Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Fletcher thought about the shell casing in the evidence bag and said, ‘I need a portable mass spectrometer — a new model, and preferably one manufactured in the UK.’ British companies were always on the cutting edge of forensics.

‘I’ll get you one,’ Karim said. ‘When will you be arriving in Chicago?’

‘Let’s meet Monday morning, at six.’

‘Six it is. Give me the address.’

Fletcher gave it to him.

‘If you’re going to be late, please call me,’ Karim said. ‘A dark-skinned man like myself loitering on the streets and holding a big, bulky suitcase — well, we don’t need anyone conducting racial-profiling and summoning the police about a possible terror threat, now do we?’

‘Paulson won’t be driving you?’ Boyd Paulson was Karim’s personal bodyguard. Born in Dublin, raised in London, the pugnacious former boxer had been attached to Karim since the beginning of time — and rarely let Karim out of his sight, as Karim had been the target of many death threats over the years.

‘Boyd is on holiday,’ Karim said. ‘If you need anything else — anything at all — call me.’

‘I will.’

‘Malcolm… There’s nothing you could have done to save her.’

‘I’ll see you Monday,’ Fletcher said, and hung up.

When Lisa Alcione turned nineteen, she ran off to Los Angeles with the man she’d later marry, swearing to her parents she’d never return to Morrison, Colorado. She was forced to return once, to attend her mother’s funeral. Her husband, Tony, had not joined her. Business obligations.

He’s up to no good, her father had told her. A pig dressed up in a suit is still a pig, Lisa.

And now here she was, thirty-five and newly divorced, back in Morrison, back to working the front counter of her father’s ‘family-friendly’ motel, with its quick and easy access to the ski slopes. Maybe the family-friendly thing was true thirty years ago, but now the place catered to budget travellers and cost-conscious adulterers from Denver who paid for rooms in cash and registered under false names.

Standing behind the front counter, she watched her father clearing away the snow in his rickety Ford pickup. She’d been here only two months, and there didn’t seem to be a moment when dear old dad wasn’t reminding her how she had royally screwed up her life. I told you that good-for-nuthin’ had a wandering eye. Guys like Tony, with their Hollywood looks and money, they’re always gonna be lookin’ to upgrade to a younger, fresher model. Men got options, Lisa. Women don’t. Sure, the bright ones do, but God didn’t bless you with either brains or particularly good looks. You need to get your head out of the clouds and stop dreamin’ about some goddamn Prince Charming and settle for someone on your own level.

She’d told her father that Tony had simply wanted out — seven-year itch and all that bullshit. The truth was Tony had dumped her for a younger model, a neighbour’s 22-year-old Swedish au pair who, incidentally, was three months pregnant with Tony’s baby. Dale Alcione would have had a field day with that little nugget of info.

A black car pulled into the lot — an Audi. It drove into the space next to the front office.

Probably another bunch of rich teenagers on their way back from the slopes, looking to spend their Friday night getting wasted or high, she thought. That or some older guy with a young chippie looking to pork their way through the storm. The excitement never ended around here.

The car door opened. Not a teenager or some fat old bald guy but a very tall and very big man dressed in a sharp overcoat. He was alone. When the car door had opened, the interior light clicked on; she saw no one else inside.

The man smiled as he approached the front counter. He had nice teeth and wore a pair of stylish glasses. He had beautiful blue eyes, intense and intelligent. Straightening, she pulled on the edges of her angora crewneck sweater, wanting to show off her figure.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you might have a room available.’

Definitely from somewhere overseas, she thought. ‘I’m sure I can accommodate you.’

‘Thank you so much.’

She told him the rate.

The man took a wad of cash from his pocket.

‘I need a licence and a credit card,’ she said. ‘Security deposits and all of that fun stuff.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve lost my licence.’ The man handed her a hundred-dollar bill. ‘Will this be enough to cover a security deposit?’

‘That’ll do it. Just give me a name and address.’

‘Ted Parker.’

‘Your accent,’ she said, typing in his information. ‘What is it, British or Australian?’

‘Australian, mostly, although I did spend a good number of my formative years in London.’

Something about the man triggered a comparison with one of her favorite actors, Russell Crowe. Maybe it was simply the Australian connection, because this guy certainly didn’t talk like Crowe did in his movies, and there was absolutely no physical resemblance. That wasn’t a bad thing. Ted Parker was certainly doing just fine in both the looks and the body departments, and he had that same animal magnetism Crowe gave off in his movies, that rugged sense of… well, manliness. The kind of testosterone-fuelled alpha male who always won in a bar fight and had his pick of women. A man, she suspected, who knew how to treat a woman right.

‘I’m pretty sure the bars and restaurants in the area are closing down for the night on account of the storm,’ she said. ‘If you’re hungry, I can make you a sandwich. Dale — that’s my father, he owns the place — he has some beers in the fridge. Bud cans, nothing fancy. I can bring some on by if you like.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I’ve already eaten this evening.’

Lisa gave him her best smile as she placed the key on the counter.

He paid in cash, thanked her again and left. Lisa watched him all the way to the car, wanting to know more about the mysterious and charismatic Ted Parker, why he made her feel safe.

Fletcher parked around the side of the dingy motel, where his car couldn’t be seen from the highway. In a few minutes’ time, it would be covered with snow, and no one would recognize it.

He popped the trunk, selected the rucksack and carried it with him to his room. The stale air smelled of bleach and industrial cleaners. He drew the curtains and turned on one of the bedside lamps. Dust swarmed in the cone of light. He suspected the room hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.

Not wanting to leave fingerprints, he switched his leather gloves for a pair of latex. He slid the desk chair across the room and wedged it underneath the doorknob to prevent intrusion. He doubted anyone would come inside, but he had to be careful. He hung up his coat and carried the rucksack to a bathroom decorated with salmon-coloured tiles.

Fletcher removed his contacts. Wearing them even for a few short hours irritated his eyes. He put in a few antihistamine drops and turned on the shower to allow the water to warm up. He undressed carefully, his ribs screaming in protest.

One of the rounds had managed to penetrate the vest’s Kevlar fabric, lodging itself in the cracked ceramic plating — not surprising, given the short distance from which it had been fired.

Slowly, Fletcher bent down and reached for the tactical knife strapped to his calf. He used it to remove the slug, then pitched the edges between his long fingers and held it up to the cheap fluorescent bulbs mounted above the mirror. It was a 9-mm round, but not one he recognized. His suspicions had been confirmed. He dropped the slug inside an evidence bag and continued to undress.

Standing under the hot water, he examined his chest. The tanned skin above his abdomen and left pectoral was red and swollen, tender to the touch. Encouraged by his steady but painful breathing, he doubted he had suffered any internal injuries. He’d been lucky. If he had been shot with a. 44 Magnum or an armour-piercing round, he would have bled to death.