J. D. BARKER is the international best-selling author of Forsaken, a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Debut Novel. In addition, he has been asked to co-author a prequel to Dracula by the Stoker family. Barker splits his time between Englewood, Florida, and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

For Mother

Don’t stop reading. I need you to understand what I have done.

— DIARY

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

1. Porter: Day 1 • 6:14 a.m.

2. Porter: Day 1 • 6:45 a.m.

3. Porter: Day 1 • 6:53 a.m.

4. Porter: Day 1 • 7:05 a.m.

5. Diary

6. Porter: Day 1 • 7:31 a.m.

7. Porter: Day 1 • 7:48 a.m.

8. Diary

9. Porter: Day 1 • 8:49 a.m.

10. Porter: Day 1 • 9:23 a.m.

11. Diary

12. Emory: Day 1 • 9:29 a.m.

13. Porter: Day 1 • 10:04 a.m.

14. Diary

15. Porter: Day 1 • 10:31 a.m.

16. Diary

17. Emory: Day 1 • 9:31 a.m.

18. Porter: Day 1 • 11:30 a.m.

19. Diary

20. Clair: Day 1 • 1:17 p.m.

21. Diary

22. Porter: Day 1 • 1:38 p.m.

23. Diary

24. Porter: Day 1 • 3:03 p.m.

25. Diary

26. Emory: Day 1 • 3:34 p.m.

27. Diary

28. Porter: Day 1 • 4:17 p.m.

29. Diary

30. Porter: Day 1 • 4:49 p.m.

31. Diary

32. Emory: Day 1 • 5:00 p.m.

33. Diary

34. Porter: Day 1 • 5:23 p.m.

35. Diary

36. Porter: Day 1 • 5:32 p.m.

37. Diary

38. Porter: Day 1 • 6:18 p.m.

39. Diary

40. Porter: Day 1 • 9:12 p.m.

41. Diary

42. Porter: Day 2 • 4:58 a.m.

43. Diary

44. Porter: Day 2 • 6:53 a.m.

45. Diary

46. Clair: Day 2 • 7:18 a.m.

47. Diary

48. Emory: Day 2 • 8:06 a.m.

49. Diary

50. Porter: Day 2 • 8:56 a.m.

51. Diary

52. Clair: Day 2 • 9:23 a.m.

53. Diary

54. Porter: Day 2 • 9:23 a.m.

55. Clair: Day 2 • 10:59 a.m.

56. Diary

57. Emory: Day 2 • 11:57 a.m.

58. Diary

59. Porter: Day 2 • 12:18 p.m.

60. Diary

61. Clair: Day 2 • 1:23 p.m.

62. Diary

63. Clair: Day 2 • 3:56 p.m.

64. Emory: Day 2 • 4:18 p.m.

65. Diary

66. Porter: Day 2 • 4:40 p.m.

67. Diary

68. Clair: Day 2 • 4:47 p.m.

69. Diary

70. Porter: Day 2 • 4:57 p.m.

71. Diary

72. Clair: Day 2 • 5:09 p.m.

73. Diary

74. Porter: Day 2 • 5:12 p.m.

75. Diary

76. Clair: Day 2 • 5:12 p.m.

77. Diary

78. Porter: Day 2 • 5:22 p.m.

79. Diary

80. Clair: Day 2 • 5:26 p.m.

81. Diary

82. Porter: Day 2 • 5:27 p.m.

83. Diary

84. Porter: Day 2 • 5:31p.m.

85. Clair: Day 2 • 5:31p.m.

86. Porter: Day 2 • 5:32 p.m.

87. Clair: Day 2 • 5:33 p.m.

88. Porter: Day 2 • 5:33 p.m.

89. Clair: Day 2 • 5:34 p.m.

90. Porter: Day 2 • 5:40 p.m.

91. Porter: Day 2 • 5:58 p.m.

92. Porter: Day3 • 8:24 a.m.

Epilogue: Two Days Later

Acknowledgments

Copyright

1

Porter

Day 1 • 6:14 a.m.

There it was again, that incessant ping.

I turned the ringer off. Why am I hearing text notifications? Why am I hearing anything?

Apple’s gone to shit without Steve Jobs.

Sam Porter rolled to his right, his hand blindly groping for the phone on the nightstand.

His alarm clock crashed to the floor with a thunk unique to cheap electronics from China.

“Fuck me.”

When his fingers found the phone, he wrestled the device from the charging cable and brought it to his face, squinting at the small, bright screen.

CALL ME — 911.

A text from Nash.

Porter looked over at his wife’s side of the bed, empty except for a note —

Went to get milk, be back soon.

xoxo,

Heather

He grunted and again glanced at his phone.

