The Secret Friend

Bryson spoke up. 'Mr Hale -'

'I understand why you said it, and I don't blame you.' Hale sipped his drink. 'I didn't know about your daughter, Detective Bryson.'

'Excuse me?'

'I was told your daughter died. From leukaemia.'

'Your point, Mr Hale?'

'You know what it's like to lose a child. You know that kind of pain. And while I appreciate your intentions to spare me the details of my daughter's death, I've asked you, repeatedly, for information. I've asked you to tell me the truth. I want to know how she died, what this person did to her – I want to know every detail. That's why I hired Dr Karim. They're looking at this case from a fresh perspective.'

'They?'

'Karim has recommended the names of several investigators to review the evidence.'

'What are the names of the investigators you've hired?'

'I haven't hired anyone yet.'

'Have you met these people?'

'No.'

'How did you find Dr Karim?'

'I've seen him on talk shows over the years. He has experience in these types of homicides, so I decided to call him and he agreed to review Emma's autopsy. He supported all of the medical examiner's findings, by the way.'

There was a knock on the door. When it opened, the housekeeper poked in her head and in broken English said, 'Mr Hale, police are on the phone. They said it emergency.'

Hale excused himself and picked up the phone from his desk. He listened for several minutes, then said 'Thank you' and hung up.

'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut this meeting short,' Hale said. 'One of my buildings has been burglarized. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

'Yes,' Bryson said. 'Mr Marsh told us that backup copies of the building's security tapes are stored at your Newton office.'

Hale nodded. 'The tapes are burned onto DVD. It saves on storage space.'

'I'd like to look at them.'

'I don't suppose you'll tell me why.'

'We're pursuing a theory.'

'Of course,' Hale said, sighing. 'You might as well follow me to Newton. That's where I'm going. It appears someone broke into the building.'

'What's the address?'

Hale wrote it down on a sheet of paper. 'I'll meet you there,' he said, ripping the sheet off the pad and handing it to Bryson. 'If you'll excuse me, I need to make some phone calls.'

Darby placed her business card on his desk. 'If this man approaches you, or if you think of anything else, you can call me or Detective Bryson. Thank you for your time, Mr Hale. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly mean that.'

21

The afternoon sun reflected off the rolling sheets of snow and ice. Darby put on her sunglasses to cut the glare. She waited until she was seated inside Bryson's car before she spoke.

'Did you know Hale hired Karim?'

'No.'

'You don't seem surprised.'

'It's what the rich do. They buy their way out of everything.' Bryson started the car and leaned back in his seat, probably wanting to give the engine a chance to warm up. 'Take the JonBenet Ramsey case. Their little girl is murdered, and what do the parents do? They hide behind lawyers and hire top-of-the-line forensic consultants. They get all these so-called experts involved, and wouldn't you know, they put up enough roadblocks to prevent that case from ever going to trial.'

'The Boulder police were sloppy at the crime scene – and don't get me started on how the district attorney behaved.'

'My point is the rich think they operate on a different playing field,' Bryson said. 'And guess what? They do.'

'Do you want to talk to Karim?'

'You're a peer. He might be more willing to share information with you.'

Darby wasn't expecting much. Legally, Karim didn't have to share anything.

'What do you think about our conversation in there?' Bryson asked.

'When we spoke about the intruder, Hale kept fidgeting – stubbing out the cigar, shifting in his chair and looking at his drinking glass. He barely gave us any eye contact.'

'It could be that he's pissed off at us because we won't share information and we haven't been able to give him any closure.'

'He seemed nervous.'

'I picked up that, too. Then again, I'd be nervous if I employed the services of the nation's number four Most Wanted felon.'

'That's quite a leap, Tim.'

'Maybe.' Bryson put the car in gear and drove down the driveway.

'He seemed genuinely surprised about the break-in,' Darby said.

'It's awfully convenient.'

'It is. Still, Fletcher might be working alone.'

When Bryson reached the end of the driveway he said, 'Do you have kids?'

'No.'

'I had one, my daughter, Emily. She had this really rare form of leukaemia. We took her to every specialist under the sun. Seeing everything she went through, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spare her life. I know that sounds overly melodramatic, but it's the honest-to-God truth. You'll do anything for your kids. Anything in the world.'

Darby thought of her mother as Bryson turned onto the main road.

'The other thing they don't tell you is that the pain never goes away. It hurts as much now as it did the day she died.'

'I'm sorry, Tim.'

'Guys like Hale aren't used to living with question marks. The man can buy anything he wants. His net worth, I hear, is somewhere north of half a billion dollars.'

'You think he's made some sort of Faustian deal with Fletcher?'

'His daughter was kept somewhere for half a year, endured only God knows what and then the son of a bitch decides to put a bullet in the back of her head,' Bryson said. 'Hale's been very vocal in the press about his opinions of us. He believes we've done a shit job. If he feels he can't get justice from us, maybe he's decided he can get it somewhere else.'

22

Jonathan Hale stands in front of the living-room window, rubbing the antique locket holding Susan's picture between his fingers. During the day he carries the locket in his pant pocket; at night, he wears it to bed, afraid that if he places it inside a drawer he will somehow be leaving Emma, putting her on the same shelf as Susan, his dead wife, and start the process of forgetting.

Only you can't forget your children. You won't ever forget the frantic phone call from Kimmy, your daughter's best friend, Kimmy asking why Emma is skipping class and not returning any phone calls. Is she sick, Mr Hale? Is everything all right? You'll never forget that agonizing moment when you discover your daughter's empty home or how you forced yourself to keep swallowing the fear minute-by-minute as those first few days bled into a week then stretched into two, then four, then seven, and yet you keep believing the police will find her alive as the months roll by, there's still time, there's still time. You're still clutching that hope and your faith in God when the doorbell rings and you see the detective standing on your front step. You won't forget the painful look on Detective Bryson's face when he tells you the news that a woman matching your daughter's description has been found floating in the river. He opens a folder and you see a picture of a woman's bloated face, the skin waxy and white, picked apart by fish. She is wearing a platinum chain and antique locket – the same one you gave your daughter last Christmas. You remember Emma sitting in the chair tucked in the warm folds of her bathrobe, sunlight pouring through the window and the backyard full of fresh snow. You see her opening the locket and you remember the look on her face when she sees the picture of her mother, dead all these years. You remember that moment and a thousand other ones as you stare at the picture inside the folder, at the white card with the morgue number lying below her chin, and yet you still believe it's a mistake, it has to be a mistake.

The detective waits for you to say, 'Yes, this is my daughter. This is Emma.' Only you can't say the words because once you do, you are saying goodbye.