The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  “Let’s see where Hosman is. They may be able to help with Talbot’s books. Anything else on the Moorings or Mulifax after I talked to you?”

  Nash shook his head. “They walked every house, found evidence of a couple squatters but nothing else. If 4MK had her there, she’s gone now. They’re still combing the tunnels, but those things go on for miles, all over the city. We’re not going to find her down there by wandering around in the dark. We need a bread crumb. Aside from the body, Mulifax was a bust.”

  “4MK led us there. There’s a reason. It’s probably—”

  “In the financials, I got it,” Nash interrupted. “Feds, Hosman, financials—I’m all over it.”

  “Porter? Can I speak to you for a second?” Captain Henry Dalton was standing in the doorway. Nobody had seen him come in. His thinning hair was slicked back, still damp from a shower, his suit clean and pressed.

  Porter gave Nash and Watson a quick glance. “Excuse me.”

  The captain put a hand on his shoulder and steered him out into the hallway. He glanced in both directions, then spoke quietly after confirming that they were alone. “Listen, the guys down at the Fifty-First picked up a kid last night on an attempted burglary. He tried to hold up a 7-Eleven on the East Side with a .38. An off-duty uniform happened to be in the store and got the better of him, took him down without a single shot fired. They processed the gun, and it’s a match to the one from, well . . . the gun from Heather.”

  Porter’s stomach twisted into an ache so powerful he thought he might double over. He drew in a deep breath and tried to fight it back. He felt the weight of his own gun under his shoulder, the gun he wasn’t supposed to be carrying right now. Technically, he was still on leave. They wouldn’t allow him a gun until he completed an evaluation and the shrink signed off, until they thought he was ready. If the 4MK case hadn’t broken, he’d still be home, waiting for news, any news, something to help carry him through the day. But the case had broken and they’d called him in. He had welcomed the distraction, anything was better than all the waiting, all the waiting and the solitude.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his cell phone. He wanted to call her. He wanted to hear her voice.

  You’ve reached the phone of Heather Porter. Since this is voice mail, I most likely saw your name on caller ID and decided I most certainly did not wish to . . .

  “I need to go down there,” Porter said. His voice sounded like a little boy’s. The voice he’d had when he was a child, the voice he’d had when there was no bad, only life and good things ahead.

  “I know,” said Captain Dalton. “I already told them to expect you.”

  A tear welled up in Porter’s eye, and he quickly snatched it away before shoving his shaky hand back into his pocket.

  Dalton had noticed and offered a concerned smile. “Maybe someone should drive you.”

  Porter opened his mouth to argue with him, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to pull Nash or Clair off the case, not now.

  “I’ll get Watson to take me over.”

  Captain Dalton glanced into the room and nodded. “They got him dead to rights on the attempted burglary last night, but nobody’s told the perp they matched the gun. I explained your situation, and they agreed to hold off until you got there to observe. I promised that is all you’re going to do: observe. Stay on the right side of the one-way and let them do their job. They’ll get a confession out of this kid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dalton put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, I truly am.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dalton pulled in a breath, nodded, and started for the door of the war room. “Nash! Where the fuck is your latest report? I got a dozen reporters camped outside my office. I gotta feed those dogs some scraps.”

  Nash shrugged his shoulders. “You told us to go home and rest—no time for paperwork. You’re welcome to sit in while we hand out assignments.”

  Dalton paused at the door and turned back. “Oh, and Porter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Leave your spare piece in the car. I don’t want a record of you carrying right now. They’d try and log it at the lineup.”

  Porter nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Clair hung up and walked over. “Hosman may be on to something; he wants us upstairs.”

  “Go with Nash; I need to take care of something down at the Fifty-First. I’m commandeering Watson too.”

  “You’re going to leave me alone with that Neanderthal?”

  Porter’s eyes watered up. He turned away. Clair glanced back at the captain. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Okay. Just . . . just call me if you need anything.”

  Porter forced a smile and nodded. “Thanks, Clair-bear.”

  She punched him in the arm. “Don’t you start too. Assholes, the both of you.”

  Porter winked at her and stuck his head back in the war room. “Watson? Let’s go see about that watch.”

  * * *

  Evidence Board

  Victims

  1. Calli Tremell, 20, March 15, 2009

  2. Elle Borton, 23, April 2, 2010

  3. Missy Lumax, 18, June 24, 2011

  4. Susan Devoro, 26, May 3, 2012

  5. Barbara McInley, 17, April 18, 2013 (only blonde)

  6. Allison Crammer, 19, November 9, 2013

  7. Jodi Blumington, 22, May 13, 2014

  Emory Connors, 15, November 3, 2014

  Left for a jog, 6:03 p.m. yesterday

  TYLER MATHERS

  Emory’s boyfriend

  ARTHUR TALBOT

  Finances?

