'Is there any way he could have found out about the trace?'
'No. My guess is he's playing it safe, trying to hedge his bets. I've got to run and coordinate with Jordan. He's still scrambling to get his people together.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'It's like you said – he left us the same Virgin Mary statue we found in Chen's and Hale's pockets. It's hard to ignore that fact.'
'He wants to meet me alone.'
'Jordan's using some undercover narcotics detectives. They'll pose as Reed's security people and escort you inside.'
'Tim, if Fletcher does, in fact, know something, maybe I should go in there alone.'
'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.'
'If the man wanted to hurt me, he's had ample opportunity,' Darby said. 'What does Fletcher have to gain by killing me?'
'If I let you go inside the hospital without any sort of protection, the commissioner will have my ass. If something happens to you – if you go in there and stub your toe, the city would be liable. You could sue me, the city.'
'You want me to sign a waiver?'
'I'm not going to debate this with you. You want to drive up to Sinclair, then go, but we're going to be there.'
'I'm driving there now.'
'Okay. We'll make sure all the exits are covered.'
'How many are there?'
'A lot,' Bryson said. 'This past weekend Reed showed me all the different places people can sneak inside. His security can only cover so much of the campus at any given time. When Fletcher calls, keep him on the phone and we'll do the rest. Is your phone fully charged?'
Darby checked the battery level. 'It's still got some juice,' she said. 'I have a charger in my car.'
'Good. Everyone will be in position by the time you arrive.'
'What if he leads me into the basement? The cell won't work down there.' They had discovered that during their weekend search. The basement was too far underground, the walls too thick. The signals either dropped or cut out completely.
'I'm hoping it doesn't come to that,' Bryson said.
47
Jonathan Hale sat on his office floor, elbows propped on his knees and hands buried in his unwashed hair as he stared at the pictures of Emma and Susan scattered across the rug.
All day Saturday he had scoured the house for the photo albums and removed each and every picture and arranged them on the floor. It was now Monday evening. He had spent the entire time holed up in here in his office drinking bourbon and reliving the memories buried in each of the pictures. Some were clear but most had either faded or dulled.
When he nodded off, sometimes he had flashes, clips of memory that didn't make much sense or carry any significant weight – Susan kneeling on the boat dock, rubbing sunscreen on Emma's pudgy little arms; Emma cutting off her doll's hair then crying after Susan told her it wouldn't grow back; Susan at a Rolling Stones concert sipping beer from a paper cup while Mick Jagger belted out 'Sympathy for the Devil'.
A phone rang. He thought it was his office phone, and when he stood, he realized the ringing was coming from inside his suit jacket. He only carried one phone with him now; the one Malcolm Fletcher had given him.
'Have you looked at today's mail?' Fletcher asked.
'No.'
'I placed an envelope inside your mailbox,' Fletcher said. 'Inside you'll find a DVD containing the garage surveillance video of the man who killed Emma. Call me after you've seen it.'
Hale opened his office door. His assistant had placed the day's mail inside the leather tray sitting on the small table, along with a new bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon. A small padded brown envelope was tucked into the bottom. Malcolm Fletcher's name was written as the return address. The envelope, Hale noticed, didn't contain any postage.
Standing at his desk, Hale grabbed the envelope's tab and ripped it open. A shiny silver DVD slid onto his blotter.
His office had a TV with a DVD player. He made sure the door was locked, then slid the disk inside the player and waited.
The garage surveillance tape is a grainy haze of colour without sound. On the TV screen, a man wearing jeans, a baseball cap and a windbreaker runs across the garage to the private elevator. He presses the button and then bows his head, his gloved hands making fists by his sides. His back is toward the camera.
The elevator doors open. The man steps inside. He doesn't turn around, just stands there with his head bowed. He knows the cameras are watching and recording.
The doors start to slide shut. He whips his head around and the camera catches a brief glimpse of his face as he presses the number for Emma's penthouse suite.
Jonathan Hale shifted his attention to the bottom right-hand corner of the TV screen, to the bold white lettering holding the date and time of the recording: July 20: 2:16 a.m. Emma had been missing for two months. The man who had abducted her had decided, for a reason known only to God, to come back to her home to retrieve a necklace.
Why? Why would this monster risk everything for a necklace? Why would he perform this seemingly kind act only to turn around and kill her?
The tape ended. The TV went dark.
Hale stared at the screen and imagined his daughter trapped in some rundown room with no windows or light, Emma alone, confused and scared, forced to do things only God could see. When she cried out in pain, when she asked God for comfort, did he listen or turn his back? Hale already knew the answer.
Fact: the man had entered in through the garage.
Fact: he had waited for the garage to open and then snuck inside.
Fact: Detective Bryson said he had people posted in front of the building. Why hadn't his people seen this man? If Bryson's men had done their goddamn job, they would have seen this man and caught him and Emma would be alive.
Fact.
Hale started the DVD again, pierced by a memory of Emma sitting in this same chair watching The Sound of Music. After Susan died, Emma watched the movie over and over again, insisted on watching it in here, in the office, so she could be close to him. Only now did he understand the connection – the mother died and the children found a new mother in the nanny. Emma must have watched the movie for comfort because I was unavailable.
Now Hale watched a movie for comfort. Again he watched the man who killed his daughter, the man who was last to see Emma alive, to speak with her, the last man to touch her.
Hale gripped the armchair as a new memory came to him: Emma, a little over a year old, sitting on his lap while he is talking on the phone. He doesn't remember what the call was about, although it was probably business related. What he remembers now, clearly, vividly, is the smell of his daughter's clean hair, the curve of her plump and downy cheek pressed up against his neck. He remembers the way Emma's mouth hangs open as she studies his pen. She holds it in her tiny hands, her eyes wide, amazed.
Hale knew he would spend the good part of whatever was left of his life wishing he could go back in time to that moment. If God would somehow grant him this impossible power to go back through time, he would hang up the phone and just stare at Emma playing with the pen. He knew he could stay wrapped up in that memory forever and be happy.
48
Malcolm Fletcher stood in front of a glassless window inside the dark, dusty remains of Sinclair's top floor, watching the main road. He had selected this location for its strong cellular signal and its sweeping view of the campus, one aided by the use of a pair of excellent night-vision binoculars equipped with infrared technology. With the flick of a switch he could locate the heat signatures of anyone sitting inside a car or van, conducting surveillance.
The binoculars pressed to his eyes, Fletcher surveyed the area. Reed's security staff patrolled the campus in shifts, focusing their attention on some of the more unorthodox ways one might enter the hospital. There were several points of entry, and many ways in which one could escape without being seen.