by J. D. Barker
“Did you find Emory?” Talbot blurted out.
“Not yet, but we’ve got a lot of people searching for her.”
Fischman eyed the large box. “Then why is Mr. Talbot here?”
“When was the last time you saw Gunther Herbert?”
Talbot tilted his head. “My CFO? I don’t know, a few days ago. I haven’t been in the office. Why?”
Nash dropped a manila folder onto the table and flipped it open. Glossy photos stared back at them. “We’ve seen him recently, and he ain’t looking too good.”
“Oh, God.” Talbot turned his head to the side to avoid looking down.
Fischman glared at Nash. “What the hell is wrong with you? Is that even Gunther, or is this some kind of sick joke?”
“Oh, that’s Gunther.”
“What happened to him?” Talbot turned back to them, eyes forward, unwilling to look down at the images.
Clair shrugged. “We’re still waiting for the medical examiner to pinpoint cause of death, but I’m fairly confident he didn’t kill himself. Are you familiar with the Mulifax Building down by the waterfront, Mr. Talbot?”
Fischman raised his hand, silencing his client. “Why?”
Nash leaned in close. “Because your CFO was feeding the rats in the basement.”
Talbot looked pale. “Is that what . . . what did that?”
Fischman shot him a look and turned back to Nash. “Mr. Talbot’s company purchased that building from the city. If he visited at all, and I’m not saying he did, it was simply to evaluate the building’s worth.”
“Is that true, Mr. Talbot?” Clair asked.
“I told you it was,” Fischman barked.
“I’d prefer to hear it from your client.”
Talbot turned to Fischman. The attorney considered this and nodded.
“I was there with Gunther a few months ago. Like Louis said, we were thinking about buying it, along with a few other buildings on that block. The city had it set for demolition. We needed to determine if the structure could be salvaged and turned into loft apartments, or if we’d be better off letting the city tear it down and buying the land,” he explained.
“Can you think of any reason he’d go back alone?”
“Did the Monkey Killer do this?”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Talbot.”
“If he did, I didn’t ask him to,” said Talbot. “If he went back, it was of his own accord.”
“Was it the Monkey Killer?” Fischman repeated his client’s question.
Clair shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your client may have reasons of his own for wanting his CFO out of the picture. His daughter too, for that matter,” Nash said.
Talbot’s mouth dropped open. “That’s preposterous! Why would I—”
Clair cut him off. “Why have you kept Emory hidden all this time, Mr. Talbot?”
Fischman raised his hand. “Don’t answer that, Arthur.”
Clair noted how he had dropped the less formal Arty Porter mentioned from yesterday.
“I didn’t keep her hidden,” Talbot replied, eyeing his attorney angrily. “Emory had a hard time getting on after her mother died. I figured it would be best if she wasn’t attached to me. I’m constantly in the press. Reporters would put her picture on the front of every tabloid. ‘Billionaire child born out of wedlock’ and all that. They’d chase her all over town, harass her at every opportunity. Why subject her to such a sideshow? Bad enough Carnegie has to deal with that. I wanted to give Emory a chance at a normal life. Get a good education, start a family, make something of herself without the added pressure of my shadow.” He looked Clair directly in the eyes. “Bottom line, though, if she wished to go public, I would have supported her in a heartbeat. Damn the consequences to me. Do you have children, Detective?”
“I do not.”
“Then I can’t expect you to understand. When you have a child, life ceases being about you and becomes wholly about them. You’ll do anything for them. I spoke to Ms. Burrow about it once, and she asked me a simple question. ‘If Emory were standing in the middle of the street about to be hit by a car, would you sacrifice your own life to save hers?’ Without hesitation, I knew the answer was yes. When she asked me the same question about my wife, I found myself hesitating. This was very telling to me. You can never love someone as much as you love your own child, including yourself. And you will do absolutely anything to protect them.”
“Why do you think someone would take her?” Clair asked.