6:15 a.m.

So much for a quiet morning.

Porter sat up and dialed his partner. He answered on the second ring.

“Sam?”

“Hey, Nash.”

The other man fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Porter. I debated whether or not to contact you. Must have dialed your number a dozen times and couldn’t bring myself to actually place the call. I finally decided it would be best just to text you. Give you a chance to ignore me, you know?”

“It’s fine, Nash. What have you got?”

Another pause. “You’ll want to see for yourself.”

“See what?”

“There’s been an accident.”

Porter rubbed his temple. “An accident? We’re Homicide. Why would we respond to an accident?”

“You’ve gotta trust me on this. You’ll want to see it,” Nash told him again. There was an edge to his voice.

Porter sighed. “Where?”

“Near Hyde Park, off Fifty-Fifth. I just texted you the address.”

His phone pinged loudly in his ear, and he jerked it away from his head.

Fucking iPhone.

He looked down at the screen, noted the address, and went back to the call.

“I can be there in about thirty minutes. Will that work?”

“Yeah,” Nash replied. “We’re not going anywhere soon.”

Porter disconnected the call and eased his legs off the side of the bed, listening to the various pops and creaks his tired fifty-two-year-old body made in protest.

The sun had begun its ascent, and light peeked in from between the closed blinds of the bedroom window. Funny how quiet and gloomy the apartment felt without Heather around.

Went to get milk.

From the hardwood floor his alarm clock blinked up at him with a cracked face displaying characters no longer resembling numbers.

Today was going to be one of those days.

There had been a lot of those days lately.

Porter emerged from the apartment ten minutes later dressed in his Sunday best — a rumpled navy suit he’d bought off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse nearly a decade earlier — and made his way down the four flights of stairs to the cramped lobby of his building. He stopped at the mailboxes, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in his wife’s phone number.

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 speak to you. If you’re willing to pay tribute in the form of chocolate cake or other assorted offerings of dietary delight, text me the details and I’ll reconsider your position in my social roster and possibly get back to you later. If you’re a salesperson trying to get me to switch carriers, you might as well hang up now. AT&T owns me for at least another year. All others, please leave a message. Keep in mind my loving husband is a cop with anger issues, and he carries a large gun.

Porter smiled. Her voice always made him smile. “Hey, Button. It’s just me. Nash called. There’s something going on near Hyde Park; I’m meeting him down there. I’ll give you a call later when I know what time I’ll be home.” He added, “Oh, and I think there’s something wrong with our alarm clock.”

He dropped the phone into his pocket and pushed through the door, the brisk Chicago air reminding him that fall was preparing to step aside for winter.

2

Porter

Day 1 • 6:45 a.m.

Porter took Lake Park Avenue and made good time, arriving at about a quarter to seven. Chicago Metro had Woodlawn at Fifty-Fifth completely barricaded. He could make out the lights from blocks away — at least a dozen units, an ambulance, two fire trucks. Twenty officers, possibly more. Press too.

He slowed his late-model Dodge Charger as he approached the chaos, and held his badge out the window. A young officer, no more than a kid, ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and ran over. “Detective Porter? Nash told me to wait for you. Park anywhere — we’ve cordoned off the entire block.”

Porter nodded, then pulled up beside one of the fire trucks and climbed out. “Where’s Nash?”

The kid handed him a cup of coffee. “Over there, near the ambulance.”

He spotted Nash’s large frame speaking to Tom Eisley from the medical examiner’s office. At nearly six foot three, he towered over the much smaller man. He looked like he’d put on a few pounds in the weeks since Porter had seen him, the telltale cop’s belly hanging prominently over his belt.

Nash waved him over.

Eisley greeted Porter with a slight nod and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “How are you holding up, Sam?” He held a clipboard loaded with at least a ream of paper. In today’s world of tablets and smartphones, the man always seemed to have a clipboard on hand; his fingers flipped nervously through the pages.

“I imagine he’s getting tired of people asking him how he’s holding up, how he’s doing, how he’s hanging, or any other variation of well-being assertion,” Nash grumbled.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He forced a smile. “Thank you for asking, Tom.”

“Anything you need, just ask.” Eisley shot Nash a glance.

“I appreciate that.” Porter turned back to Nash. “So, an accident?”

Nash nodded at a city bus parked near the curb about fifty feet away. “Man versus machine. Come on.”

Porter followed him, with Eisley a few paces behind, clipboard in tow.

A CSI tech photographed the front of the bus. Dented grill. Cracked paint an inch above the right headlight. Another investigator picked at something buried in the right front tire tread.

As they neared, he spotted the black body bag among a sea of uniforms standing before a growing crowd.

