by J. D. Barker
58
Diary
The rat was dead.
As I chased Mother and Father down the steps into the basement, it was the first thing I noticed. Its little black body resembled a soggy dishcloth with eyes. The rat’s head faced its back, and its legs were splayed this way and that. The mangled rodent rested in a small puddle of blood beside the cot where Mrs. Carter now sat, her free hand red with death.
She smiled up at us as we came down. Any fear that had filled her eyes a few hours earlier had vanished, replaced with a cold, icy stare.
“He’ll kill us all, you know.” Her voice was different too, calm and collected. Sure.
“Who?” Father replied, although I was pretty sure he knew exactly who. How Mrs. Carter knew who or what we were coming down to discuss was the question that filled my mind, but evidently she did. She knew exactly why we were down here.
“Did he leave? Because if he did, I wouldn’t expect him to stay gone for very long.” Mrs. Carter wiped her bloody hand on the bottom of the cot, then kicked the dead rat, sending it sliding across the basement floor, leaving a red stripe in its wake. “You really shouldn’t have killed my husband.”
Father drew his hand back, and I thought for sure he was going to hit her. I couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing; he had always told me never to hit a woman even if she hit you, even if she hit you with something heavy—there was never an excuse to hit a woman. Never.
He drew his hand back, grabbed a towel from the top of the washing machine, and tossed it to her.
She smiled a thank-you and wiped the blood off her hand as best she could without water. “If you let me go, I can try to explain what happened, but I don’t think he’ll believe me. Even if he does, I doubt that he’ll care.”
“He wants your husband’s work papers. He said he works for your husband’s boss,” Father said.
She tilted her head. “Well, that’s not a lie.”
“Do you know where they are?”
Mrs. Carter smiled again but said nothing, then tugged at the handcuffs.
Mother, who had remained silent through this exchange, charged at her. Father grabbed her as she jumped through the air in an attempt to tackle Mrs. Carter. Mother squirmed in Father’s grasp, her hands clawing at the air, reaching for Mrs. Carter. “What did you bring into my house!” she shouted.
Mrs. Carter scowled. “You brought me into your house. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t tell you to kill my husband, you crazy bitch.”
That set Mother off, and for a second I thought Father wouldn’t be able to hold her back, but somehow he did. He wrapped his arm around her neck and put her in a sleeper hold, not tight enough to knock her out but enough to let her know that he could if he wanted to, and that was all it took because Mother finally relented and went still. Father didn’t relax his grip, though, and I knew exactly why—when he had taught me how to use a sleeper hold, he said the victim would sometimes pretend to fall asleep or pretend to cooperate, and the second you loosened your grip, they would strike. He told me this not only so I would know how to properly execute a sleeper hold, but also so I would know to try it should I ever find myself locked in one. He had even taught me to feign passing out. Father was extremely wise.
“If I let you go, you need to promise me you’ll behave,” Father said softly at Mother’s ear.
When she nodded, he slowly unwrapped his arms. He remained ready to grab her again if she made another move, but she did not. Instead, she leaned back against the washing machine and glared at the other woman.
Father returned his gaze to Mrs. Carter. “Who does your husband work for?”
“Don’t you mean, who did my husband work for?”
He waived a dismissive hand through the air. “Semantics.”
Mrs. Carter fell silent, and for the first time since we had come down here, I saw the previous fear creeping back into her eyes. She tried to hold it at bay, to appear tough, but it was there, no mistaking it. Father saw it too. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, fragile. “We need to leave, all of us.”
Father kneeled down beside the cot and placed his hand on hers. “Who did he work for?”
She looked at Mother for a moment, then at me, then back to Father. “Criminals. A dozen of them, maybe more. Even a few members of the Genovese family. He helped them hide their money.”
Father didn’t miss a beat. “What did he take from them?”
Mrs. Carter took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let it back out. “All of it. Every last penny.”
59
Porter
Day 2 • 12:18 p.m.
“Just make yourself at home,” Porter told Watson as he dropped his keys on a small table near the front door. “You’re welcome to root around the fridge. I’m not sure what I got in there.”
The ride from the Fifty-First back to his apartment had been quiet. Watson had fidgeted in his seat, and Porter had done his best to try and forget the face of the kid who had shot and killed his wife.
It wasn’t working.
Every ounce of his being wanted to drive back down, shove his Beretta under the kid’s chin, pull the trigger until the last bullet exited the chamber, then beat him over whatever was left of his head.
He wasn’t proud of these thoughts. He didn’t want them. He wasn’t a violent man, and Heather would scold him if she knew he harbored even an ounce of hate for that young man. She would tell him to rise above, not give in to the anger. She would tell him that anger and hatred wouldn’t bring her back and such thoughts did nothing but blacken his soul.
She was right, of course. Heather always seemed to be right, but knowing that changed nothing.
“You okay?” Watson was staring at him.
Porter nodded. “I will be. I just need to catch my breath, regroup.” He hesitated, then said, “Thanks for going down there with me.”
“Anytime. Is that her?” He gestured toward a photo on the end table.