  Body found in Mulifax Publications Building (owned by Talbot) identified as Gunther Herbert, CFO Talbot Enterprises

  Something fishy with the Moorings Development (owned by Talbot)

  N. BURROW

  Housekeeper? Nanny?—A little of both Tutor

  ITEMS FOUND ON 4MK

  Expensive shoes—John Lobb/$1500 pair—size 11/UNSUB wears size 9— have Talbot’s prints on them

  Cheap suit

  Fedora

  .75 in change (two quarters, two dimes, and a nickel)

  Pocket watch

  Dry cleaner receipt (ticket 54873)—Kloz is narrowing down stores

  Dying of stomach cancer—meds: octreotide, trastuzumab, oxycodone, lorazepam

  Tattoo, right inner wrist, fresh—figure eight, infinity?

  Calc book—left by 4MK—leads to—

  MULIFAX PUBLICATIONS WAREHOUSE

  Partial print found on railcar at tunnel mouth. Probably used to transport the body.

  Ear, eyes, and tongue left in boxes (Gunther Herbert)—brochure on body AND boxes lead to—

  THE MOORINGS LAKESIDE DEVELOPMENT

  Extensive search — nothing found

  Video footage—Appears 4MK committed suicide, no clear visual on face

  Info needed:

  Background on Emory’s mother

  Facial reconstruction—Done

  Assignments:

  Nash and Clair going to see Hosman

  Clair—Organize canvass of cancer centers with image of UNSUB

  Kloz, research dry cleaner’s ticket

  Watson, visit uncle regarding the watch with Porter

  * * *

  45

  Diary

  I was asleep when Mother and Father returned. Well, truth be told, I was pretending to be asleep, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard them.

  At first there was shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words. Mother and Father never ever fought, and I couldn’t imagine them arguing outside where a neighbor might listen, but there they were—yelling in the driveway.

  I couldn’t help but think about Mr. Carter yelling at Mrs. Carter and Mother yesterday.

  They must have caught themselves, because all went suddenly silent. The door opened and closed, and angry steps pounded through the living room. I think Father tossed the car keys. They clattered acr
oss the counter and fell to the floor. Mother simply said, “Do what you want. I won’t be party to it,” then stomped past my door and down the hallway to their room, the door slamming behind her.

  Silence.

  The loudest silence I have ever heard.

  I could picture Father standing in the kitchen, his face aflame. His fists clenched tight, opened, and clenched again.

  I peeled back the sheets and climbed out of bed. I walked on the tips of my toes and pressed my ear to the door.

  “Champ?” Father’s voice bellowed from the other side.

  I nearly tripped over my own feet as I jumped back, my heart pounding as I considered diving for my bed and the safety of the sheets.

  I’d never make it.

  “Champ? You up?”

  I reached for the doorknob, twisted, and pulled the door open, sure and swift. Father’s frame filled the opening, his features dark and shadowed with the kitchen light burning at his back. His hand was still positioned where the doorknob had been a moment earlier, the other holding something behind his back.

  “Burning the midnight oil, buddy?”

  The anger I’d heard in his voice with Mother was either gone or cleverly masked, because now there was no trace. His face held nothing but a smile, his eyes twinkling.

  Father once taught me the importance of projecting emotion. He told me I should always determine the emotion expected of me under a given circumstance and ensure it stood tall and true at the forefront, regardless of what I really felt on the inside. We practiced numerous times. Once, our dog, Ridley, had puppies of her own, and he snapped the neck of one right in front of me, then forced me to laugh. When I wasn’t able to do what he asked, he picked up another puppy, and I let the laughter flow rather than watch another die. That wasn’t enough, though; he said I didn’t sound sincere. By the fourth puppy I learned control. I was able to go from happy to sad, angry to somber, solemn to giddy with the snap of his fingers. Ridley went away soon after that. To where I do not know. I was only five at the time, and my memory of that age is spotty at best.

  Father grinned like the Cheshire cat, and I had no way of knowing how he really felt, nor did I want to. If he suspected I thought he was anything but happy, the evening would not go well for Mother or me.

  “I didn’t want to go to sleep until you got home. In case you needed help with anything.”

  He reached out and ruffled my hair. “You are my little soldier man, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “As a matter of fact, I’d love for you to help me out with a little something, if you think you’re up for it. Feel like having a little fun?”

  Again I nodded.

  “Grab your mother’s big plastic salad bowl from the kitchen cupboard, and meet me down in the basement. I’ve got a little surprise for our guest.” He pulled a paper sack out from behind his back and held it up, then gave the bag a little shake. From inside, something scratched. “This is going to be great!” He smiled.

  This time I knew he really was happy.

  46

  Clair

  Day 2 • 7:18 a.m.

  “Did he say why he had to go down there?” Nash asked, staring at the elevator floor number display.

  Clair rolled her eyes. “I told you three times already. He just said he had something he had to take care of down at the Fifty-First, nothing else. No secret handshake, no passing of notes, no nothing.”

  “It’s got to be something about Heather, though, right?”

