Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Lovely, Fletcher thought.

‘Because the woman was mentally ill — a paranoid schizophrenic, according to a doctor’s testimony — and because there was no forensic evidence to back up her accusation, the jury dismissed the charges,’ Karim said. ‘Interestingly, both Jenner and De Luca retired from the force after the trial. Now take a look at this.’

Karim turned back to his computer. William Jenner’s licence disappeared from the wall, to be replaced by a silent video clip of a well-dressed newsreader with stylish glasses for Baltimore’s ABC2 news. The woman spoke wordlessly for a moment; she was then followed by a video montage of firefighters battling an early-morning blaze.

‘That would be William Jenner’s house,’ Karim said. ‘The address matches the one on his licence.’

Fletcher wondered if Jenner had been killed, his body dumped inside his house — or cremated at the funeral home.

‘I also checked Gary Corrigan’s house,’ Karim said. ‘That too had been set on fire. There’s no doubt our lady shooter and her male friend are closing down shop and getting ready to leave. I need to share this information with my Baltimore contact and make some additional phone calls. Let’s reconvene here in, say, two hours. Take a shower and relax.’

Fletcher took his netbook and left the office to collect a fresh set of clothes from the Jaguar. He also retrieved the forensic unit holding the data downloaded from Corrigan’s iPhone.

There are three others. At least, Corrigan had told him.

They’re alive, Corrigan had said.

If you don’t take me with you, you’ll never find them.

Fletcher thought of the three homes that had been set on fire and wished he had taken Corrigan up on his offer.

Fletcher entered Karim’s private basement apartment. He did not take a shower, and he did not relax.

The spacious bedroom contained a small desk. He placed the netbook and forensic device on its top and turned on both items. Dust swarmed inside the milky columns of light pouring through the pair of ground-level windows. He could hear the busy Manhattan traffic, the rapid click of shoes and heels moving fast across the pavement, people talking to one another, in person or on phones.

Fletcher connected the forensic device to the netbook. He transferred the data and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes.

Would Nathan Santiago survive his septic infection, or would he die?

Fletcher felt his heart racing. The question had triggered the lizard part of his brain, the prefrontal cortex area housing useless emotions — anxiety, apprehension and fear. Adrenalin coursed through his system, the hormones and neurotransmitters already beginning their savage attack on his central nervous system. Fail to stop it now and his rational mind, already vulnerable in his fatigued state, would gallop away. But fighting it by trying to tighten the reins only fuelled the irrationality, making the brain nearly impossible to control.

Long ago and through much practice, Fletcher had learned how to subvert the disruptive chemical process through transcendental meditation. He didn’t have time right now. He needed to see if Corrigan’s phone contained any information on the possible whereabouts of Santiago. He shelved his concern for the moment, about to get to work, when there was a knock on the apartment door.

He heard it open and then Emma White spoke to him from the adjoining room.

‘Forgive the intrusion,’ M said, ‘but Mr Karim sent me. He needs you straightaway. He’s waiting for you in the garage.’

Fletcher stepped out of the elevator, carrying a garbage bag full of laundry, and found Karim pacing near the Jaguar. The man had thrown on his tatty bomber jacket but left it unzipped. Beneath the buttoned flannel shirt Fletcher saw the outline of a bulletproof vest.

Fletcher opened the trunk and tossed the garbage bag inside. Karim stopped pacing.

‘My contact at the hospital called me — the one working the ER who was going to get Santiago squared away for us,’ Karim said, his voice echoing through the chilly air. ‘Boyd hasn’t shown up, and he isn’t answering his phone. Neither is Dr Sin.

‘Boyd’s BMW has a tracking unit — all of my company vehicles do — and the signal shows it’s still parked at the beach house. His phone also has a GPS chip, and it shows he’s still at the house.’ Panic had leached colour from Karim’s face and there was a visible sheen of sweat on his smooth forehead. ‘I don’t know about Dr Sin. She doesn’t use one of my phones, so I can’t locate her through my network.’

Fletcher’s mind was already working. ‘When I was inside the house, I noticed a security console in one of the first-floor bedrooms.’

‘That’s the monitoring station for the security cameras posted in and around the house. I know where you’re heading. Yes, it’s connected into my network, but I can’t access the cameras or whatever videos are stored on the hard drive. The whole bloody thing is offline.

‘Malcolm, I know I shouldn’t have to ask this, but were you followed?’

‘No.’ Fletcher, ever vigilant, had made sure no one tailed him to Cape May, New Jersey — or to Karim’s home.

‘Then they must have found the house some other way,’ Karim said.

‘What about triangulating Dr Sin’s cell signal?’

‘I don’t have that equipment here. It’s under lock and key at a secure location — the police and federal government don’t look too kindly on an independent security contractor who can trace a cell signal at whim when they have to obtain court-ordered subpoenas.’

‘Are you heading there now?’

‘No. I’ve sent M. I’m going to New Jersey.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘I’m coming with you. I have to be there in case…’ Karim’s voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and he had difficulty swallowing.

Fletcher leaned over the trunk to start collecting his tools and weapons. ‘Before we leave, you need to check to see if the New Jersey police were called to your home.’

‘They weren’t; I already checked. Did you check your car for a tracking device?’

‘I always do.’

‘I’d feel better if we took one of my vehicles,’ Karim said. ‘I’ll drive.’

The black Range Rover had tinted windows and a cream-coloured interior and smelled of new leather. As Karim navigated his way through the morning traffic clogging Midtown, fighting for any opening, Fletcher divided his attention between the windows and the passenger’s side mirror, studying the vehicles, watching for any sign of a tail.

‘I have people following us, watching for anything suspicious,’ Karim said. ‘They’ll follow us to New Jersey and then my people there will take over — we’ll be completely covered. Don’t worry, they won’t see you.’

Fletcher nodded but still conducted surveillance, memorizing vehicle makes and models.

Karim drove with both hands on the wheel. His BlackBerry sat inside a dashboard cubbyhole. He kept glancing at it.

‘You can’t call an ambulance,’ Fletcher said.

‘We’re a good hour away — probably more in this traffic. For all I know Boyd and the doctor are clinging to life.’

‘You need to consider the evidence.’

‘What evidence?’

‘Since Boyd and his car are still on the premises, it stands to reason neither he nor the doctor had time to clean up properly. If you call for an ambulance, the paramedics will enter the house and, at the very least, find blood in the treatment room. The police will be summoned. Forensics will be called in to collect blood samples. If Santiago’s DNA sample is stored inside CODIS, they’ll want to know how blood from a missing seventeen-year-old wound up inside your home.’