Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘It’s an interesting theory — certainly one that warrants further investigation.’

‘There’s one other thing.’

Karim glanced up from his reading.

‘Theresa Herrera wasn’t who she said she was,’ Fletcher said.

‘That can’t be… that’s not possible,’ Karim said. ‘If what you’re saying is true, the person I assigned to do the data mining would have found it.’

‘The person you assigned was very thorough. I read the reports.’

‘But?’

‘I checked Theresa Herrera’s medical records on MIB — the Medical Information Bureau,’ Fletcher said. ‘It’s a digital warehouse for the country’s medical records.’

‘I know what it is,’ Karim said softly. ‘Insurance companies use it. What did you find?’

‘Her social security number doesn’t have a match on the MIB.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Not a single file.’

‘Could be a simple clerical error.’

‘Or it could have been expunged,’ Fletcher said. ‘Whatever the reason, it warrants further investigation.’

Karim nodded as he shut the folder.

‘There’s only one company that specializes in adding cremated remains to ammunition,’ Fletcher said. ‘Sacred Ashes, based in Dunbar, Alabama.’

He slid his smartphone across the table. Karim looked at the company website displayed on the phone’s screen.

‘I’ll drive to Alabama,’ Fletcher said.

‘Why?’

‘To look through the company’s records.’

‘No, I mean why drive when we can fly? We’ll take my plane.’

‘In case you forgot, I’m a fugitive.’

Karim waved it away. ‘What do you have for ID?’

‘A passport and driver’s licence.’

‘Let’s see them.’

‘The provenance is clean.’

‘Always check, Malcolm. Always check.’

‘I always do.’ To allay Karim’s concerns, Fletcher handed over the items for Robert Pepin.

Karim inspected them for several minutes before placing several phone calls to make sure the documentation hadn’t been compromised or flagged for review. His final call was to a contact at Interpol. Fletcher had, under his own name, been given an Interpol Red Notice — an international arrest warrant.

‘They’re clean,’ Karim said after he hung up. ‘What’s your plan once we reach Alabama?’

‘Surveillance,’ Fletcher said. ‘Then I’ll break into their company, examine their computers and paperwork, and find our shooter.’

Seventeen-year-old Jimmy Weeks saw police lights explode across his rearview mirror.

It wasn’t an ordinary cop car. Directly behind him and practically riding his back bumper was a big, black Chevy suburban — an undercover-cop car, he thought. No sirens, just flashing lights installed in the front grille.

Jimmy felt his chest tighten. An inner voice urged him to relax.

You haven’t done anything wrong, that voice said. The cop probably just wants you to move out of the way since you’re hogging the lane and driving like an old lady.

He was driving slowly — and with excessive caution. His dad had agreed to hand over the keys for his BMW. In return, Jimmy had agreed to run to the grocery store to pick up a few items needed for ‘Wafflepalloza’, his father’s hip term for the waffle extravaganza he cooked up every Sunday morning in an attempt to get everyone to sit down and spend ‘quality family time’ together. Completely lame, but Jimmy had to admit the waffles were pretty good.

Jimmy pulled off the main road and banged a right on to Haymarket Street.

The Chevy followed. The flashing lights shut off as it pulled up directly behind him.

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he mumbled to himself.

And that’s why you have nothing to worry about, that inner voice counselled.

But that didn’t stop beads of sweat from popping out along his hairline. He parked against the kerb, removed the Velcro-canvas wallet from his back jeans pocket, leaned across the console and opened the glove box. He was fishing out the registration from the piles of papers when the knock came at the window.

The undercover cop was a woman. She wore a bulky black winter parka and a pair of sunglasses with mirrored lenses. A black knit cap covered her head and ears.

There was something wrong with her face. Like the skin had been stretched too far back. Mrs Dempsey’s botched facelift came to mind as Jimmy rolled down the window.

On the heels of that thought came another one: Why would an undercover cop pull me over?

Jimmy handed over his licence and registration. The lady cop didn’t take them. She held up a leather wallet displaying a heavy gold badge. Beside it and tucked underneath a clear sheet of plastic was an ID with ‘FBI’ printed across the top in big bold blue letters. The accompanying picture showed a middle-aged woman with black hair worn tight across her scalp. Her name was Marie Clouzot.

FBI. She’s a federal agent, oh sweet Jesus.

‘Are you the owner of this vehicle, sir?’

Jimmy nodded. Then he said, ‘It’s my dad’s car.’

‘Your name?’

‘James Weeks. What’s — did I do something wrong?’

‘Well, Mr Weeks, it seems you’re driving a vehicle that was used in the commission of a robbery.’

The heat that spread across Jimmy’s face was so intense he thought his skin would melt.

‘Several eyewitnesses reported seeing this model of BMW at the pharmacy last night, and they gave us a licence-plate number. Your licence-plate number, Mr Weeks.’

Everything came into a sharp and sickening focus — the way her eyes moved behind her sunglasses as she searched his car, her breath steaming in the frigid Pennsylvania air. His lips and jaw trembled as he stammered his way through an explanation.

‘There’s got to… No, that can’t be true. This car belongs — it’s my dad’s car.’

‘Where were you yesterday, Mr Weeks?’

Yesterday. He’d had hockey practice after school. After that, he’d spent a few hours doing homework and preparing for Mr Glassman’s upcoming ballbuster history test, and then he’d gone over to George Durant’s house and played the new Call of Duty game until nine or ten — and he’d driven there in his mother’s shitty Toyota Corolla.

Jimmy told all of this to the FBI agent.

‘Where do you live, Mr Weeks?’

‘Boynton Street,’ he said. ‘It’s not that far, less than ten minutes.’

‘Are your parents at home?’

Jimmy nodded, kept nodding.

‘Do you have a cell phone?’

‘In my coat pocket,’ he said. ‘I can call him right now, he’ll — ’

‘Please keep your hands on the wheel, Mr Weeks.’

‘Call him. My dad. He’ll tell you where I was. I didn’t — I wouldn’t hold up a drugstore.’

She stared at him from behind her sunglasses.

‘I swear to God I’m telling you the truth,’ Jimmy said.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to get in my car. I’m going to drive you to your house, and we’re going to sit down and talk to your parents, see if your story holds up.’ She opened his door. ‘Make sure you lock your car.’

He did. Agent Clouzot told him to get into the passenger’s seat. He did. After she got settled behind the wheel, she asked him for his cell. Jimmy gave it to her. She examined it for a moment before slipping it inside her jacket pocket.

She started the Chevy. Then she took out a pair of plastic handcuffs.

‘Please turn around and place your hands behind your back.’

‘But I–I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Jimmy felt the sting of tears. Felt embarrassed and ashamed for acting like such a pussy — especially in front of a woman.