Chris Mooney - The Killing House

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.’

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?’

Karim didn’t answer.

‘That’s right, Malcolm Fletcher,’ Borgia said. ‘We sent Fletcher and your son’s killer… well, no one knows what happened to him as this person was never caught.’

And never will be, Fletcher thought. Three men had killed Jason Karim — three young men whose gang-initiation rite involved the murder of a wealthy Manhattan resident. Fletcher had scattered their remains along the bottom of the Hudson River.

‘And then we have Boston,’ Borgia said. ‘Five years ago you offered your services to a wealthy businessman whose daughter was, in fact, a victim of a serial killer. We know Fletcher was involved because a Boston forensic investigator named Darby McCormick met Fletcher face to face — twice. We couldn’t prove your involvement with him then, but I can certainly prove it now, as we know Fletcher came here with you.’

Borgia straightened and resumed his position in front of Karim. ‘The penalty for harbouring a fugitive carries a maximum five-year sentence. I’d quote you the six-figure fine involved, but the amount is a drop in the ocean to a man of your financial means. What’s more disconcerting — what I suspect you’re thinking about right now, Mr Karim — is what will happen if the news gets out that you, the owner of one of the country’s most respected and highly visible security firms, are not only working with but hiding the nation’s most wanted fugitive.’

‘I want to speak to my lawyers,’ Karim said.

Borgia went on. ‘Fortunately, I’m in a position to bargain. Tell me where you hid Fletcher and not only will I guarantee no further damage to your house, I can guarantee you probation, no more than six months. More importantly, we’ll keep your name out of the papers.’

‘I want to talk to my lawyers.’

Borgia, unfazed by Karim’s defiance, turned his attention to the HRT operator and said, ‘I understand Mr Karim was armed.’

The operator nodded. ‘We confiscated a 10-mm sidearm, a BUL M-5.’

‘Any other weapons?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Does Mr Karim have a permit to carry in the state of New Jersey?’