Heather, taken about a year earlier.
Porter reached over and picked it up. “Yeah. I was so proud of her that day. She always wanted to be a writer, was constantly scribbling in a notebook, always writing. I submitted one of her short stories to the Shirley Jackson Awards, and she actually won. I took that photo right after the award ceremony.”
Porter was grateful when Watson didn’t push for more information. “I’ll be right back. Help yourself to some food.” He nodded again toward the kitchen and watched Watson walk off in that direction.
His phone vibrated in his pocket as he entered the bedroom, and he considered letting the call go to voice mail, then changed his mind. A quick glance at the display told him it was Kloz. He hit the Talk button and brought the phone to his ear.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got a serious problem.”
“What’s up?”
“Remember the print you pulled yesterday off the railcar down in the tunnels?”
“Yeah.”
“It came back with a match.”
Porter walked over to his closet and pulled off his jacket, then started on the buttons of his shirt. The coffee was cold and sticky and went halfway up his arm. He’d probably have to toss it.
“Sam, the print belongs to Watson. Only it wasn’t Watson. The name on the ID from ViCAP was Anson Bishop. I just got off the phone with the crime lab—at first glance his file seems legit, but once I started digging I found some holes. His ViCAP record is a fake. There is no Paul Watson. It’s an alias for this Anson Bishop. I’m still trying to piece things together, but he touched that railcar sometime before you and SWAT got down there. That means he’s somehow involved. This is bad, Sam. Real bad. Whoever this guy is, he’s not law enforcement. Where did you say you and Nash found him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shit. He’s with you right now, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Where are you? Are the two of you alone?”
Porter p
oked his head out the bedroom door and glanced back down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Sam, are you there?”
“Watson?” Porter said loudly. “Do I have any beer left in the fridge?”
“Your apartment? You’re home?”
“Yes, sir. That is so true.”
He could hear Watson in the kitchen or the living room, but the man didn’t answer.
Porter removed his shoes and stepped silently out his bedroom and into the hallway, his eyes dancing quickly over the empty living room, then toward the open kitchen door.
“Watson?” Porter slowly reached up and unsnapped his holster’s leather strap. His fingers coiled around the grip of his Beretta as he drew the weapon. “I know it’s early, but I could really use something to take the edge off.”
He heard Klozowski faintly barking orders on the other end of the line. “Keep him there, Sam. I’ve got units on the way.”
“Sure, Kloz. Come on over. Watson and I are heading to his uncle’s watch shop after this; you can ride with us.”
“Closest car is four minutes out. Where is he? Do you have visual? Can he hear us?”
“Watson, if you’re eating all the leftover pizza, I’m not going to be happy.”
With the gun at point, Porter burst through the door into the small room.
Empty.
The large knife slipped into his thigh a moment before he saw Anson Bishop from the corner of his eye. “Don’t move,” Bishop whispered into his ear from behind. “The knife is right on your common iliac artery—that’s one of the largest in the pulmonary system. You attempt to pull out this knife, and you’ll bleed out in seconds. I’m going to help you to the floor. Drop the gun.”
“Who are—” Porter managed to say, the words slipping out from behind gritted teeth.
“Drop the gun. The phone too.”
Porter did as he was told and remained still as Bishop kicked the gun away, then stomped on his phone, crushing it under the sole of his shoe.
“Watson?”
“Shhh, don’t speak,” Bishop said. “Now, easy. Knees first, then lie down on your stomach . . . that’s it. Mind the knife.”
Porter let the man help him down. He could feel the weight of the knife in his leg, but Bishop held the blade still with his free hand until Porter was facedown on his hardwood floor.
“I imagine your friend has help on the way, so you won’t have to wait long. If you notice, there isn’t much blood. It will stay that way as long as you leave the knife in the wound. Wait for the professionals; they’ll know how to take it out. Then a couple of stitches and you’ll be right as rain. I’m sorry I had to hurt you, I truly am. I hoped we would have more time together; I was having such fun. As with all good things, though, they must come to an end at some point, and we are fast approaching the endgame.”
“Where is Emory?”
Bishop smiled. “Please give my best to Nash and Clair. For what it’s worth, I am very sorry about your wife.”
Porter twisted his head just enough to watch him round the corner and disappear into the hallway. In the distance, sirens wailed.
60
Diary
“Well, that was the plan, anyway. Steal it all and get away. I don’t know if he pulled it off, though. Simon talked a big game, but his follow-through left a little something to be desired.”
“They found a beige metal box under your bed. Is that where he put it?” Father asked.
Mrs. Carter shrugged. “Dunno.”
Mother charged at her again, and this time she was faster than Father. Her hands reached for the woman’s hair, grabbed a handful, and pulled hard. Mrs. Carter squealed and swatted at Mother’s arm with her free hand, her nails leaving a quick red slash across Mother’s forearm.“Enough!” Father bellowed, pushing his way between them.
Mother released her grip and snorted, taking a step back. “This woman is going to get us all killed.”
“What specifically did he take?” I asked. This was a valid question, and one I hoped would break the tension.
