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Authors: Chris Mooney
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one that warrants further investigation.'
'There's one other thing.'
Karim glanced up from his reading.
'Theresa Herrera wasn't who she said she was,' Fletcher said.
16
'That can't be ... that's not possible,' Karim said. 'If what you're saying is true, the person I assigned to do the data mining would have found it.'
'The person you assigned was very thorough. I read the reports.'
'But?'
'I checked Theresa Herrera's medical records on MIB - the Medical Information Bureau,' Fletcher said. 'It's a digital warehouse for the country's medical records.'
'I know what it is,' Karim said softly. 'Insurance companies use it. What did you find?'
'Her social security number doesn't have a match on the MIB.'
'Nothing?'
'Not a single file.'
'Could be a simple clerical error.'
'Or it could have been expunged,' Fletcher said. 'Whatever the reason, it warrants further investigation.'
Karim nodded as he shut the folder.
'There's only one company that specializes in adding cremated remains to ammunition,' Fletcher said. 'Sacred Ashes, based in Dunbar, Alabama.'
He slid his smartphone across the table. Karim lookedat the company website displayed on the phone's screen.
'I'll drive to Alabama,' Fletcher said.
'Why?'
'To look through the company's records.'
'No, I mean why drive when we can fly? We'll take my plane.'
'In case you forgot, I'm a fugitive.'
Karim waved it away. 'What do you have for ID?'
'A passport and driver's licence.'
'Let's see them.'
'The provenance is clean.'
'Always check, Malcolm. Always check.'
'I always do.' To allay Karim's concerns, Fletcher handed over the items for Robert Pepin.
Karim inspected them for several minutes before placing several phone calls to make sure the documentation hadn't been compromised or flagged for review. His final call was to a contact at Interpol. Fletcher had, under his own name, been given an Interpol Red Notice - an international arrest warrant.
'They're clean,' Karim said after he hung up. 'What's your plan once we reach Alabama?'
'Surveillance,' Fletcher said. 'Then I'll break into their company, examine their computers and paperwork, and find our shooter.'
17
Seventeen-year-old Jimmy Weeks saw police lights explode across his rearview mirror.
It wasn't an ordinary cop car. Directly behind him and practically riding his back bumper was a big, black Chevy suburban - an undercover-cop car, he thought. No sirens, just flashing lights installed in the front grille.
Jimmy felt his chest tighten. An inner voice urged him to relax.
You haven't done anything wrong , that voice said. The cop probably just wants you to move out of the way since you're hogging the lane and driving like an old lady.
He was driving slowly - and with excessive caution. His dad had agreed to hand over the keys for his BMW. In return, Jimmy had agreed to run to the grocery store to pick up a few items needed for 'Wafflepalloza', his father's hip term for the waffle extravaganza he cooked up every Sunday morning in an attempt to get everyone to sit down and spend 'quality family time' together. Completely lame, but Jimmy had to admit the waffles were pretty good.
Jimmy pulled off the main road and banged a right on to Haymarket Street.
The Chevy followed. The flashing lights shut off as it pulled up directly behind him.
'But I haven't done anything wrong,' he mumbled to himself.
And that's why you have nothing to worry about , that inner voice counselled.
But that didn't stop beads of sweat from popping out along his hairline. He parked against the kerb, removed the Velcro-canvas wallet from his back jeans pocket, leaned across the console and opened the glove box. He was fishing out the registration from the piles of papers when the knock came at the window.
The undercover cop was a woman. She wore a bulky black winter parka and a pair of sunglasses with mirrored lenses. A black knit cap covered her head and ears.
There was something wrong with her face. Like the skin had
'There's one other thing.'
Karim glanced up from his reading.
'Theresa Herrera wasn't who she said she was,' Fletcher said.
16
'That can't be ... that's not possible,' Karim said. 'If what you're saying is true, the person I assigned to do the data mining would have found it.'
'The person you assigned was very thorough. I read the reports.'
'But?'
'I checked Theresa Herrera's medical records on MIB - the Medical Information Bureau,' Fletcher said. 'It's a digital warehouse for the country's medical records.'
'I know what it is,' Karim said softly. 'Insurance companies use it. What did you find?'
'Her social security number doesn't have a match on the MIB.'
'Nothing?'
'Not a single file.'
'Could be a simple clerical error.'
'Or it could have been expunged,' Fletcher said. 'Whatever the reason, it warrants further investigation.'
Karim nodded as he shut the folder.
'There's only one company that specializes in adding cremated remains to ammunition,' Fletcher said. 'Sacred Ashes, based in Dunbar, Alabama.'
He slid his smartphone across the table. Karim lookedat the company website displayed on the phone's screen.
'I'll drive to Alabama,' Fletcher said.
'Why?'
'To look through the company's records.'
'No, I mean why drive when we can fly? We'll take my plane.'
'In case you forgot, I'm a fugitive.'
Karim waved it away. 'What do you have for ID?'
'A passport and driver's licence.'
'Let's see them.'
'The provenance is clean.'
'Always check, Malcolm. Always check.'
'I always do.' To allay Karim's concerns, Fletcher handed over the items for Robert Pepin.
Karim inspected them for several minutes before placing several phone calls to make sure the documentation hadn't been compromised or flagged for review. His final call was to a contact at Interpol. Fletcher had, under his own name, been given an Interpol Red Notice - an international arrest warrant.
'They're clean,' Karim said after he hung up. 'What's your plan once we reach Alabama?'
'Surveillance,' Fletcher said. 'Then I'll break into their company, examine their computers and paperwork, and find our shooter.'
17
Seventeen-year-old Jimmy Weeks saw police lights explode across his rearview mirror.
It wasn't an ordinary cop car. Directly behind him and practically riding his back bumper was a big, black Chevy suburban - an undercover-cop car, he thought. No sirens, just flashing lights installed in the front grille.
Jimmy felt his chest tighten. An inner voice urged him to relax.
You haven't done anything wrong , that voice said. The cop probably just wants you to move out of the way since you're hogging the lane and driving like an old lady.
He was driving slowly - and with excessive caution. His dad had agreed to hand over the keys for his BMW. In return, Jimmy had agreed to run to the grocery store to pick up a few items needed for 'Wafflepalloza', his father's hip term for the waffle extravaganza he cooked up every Sunday morning in an attempt to get everyone to sit down and spend 'quality family time' together. Completely lame, but Jimmy had to admit the waffles were pretty good.
Jimmy pulled off the main road and banged a right on to Haymarket Street.
The Chevy followed. The flashing lights shut off as it pulled up directly behind him.
'But I haven't done anything wrong,' he mumbled to himself.
And that's why you have nothing to worry about , that inner voice counselled.
But that didn't stop beads of sweat from popping out along his hairline. He parked against the kerb, removed the Velcro-canvas wallet from his back jeans pocket, leaned across the console and opened the glove box. He was fishing out the registration from the piles of papers when the knock came at the window.
The undercover cop was a woman. She wore a bulky black winter parka and a pair of sunglasses with mirrored lenses. A black knit cap covered her head and ears.
There was something wrong with her face. Like the skin had
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