“The bus was moving at a good clip; its next stop is nearly a mile down the road,” Nash told them.

“I wasn’t speeding, dammit! Check the GPS. Don’t be throwing accusations like that out there!”

Porter turned to his left to find the bus driver. He was a big man, at least three hundred pounds. His black CTA jacket strained against the bulk it had been tasked to hold together. His wiry gray hair was matted on the left and reaching for the sky on the right. Nervous eyes stared back at them, jumping from Porter, to Nash, then Eisley, and back again. “That crazy fucker jumped right out in front of me. This ain’t no accident. He offed himself.”

“Nobody said you did anything wrong,” Nash assured him.

Eisley’s phone rang. He glanced at the display, held up a finger, and walked a few paces to the side to take the call.

The driver went on. “You start spreading around that I was speeding, and there goes my job, my pension … think I wanna be looking for work at my age? In this shit economy?”

Porter caught a glimpse of the man’s name tag. “Mr. Nelson, how about you take a deep breath and try to calm down?”

Sweat trickled down the man’s red face. “I’m gonna be pushing a broom somewhere all because that little prick picked my bus. I got thirty-one years behind me without an incident, and now this bullshit.”

Porter put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

“I need to keep my mouth shut until my union rep gets here, that’s what I need to do.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

The driver frowned. “What are you gonna do for me?”

“I can put in a good word with Manny Polanski down at Transit, for starters. If you didn’t do anything wrong, if you cooperate with us, there’s no reason for you to get suspended.”

“Shit. You think I’ll get suspended over this?” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Jesus, I can’t afford that.”

“I don’t think they’ll do that if they know you worked with us, that you tried to help. There might not even be a need for a hearing,” Porter assured him.

“A hearing?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Then I can talk to Manny for you, maybe save you the pain of all that.”

“You know Manny?”

“I worked my first two years on the job as a uniform with Transit. He’ll listen to me. You help us out, and I’ll put in a good word, I promise.”

The driver considered this, then finally took a deep breath and nodded. “It happened just like I said to your friend here. I made the stop at Ellis right on time — picked up two, dropped off one. I ran east down Fifty-Fifth, came around the bend. The light at Woodlawn was green, so there was no need to slow down — not that I was speeding. Check the GPS.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t, I was just moving with the traffic. I might have been a few miles over the limit, but I wasn’t speeding,” he said.

Porter waved his hand dismissively. “You were heading east on Fifty-Fifth …”

The driver nodded. “Yeah. I saw a few people at the corner, not many. Three, maybe four. Then, just as I got close, this guy jumps out in front of my bus. No warning or nothing. One second he’s standing there, the next he’s in the street. I hit the brakes, but this thing doesn’t exactly stop on a dime. I hit him dead center. Launched him a good thirty feet.”

“What color was the light?” Porter asked.

“Green.”

“Not yellow?”

The driver shook his head. “No, green. I know, ’cause I watched it change. It didn’t turn yellow for another twenty seconds or so. I was already out of the bus when I saw it switch.” He pointed up at the signal. “Check the camera.”

Porter looked up. Over the last decade, nearly every intersection in the city had been outfitted with CCTV cameras. He’d remind Nash to pull the footage when they got back to the station. Most likely, his partner had already put in the order.

“He wasn’t crossing the street; that man jumped. You’ll see when you watch the video.”

Porter handed him a card. “Can you stick around a little bit, just in case I have more questions?”

The man shrugged. “You’re going to talk to Manny, right?”

Porter nodded. “Can you excuse us for a second?” He pulled Nash aside, lowering his voice. “He didn’t kill him intentionally. Even if this was a suicide, we’ve got no business here. Why’d you call me out?”

Nash put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this? If you need more time, I get it —”

“I’m good,” Porter said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“If you need to talk —”

“Nash, I’m not a fucking child. Take off the kid gloves.”

“All right.” He finally relented. “But if this gets to be too much too soon, you gotta promise me you’ll tap out, got it? Nobody will think twice if you need to do that.”

“I think working will do me some good. I’ve been getting stir-crazy sitting around the apartment,” he admitted.

“This is big, Porter,” he said in a low voice. “You deserve to be here.”

“Christ, Nash. Will you spit it out?”

“It’s a good bet our vic was heading to that mailbox over there.” He glanced toward a blue postal box in front of a brick apartment building.

“How do you know?”

A grin spread across his partner’s face. “He was carrying a small white box tied up with black string.”

Porter’s eyes went wide. “Nooo.”

“Uh-huh.”

3

Porter

Day 1 • 6:53 a.m.

Porter found himself staring down at the body, at the lumpy form under the black plastic shroud.