Fischman narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you mean, why would the Monkey Killer take her?”
“Sure, let’s go with that.” Clair shrugged. “Why would the Monkey Killer take your illegitimate daughter?”
Talbot’s face flushed but he replied evenly. “You’re the detective. Why don’t you tell me.”
Clair rested her hand on the white box. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned about the Monkey Killer over the years, it’s that he doesn’t do anything without purpose or a clear endgame in mind. He targeted you because he feels you did something wrong, something worthy of punishment. Rather than hurt you directly, he kidnaps your daughter. What I find odd is that he went with a daughter nobody has ever heard about, someone completely isolated from the Talbot empire, over the Talbot family heiress. Your other daughter, Carnegie, she’s a bit of a socialite. A spoiled little rich brat who—”
“Watch it, Detective,” Fischman said.
“A spoiled little rich brat who galavants around the city, spending her daddy’s money. Kidnap her, and you’re guaranteed media sensationalism. He’d draw so much attention to this case, you couldn’t buy a paper in the Philippines without stumbling on an article or two. That’s what he usually wants, right? If you examine any of the other cases, he went for big impact, blood to feed the media machine. Here, though, he breaks MO and takes the unknown daughter. One you’ve locked away in an ivory tower and hidden from the world. Why do you think that is?”
Talbot looked to his attorney, then back to Clair. “Maybe he thinks when the press finds out about Emory, who she is, the story will blow up bigger than if he had taken Carnegie.”
Clair tilted her head, considering this. “Sure, that would be my first guess, but I think he’s smarter than that. I think he had a very specific reason for choosing Emory over Carnegie, one that may explain why he targeted you in the first place.” She reached up and tapped the lid of the box. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with the Moorings, Mr. Talbot?”
Talbot shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He exchanged a look with Fischman, then glared at the box. “The Moorings?” he said, his voice cracking.
“Don’t say a word, Arthur. Not a single word,” said Fischman. “Detective, we’re here to help you find Emory. Mr. Talbot came down willingly. If this is going to turn into some kind of witch-hunt, then I’ll put an end to this interview right now.”
A mischievous grin found the edges of Clair’s lips. “Oh, I think this has much more to do with Emory than your client initially told you, Mr. Fischman. Look at him. See how the gears are turning?” Standing, she walked around behind them and faced the mirror. She leaned down to whisper in Fischman’s ear. “He’s trying to figure out how he’s going to convince you he still has the funds to pay your firm after you see his latest bank statements.”
Nash approached the table, his eyes falling to the box. Both Fischman and Talbot swiveled their head back at him. “Your buddy Arty couldn’t finance a Snickers bar. Isn’t that right, Arty?”
“He’s been shuffling assets between his various projects like a shell game,” Clair said. “His accounts are tapped, loans are due, and the investors are starting to knock on his door. He probably has a packed bag in the car right now, ready to skip town. Then there’s the little problem with phase two down at the Moorings.” She tilted her head at Fischman. “Aren’t you an investor in that project?”
“As an investor, wouldn’t it bother you to learn Mr. Talbot doesn’t actually own the land he’s attempting to build on?” Clair asked.
“What?”
“I just want you to find my daughter,” Talbot murmured.
“I bet you do, Arty,” said Nash.
“What are they talking about, Arthur?”
“Carnegie doesn’t own any real estate, does she, Mr. Talbot? Not like Emory, anyway,” Clair said. “Why don’t you tell your friend here exactly why the Monkey Killer picked her over Carnegie?”
Fischman glared at him. “Arthur?”
Talbot waved a hand at him. “Emory’s mother originally owned the waterfront development land from Belshire to Montgomery. When she died, she willed it to Emory.” He turned back to Clair. “It’s only a formality, though. Emory agreed to sell it to me. She completely supports this project.”
Fischman grew red. “She’s a minor, Talbot. She can’t sell you anything for another, what, three years? The development is supposed to be finished in fifteen months.”
