
‘Then I’ll describe it for you. The car is a Jaguar with tinted windows. If you had your glasses on, you would see that it’s driving down the ramp leading to the entrance of your home’s private garage. This car is registered to a man named Robert Pepin. You invited this man into your home, but here’s the strange thing, Mr Karim. Robert Pepin doesn’t exist either. But I have a feeling you already knew that, didn’t you?’
Karim said nothing.
‘Of course you did,’ Borgia said. ‘You can’t see it in the picture, but the Jag has Chicago plates. Here’s where the story gets interesting, Mr Karim, so please pay attention.’
55
On the computer screen Fletcher saw a slight grin tugging at the corner of Borgia’s mouth. The federal agent couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his face. He beamed with the pride of a hunter who had finally ensnared his elusive prey.
‘Less than a week ago, early on Monday morning, you boarded your private plane with your assistant, Emma White, and flew out to Chicago. There you picked up a third passenger, a man named Robert Pepin. We know this because your pilot wrote the name down on the passenger manifest. According to the pilot, Robert Pepin bore a rather uncanny resemblance to Malcolm Fletcher.’
Borgia let the words hang in the air for a moment, then continued: ‘The pilot told us he flew the three of you to the Dothan Regional Airport in Alabama, where Mr Pepin departed for a number of hours. We know Mr Pepin went to the Hertz counter and rented a burgundy-coloured Ford Escape and drove approximately 126 miles. When he returned to the airport, you flew Mr Pepin back to Chicago.’
Another dramatic pause, and then Borgia added, ‘We know all of this because your pilot is one of our informants.’
Fletcher’s gaze narrowed in thought, knowing where Borgia was heading.
Borgia leaned forward, close to Karim’s shoulder, and said, ‘Your connection to Fletcher is no secret. Your son’s murder was similar to a number of others at the time; New York homicide thought they had a serial killer lurking in their city and called the Bureau to consult. Guess which profiler we sent?’