Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

Hale introduced himself. The man, wearing gloves, shook his hand but didn't take them off as he slid into the opposite seat. He didn't offer his name.

'What can I get you to drink?' Hale asked.

'I'm fine, thank you.' The man rested his forearms on the table and leaned closer. Hale smelled cigar smoke. 'I'd like to talk to you about the religious statue found in your daughter's pocket.'

'What about it?'

'Was it a statue of the Virgin Mary?'

'I don't know,' Hale said. 'The police refuse to tell me anything.'

'Have you cleaned out your daughter's apartment?'

'No. Dr Karim told me to leave everything alone. He's thinking of hiring investigators to come in and take a look at Emma's things.'

'What have you removed from her home?'

'I haven't… I can't bring myself to remove anything.'

'Don't remove anything, don't touch anything,' the man said. 'With your permission, I'd like to look through your daughter's home.'

'The building has a concierge. He'll provide you with a key. I'll call him.'

'I want you to listen to me very carefully, Mr Hale. If we agree to work together, you're not to tell the police about my involvement. For all practical purposes, I don't exist. That condition is non-negotiable.'

'I don't even know your name.'

'Malcolm Fletcher.'

The man waited, as if expecting some sort of reaction.

'And what do you do for a living, Mr Fletcher?'

'I used to work for the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit.'

'And now you're retired?'

'In a manner of speaking,' Fletcher said. 'I'm sure you have people who perform background checks before you hire an employee.'

'It's standard procedure.'

'For your own safety, I insist you keep my name private. If you send my name bouncing through any of the computer databases, I'll find out, and I'll disappear. Dr Karim will swear under oath that he never mentioned my name. He'll also stop working on your daughter's case. Are you a man of your word, Mr Hale?'

'I am.'

'Make me a copy of your daughter's keys and mail them to Dr Karim. I'll be in touch with you shortly.'

'Before you go, Mr Fletcher, I need to speak to you about something.'

Hale put down his glass and tried to look into the man's eyes. All he could see were the dark lenses.

'When you find the man who killed my daughter, I want to meet him. I want to talk to him alone before you deliver him to the police.'

'Dr Karim told you about what happened to his son.'

'He did, yes.'

'Then you know I'm not going to involve the police.'

'I want to speak to him.'

'Have you ever killed a man, Mr Hale?'

'No.'

'Have you read Macbeth?'

'That condition is non-negotiable.'

'I don't think you fully understand the implications of what you're asking. You need to give the matter some serious thought. In the meantime, remember what I said about involving the authorities.'

Hale kept his word. He didn't conduct a background check. What he knew about the man he had learned from the internet.

In 1984, Malcolm Fletcher, an FBI profiler, was suspected of assaulting three federal agents. One agent, Stephen Rousseau, was still on a feeding tube in a private hospital in New Orleans. The bodies of the two other agents were never recovered.

In 2003, the former profiler was placed on the FBI's Most Wanted List. Hale could not find a reason for the gap in time.

Now Malcolm Fletcher was inside his home office, sitting in one of the leather chairs.

The man had called this morning. Hale told him about the police; Fletcher stated he wanted to be present during the conversation. Not wanting to arouse any suspicion among the staff, Hale suggested he enter the house through the balcony doors leading to the office. The woods would provide excellent coverage.

Hale shut the office door. Fletcher had listened to the entire conversation from inside the coat closet.

'I told them everything you told me to say.'

Fletcher nodded.

'They wouldn't tell me about the statue,' Hale said.

'I know.' Malcolm Fletcher stared at the fire. 'Please have a seat. I want to talk to you about the man who killed your daughter.'

Jonathan Hale took the chair across from Fletcher. Everything the man wore was black – his suit and shirt, his shoes and socks. The colour was an odd choice for someone so pale.

'Last night,' Fletcher said, 'while Miss McCormick was standing in the dark wondering why the lights went out, I was trying to ascertain the reason for her impromptu visit. I knew she would never tell me, so before I was forced to reveal myself to her, I took the liberty of planting a small listening device on top of the crown moulding above the closet door and another one inside the spare bedroom. Fortunately, I had the necessary surveillance gear inside my car, so I listened to Miss McCormick's conversation with Detective Bryson. I know the reason for her sudden urgency to gain access to your daughter's home.'

Fletcher turned his attention away from the fire. Hale could not look away from the man's strange eyes. For some reason they made him think of the mystery stories he read when he was a boy – Hardy Boys stuff where they hunted for buried treasure hidden in dank old castles full of cobwebs and skeletons, rooms full of terrible secrets.

But there was something calming behind the man's eyes. Hale felt his heartbeat slow.

'When Emma disappeared,' Fletcher said, 'the operating theory shared by both the Boston police and the FBI was that she had been kidnapped.'

'That's right.'

'The photograph Detective Bryson showed you to identify your daughter, do you remember it?'

'Yes.' Hale could see the photograph clearly in his mind's eye. He remembered wanting to reach through it and brush away the soot and sand from her face, pick out the twigs tangled in her wet hair.

'In the picture, Emma is wearing a platinum chain with a locket,' Fletcher said.

'I gave it to her for Christmas.' Hale reached inside his pocket and squeezed the locket between his fingers.

'The locket and chain were inside your daughter's home after she was abducted,' Fletcher said.

'I don't understand.'

'The man who killed your daughter came back for the necklace. The police believe he's on one of the security tapes – that's why they asked for access to your Newton office building. They want to review the backlog of tapes. They're now in my possession.'

'You're the one who broke into the office?'

'Yes. I want the police to believe I'm acting independently.'

Malcolm Fletcher handed him a cell phone. 'Keep this with you at all times. The phone is disposable, so there's no way the police can trace the call. If you have any questions, dial the number programmed into the phone's memory. There's only one. Do you know Judith Chen?'

'The missing college student from Suffolk,' Hale said.

'Her body was found yesterday. The police discovered a religious statue sewn in her pocket – a statue of the Virgin Mary. The same statue was found with Emma. I heard Miss McCormick talk about it last night. It reminded me of something, so I decided to investigate. I've come across some information that could be problematic for the Boston police.'

'What kind of information?'

'I'd rather discuss it with you later, after I've had a chance to review the security tapes. I want to see if my theory is, in fact, correct.'

'Marsh told me the police took last night's tapes. I'm sure you're on them.'

'I have no doubt.'

'Then it's only a matter of time before they find out who you are.'

'Yes, I realize that,' Fletcher said, standing. 'I'm going to create a diversion.'

'With what?'

'The truth,' Fletcher said.

Hale's Newton office building was conveniently located off the Mass Pike. The parking lot, cleared of snow, contained a single patrol car. The front door, made of glass, was shattered. Darby saw a brick lying on the lobby floor.