Talbot was shaking his head. “We can get around that. I’ve been working with her trust. The paperwork was drawn up months ago. As her legal guardian, I can sign for her at any time.”
Nash pulled the legal document Hosman had copied for him from his pocket and handed it to Talbot, pointing at the highlighted paragraph. “Your CFO is dead. That’s his signature as witness on the lien transfer. The one man in your organization who could expose this problem is out of the picture. Doesn’t that seem a little convenient? As Emory’s father, if she dies, you take complete control of her assets. The trust becomes irrelevant. You take over the land and move forward with the Moorings without missing a beat. I’m beginning to wonder if the Monkey Killer has anything to do with this. To me, it seems like everything that has happened benefits you.”
“That’s motive, Mr. Talbot,” Clair pointed out. “You clearly have the means.”
Talbot was shaking his head. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s not like that.”
“I think it’s exactly like that.”
“No, I mean the trust doesn’t work that way.” Talbot took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. “If Emory dies, the land reverts to the city.”
Clair furrowed her brow. “What?”
Talbot rolled his eyes. “It was her mother. When she drafted the trust, she was very clear on this point. If something happens to Emory, if she dies before her eighteenth birthday, all real estate reverts to the city, and remaining assets will be distributed to various charities. The only way I can obtain the land is with Emory’s consent.” He smiled. “You see, Detective, if anyone has a vested interest in seeing my daughter returned safely, it’s me.”
Clair turned to his attorney. “Is that true, Mr. Fischman?”
Fischman raised both his hands and shrugged. “My office doesn’t handle the trust. I wouldn’t know.”
“We’ll need to see a copy,” Clair told Talbot.
He nodded. “I’ll ask my secretary to e-mail it to you.” Glancing at both detectives, he added, “If there is nothing else, I need to return to my office. Unless, of course, you plan to charge me with something? Then I imagine I’ll need to post bail.”
“You’re broke, Talbot,” Nash said. “How do you plan to do that?”
Talbot only glowered, tightlipped.
Clair grunted, turned, and went into to the small room next door, leaving Nash with Talbot and Fischman. The recording engineer glanced up at her. “That went smoothly.”
“Fuck off,” she said. Scanning the counter, she picked up a photograph and stomped back to the interrogation room. She dropped the photograph on the table in front of Talbot. “Do you recognize those?”
“Should I?” He frowned. “They look like John Lobbs, black leather.”
“Do they belong to you?”
“I don’t know. I own many shoes. If you’d like a pair, I can recommend a nice store downtown.”
“Smart-ass,” Nash said. “The Monkey Killer was wearing these shoes yesterday morning when he stepped in front of that bus. We lifted your fingerprints. How do you explain that?”
Fischman raised his hand again and leaned over to Talbot, whispering in his ear.
“I can’t,” Talbot said. “Perhaps someone stole them from one of my residences. I own dozens of John Lobbs. They’re quite comfortable.”
A condescending smirk had filled his face. Clair wanted to hit him. “What size shoe do you wear?”
Talbot glanced at his attorney, who nodded, then looked back to Clair. “Eleven.”
“Same size as these.”
Talbot picked up the picture and tossed it aside. “You’re wasting your time chasing me on this, Detectives. Whether you believe it or not, I love my daughter and I would never do anything to put her in harm’s way. If you’d prefer to think of me as some kind of heartless bastard, then rest easy in the fact I need her alive in order to complete the Moorings project successfully. Either way, as long as you’re in here with me, you’re not out there trying to find her, and that is not acceptable.”
Fischman squeezed Talbot’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Arty.”
Arty again.
“I think you’ve wasted enough of my client’s time, Detective Norstrum,” said Fischman.
“It’s Norton.”
“Yes, well, forgive me,” he replied. “Are you filing charges? If not, we’ll be leaving now.”
Clair let out a frustrated sigh and motioned for Nash to follow her into the adjoining room. He closed the door as he stepped in behind her. “Not a fucking word out of you,” she said to the engineer.