  “If he wanted us to know, he would tell us.”

  The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor; they stepped out into a mess of cluttered cubicles and rickety metal desks topped with computers old enough to still house floppy drives.

  Nash took a quick glance around before negotiating the narrow pathway cluttered with file boxes and stacks of folders. “And what’s up with him taking Watson? Why wouldn’t he take one of us?”

  “We don’t even know if it’s about Heather.”

  “It’s got to be about Heather.”

  Clair knew he was right. The captain never came down to the basement. “Yeah, probably.”

  “So why Watson?”

  “According to the hunk of metal they let you carry around, you’re a detective. Why do you think he didn’t want to take one of us?”

  “I’m his best friend.”

  Christ, was this man going to cry? “Maybe he wanted to be around someone who doesn’t know. Less pressure. I mean, I haven’t brought it up, but he knows we know and that creates all kinds of tension. It’s got to be hard for him to be back on the job, surrounded by all this, knowing he can’t do anything. I think he’s handling everything the best he can. Sure as shit better than I would. I’d be a fucking mess.”

  They found Hosman’s office, two doors down from the end on the left side. His door was open and he waved them in. “Who’s ready to do some math?”

  Clair pointed at Nash. “Here’s your guy. Nash won the state math championship in high school, three years in a row.”

  Hosman looked up at Nash with raised eyebrows. “You did?”

  “Sure did. Right after I won the gold in pole vaulting,” Nash replied, nodding his head. “I also bake a mean cherry pie. You should see all the ribbons I’ve received.”

  “So. No math fans, then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know what a Ponzi scheme is?”

  Clair raised her hand. “It’s when a person or business pays returns to its investors from the capital raised from new investors rather than profits earned.”

  Nash whistled. “You’re hot when you know stuff.”

  Clair punched him in the shoulder.

  Hosman tapped a stack of papers on his desk. “I think that’s what we’ve got going on here; not only with the Moorings but across all of Talbot’s holdings.”

  Clair frowned. “How is that possible? He’s one of the richest men in the city, possibly the country.”

  “He’s rich on paper. Crazy rich on paper, but he’s got some serious problems. Things started going south with the Moorings about two years ago. He bought all that land, and a week before his company was supposed to start bulldozing buildings, the Chicago Planning and Development’s Historical Preservation Division won an injunction and blocked the project. They felt the neighborhood should be preserved. During the heyday of Prohibition, at least a dozen speakeasies popped up in that area. Planning and Development felt the city would be better served if they rejuvenated the neighborhood with everything intact, turn the waterfront into a tourist mecca. One of them used to be frequented by Al Capone; the gangsters are always a good draw.”

  Clair tilted her head. “He had to see that coming, right? Rundown shitholes or not, Planning and Development has been preserving pockets like that all around the city. I imagine a savvy real estate developer pads his budget and timeline to deal with those groups.”

  Hosman tapped at one of his spreadsheets. “You’re right; he put twenty million aside in an escrow account specifically to fight these guys. Not only did he see it coming, his attorneys were waiting at the courthouse the day the injunction was filed with a claim of their own.”

  “He planned to sue Planning and Development?” Nash asked.

  Hosman grinned. “Better than that. He filed a suit against the city. His attorneys claimed the speakeasies were built without permits, and not only was it illegal to preserve them, the city was obligated to either bring them up to code or tear them down.”

  Clair whistled. “Wow. How did that fly down at city hall?”

  “Well, they weren’t pleased, and the county filed a counterstrike. The next day they halted construction on two skyscrapers he had going up downtown. One office building, the other residential. Apparently a whistleblower came forward and claimed his company was using substandard concrete. When they tested the mix, it turned out to be true. Too much sand or something. I’m still trying to get the details. The office building is forty-three stories and is
estimated to cost six hundred eighty-eight million dollars, and the residential tower is sixty-four floors with a price tag hovering around one billion.”

  “So what does that mean? He’s got to demo and start over?” Nash asked.

  Clair was studying a picture Hosman had printed of the office building. “Do you think the city knew about the bad concrete all along and only brought the infraction up to retaliate?”

  Hosman raised both his hands. “Dunno on both counts.”

  “We saw houses at the Moorings, so they must have worked out some kind of resolution, right?” Nash pointed out. “I mean, the buildings are gone, replaced with plush single-family homes, so somebody blinked.”

  Hosman was pointing at another spreadsheet. “Well, that’s the mystery of the hour. I found nearly four million dollars leaving his accounts last May, and I’ve had zero luck tracking the recipient. Shortly after, though, construction started back up at the Moorings, and the city allowed him to move forward with the two skyscrapers by approving a very costly reinforcement retrofit.”

  “So he bribed a city official?”

  “That would be my guess. The lawsuits were dropped all around too.”

  Nash frowned. “I’m not a financial analyst, but none of this sounds like a Ponzi scheme to me. Sounds more like a rich guy using his riches to get richer.”