Mrs. Carter touched her scalp tenderly and winced. She narrowed her eyes at Mother. “We’re all good as dead now.”
Father pushed her down onto the cot. “Answer my boy’s question.”
She smirked at him. “Aren’t you tough, shoving around a woman handcuffed in your basement.” Some blood had dried on her fingernails, and she began picking at it. “Simon knew their business better than they did. If they think he’s run off, they’ve got to be worried.” She gave Father and Mother an accusing glance. “Sounds like the two of you did an excellent job of making it look like he’s in the wind, so I’m sure they’re worked up plenty. You brought them right to you.”
“What did he steal from them?” Father asked again, the anger rising in his voice. He wouldn’t ask a third time, not nicely anyway.
Mrs. Carter gave up on her fingernails and drew a deep breath. “About a month ago, he said the two owners of the firm began acting strange, secretive—more so than usual, anyway. They left him out of a few meetings he felt he should have attended. They began working odd hours. A few times he thought someone had gone through his things. He felt like people were whispering behind his back, preparing to force him out, or worse. He began taking files home and making copies. I told him he was crazy. If they caught him, there was no telling what would happen, but he did it anyway; dozens of them. He told me it was insurance. If they tried to hurt him or cut him out of the business, he’d go public with the records.”
Father ran his hand through his hair. “That sounds like a very dangerous game.”
Mrs. Carter nodded. “Last week, when they pulled him from his largest account, he said that he was going to use the information he had gleaned to embezzle money into an offshore bank so we could run off, just disappear.”
“But you don’t know if he did it?”
She shook her head. “If he did, he didn’t tell me. We’ve been fighting so much this past week, I don’t know that he even would.”
Tears had filled her eyes, and I felt uncomfortable watching her. I looked down at the floor and kicked at the dust.
“What did he do with all the documents he copied?” Father asked.
Mrs. Carter shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. And now he’s gone.”
Father turned to Mother. “People like this, they’d sooner kill us all than risk their dirty laundry getting out. Maybe we should leave.”
“Maybe we should kill them first,” Mother replied quietly.“I know that man. This is just the beginning,” Mrs. Carter said. “He’ll be back, probably soon, probably with others. Running is the only option.”
61
Clair
Day 2 • 1:23 p.m.
“What the hell is going on here?” Steven Mathers’s face was flushed as he stormed into Principal Kolby’s office.
Kolby raised both hands. “Calm down, Steven. I called you as soon as they arrived.”
Steven Mathers’s eyes fell on his son sitting in the far corner of the room, his head down and clasped between his hands. He turned to the detectives. “What do you want with my son?”
Clair motioned to an empty seat in front of the large oak desk. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Mathers.”
This only seemed to anger him more. “What I’m going to do is take my son out of here, lock him in our apartment, and send three of my attorneys down to your boss’s office for a chat. That’s what I’m going to do.”
Clair took a deep breath and let it out. “Your son may be involved in the kidnapping and possible murder of Emory Connors-Talbot.”
Mathers frowned. “Talbot? The real estate guy?”
Nash nodded. “Your son is dating his daughter.”
“Dating is far from kidnapping, Detective.”
“Please take a seat, Mr. Mathers,” Clair asked again.
This time Mathers complied, dropping his briefcase at his side.
“What can you tell us about Jacob Kittner?
” she asked.
“My wife’s brother?”
Clair nodded.
“I haven’t talked to him since my wife, Amelia, died a little over five years ago.”
“What about your son? When was the last time he spoke to Mr. Kittner?”
“He hasn’t had any contact with him, either. We don’t talk to her side of the family,” said Mathers.
The three of them looked over at Tyler in the corner; his face was still buried in his hands.
“Isn’t that right, Tyler?” Mathers said.
When Tyler glanced up, it was from behind red, swollen eyes. “This is my fault, all of it. I didn’t think anyone would get hurt.”
Mathers stood up and walked over to his son. “What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Jake said she wouldn’t get hurt.”
Clair and Nash looked at each other, then back to Tyler.
“Uncle Jake? Since when do you have any kind of relationship with that guy?”
Tyler sighed. “Mom and I used to see him all the time. We didn’t tell you because the two of you never seemed to get along and she didn’t want to fight. When he told me he was dying, I started helping him out around the house—little things after school, that’s all.”
“He was dying?”
Clair glanced up at the principal, who was watching from behind his desk. “Mr. Kolby, do you think you could excuse us for a little while?”
Kolby frowned, prepared to protest, then thought better of it. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
Once the man left, Clair returned her attention to Mathers. “Your brother-in-law had advanced stomach cancer. He probably would have died within weeks.”
Mathers was shaking his head. “Wait a minute, what do you mean by ‘would have’? What happened?”
Nash ran his hand through his hair. “Yesterday morning, at a few minutes past six, Jacob Kittner was struck and killed by a CTA bus while walking to a mailbox at Fifty-Fifth and Woodlawn. We think he was attempting to mail a small white box. That box contained a human ear . . . Emory’s ear. Your brother-in-law was the Four Monkey Killer.”