He raised his hands and held back a smile.
“It wasn’t a total loss,” Nash said. “At least he’s going to hook us up with a good shoe store.”
Clair punched him in the chest.
“Christ, Clair-bear!” He guffawed. “I’m one of the good guys, remember?”
“Waste of fucking time,” Clair said. “He’s in on it . . . has to be.”
Nash was shaking his head. “You’re getting too wrapped up in this. You’ve gotta step back. I think 4MK is playing us. Talbot is his target. That doesn’t necessarily mean he should be ours. If what he said about the trust pans out, I think he’s off the hook. Do you think that guy killed his CFO? Like that? I don’t. The boxes were the same ones 4MK has used from the beginning. How would somebody like Talbot even know what kind to get? If he wanted to kill his CFO to cover something up, he would hire someone to take him out, make it look like an accident, a drowning or a car wreck, maybe even a heart attack. I’m willing to bet Hosman will link the CFO to the financial crimes—that’s reason enough for 4MK to move on him. We’ve seen him kill for less.”
She knew he was right, but she sure as shit wasn’t about to admit it.
“We’ll still get Talbot on the financial crimes, just not on this. We’ve got to stay on track, focus on finding Emory.”
“We’re no closer now than we were twelve hours ago. That girl is going to die of dehydration before we find her,” Clair said quietly. “We’re running out of time.”
Nash nodded at the white box on the interrogation room table. “What about that?”
Clair shrugged. “It’s empty. I figured it would put him on edge.”
He rolled his eyes. “Let the feds book him on the financial crimes. We should head back downstairs and run the board.”
Clair’s phone buzzed and she glanced down at the display. “It’s Belkin.” She hit the Talk button and put the call on speaker.
“Detective? I’m down at University of Chicago’s Medical Center. A nurse here ID’ed 4MK from a photo of the reconstruction.”
“Is she sure?” Clair said.
“Positive. Said he always wears the fedora and mentioned he stares at an old-fashioned pocket watch for the duration of his treatment. It’s our guy. His name is Jacob Kittner. I’ve got an ad
dress. I’m texting it to you now.”
“Send it to Espinosa with SWAT, and tell them to meet us there. We’re on our way.” She disconnected the call and smiled at Nash. “I’d kiss you right now if you weren’t such an ugly son of a bitch.”
53
Diary
“Pass the potatoes, please,” I asked of nobody in particular.
Mother had returned home about two hours earlier and immediately started on dinner. Father walked in and sat at the table without so much as a hello to her. He rubbed my head with a “How’s my little man doing?” but I could tell it was forced.
There was tension in the air, and it was thick.
When the potatoes didn’t arrive at my plate, I reached across the table and grabbed the bowl myself, procuring a generous helping. Neither Mother nor Father said anything when I avoided the greens entirely this evening, leaving the broccoli for the adults while grabbing an extra slice of meatloaf.
The unsteady clink of our forks against porcelain seemed so loud, I was fairly certain our neighbors would have heard them if one wasn’t dead and the other chained up in the basement.
I reached for my milk, chugged it, and wiped my chin with the back of my hand.
“A man came by today. He was looking for the Carters. At first I thought he might be a cop, but now I’m not so sure.”
Father peeked up from his meal and glanced at Mother. When their eyes met, he turned to me. He was eating the broccoli, a piece of it stuck between his two front teeth. “You shouldn’t call him a cop. You should refer to him as a police officer. Calling him a cop is disrespectful.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Did he say he was a police officer?”
Earlier, I had pondered this long and hard. “He had a badge, but no, sir, he did not. But he acted like one. At first anyway, then not so much.”
“What do you mean?”
I ran through the conversation as best as I could recall.
“A Plymouth Duster?” Mother said when I finished. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. My friend Bo Ridley’s father has one just like it, except his is yellow. I’d recognize that car anywhere.”