Words escaped him.

Nash asked the other officers and CSI techs to step back and give Porter space, to give him time alone with the victim. They shuffled back behind the yellow crime-scene tape, their voices low as they watched. To Porter, they were invisible. He only saw the black body bag and the small package lying beside it. It had been tagged with NUMBER 1 by CSI, no doubt photographed dozens of times from every possible angle. They knew better than to open it, though. They left that for him.

How many boxes just like it had there been now?

A dozen? No. Closer to two dozen.

He did the math.

Seven victims. Three boxes each.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-one boxes over nearly five years.

He had toyed with them. Never left a clue behind. Only the boxes.

A ghost.

Porter had seen so many officers come and go from the task force. With each new victim, the team would expand. The press would get wind of a new box, and they’d swarm like vultures. The entire city would come together on a massive manhunt. But then the third box would eventually arrive, the body would be found, and he’d disappear again. Lost among the shadows of obscurity. Months would pass; he’d fall out of the papers. The task force dwindled as the team got pulled apart for more pressing matters.

Porter was the only one who had seen it through from the beginning. He had been there for the first box, recognizing it immediately for what it was — the start of a serial killer’s deranged spree. When the second box arrived, then the third, and finally the body, others saw too.

It was the start of something horrible. Something planned.

Something evil.

He had been there at the beginning. Was he now witnessing the end?

“What’s in the box?”

“We haven’t opened it yet,” Nash replied. “But I think you know.”

The package was small. Approximately four inches square and three inches high.

Like the others.

Wrapped in white paper and secured with black string. The address label was handwritten in careful script. There wouldn’t be any prints, never were. The stamps were self-adhesive — they wouldn’t find saliva.

He glanced back at the body bag. “Do you really think it’s him? Do you have a name?”

Nash shook his head. “No wallet or ID on him. He left his face on the pavement and in the bus’s grill. We ran his prints but couldn’t find a match. He’s a nobody.”

“Oh, he’s somebody,” Porter said. “Do you have any gloves?”

Nash pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and handed them to Porter. Porter slipped them on and nodded toward the box. “Do you mind?”

“We waited for you,” Nash said. “This is your case, Sam. Always was.”

When Porter crouched and reached for the box, one of the crime-scene techs rushed over, fumbling with a small video camera. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have orders to document this.”

“It’s fine, son. Only you, though. Are you ready?”

A red light on the front of the camera blinked to life, and the tech nodded. “Go ahead, sir.”

Porter turned the box so he could read the address label, carefully avoiding the droplets of crimson. “Arthur Talbot, 1547 Dearborn Parkway.”

Nash whistled. “Ritzy neighborhood. Old money. I don’t recognize the name, though.”

“Talbot’s an investment banker,” the CSI tech replied. “Heavy into real estate too. Lately he’s been converting warehouses near the lakefront into lofts — doing his part to force out low-income families and replace them with people who can afford the high rent and Starbucks grandes on the regular.”

Porter knew exactly who Arthur Talbot was. He looked up at the tech. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Paul Watson, sir.”

Porter couldn’t help but grin. “You’ll make an excellent detective one day, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not a doctor, sir. I’m working on my thesis, but I’ve got at least two more years to go.”

Porter chuckled. “Doesn’t anyone read anymore?”

“Sam, the box?”

“Right. The box.”

He tugged at the string and watched as the knot unraveled and came apart. The white paper beneath had been neatly folded over the corners, ending in perfect little triangles.

Like a gift. He wrapped it like a gift.

The paper came away easily, revealing a black box. Porter set the paper and string aside, glanced at Nash and Watson, then slowly lifted the lid.

The ear had been washed clean of blood and rested on a blanket of cotton.

Just like the others.

4

Porter

Day 1 • 7:05 a.m.

“I need to see his body.”

Nash glanced nervously at the growing crowd. “Are you sure you want to do that here? There are a lot of eyes on you right now.”

“Let’s get a tent up.”

Nash signaled to one of the officers.

Fifteen minutes later, much to the dismay of oncoming traffic, a twelve-by-twelve tent stood on Fifty-Fifth Street, blocking one of the two eastbound lanes. Nash and Porter slipped through the flap, followed closely by Eisley and Watson. A uniformed guard took up position at the door in case someone snuck past the barricades at the scene perimeter and tried to get in.

Six 1,200-watt halogen floodlights stood on yellow metal tripods in a semicircle around the body, filling the small space with sharp, bright light.

Eisley reached down and peeled back the top flap of the bag.

Porter knelt. “Has he been moved at all?”

Eisley shook his head. “We photographed him, and then I got him covered as quickly as I could. That’s how he landed.”

He was facedown on the blacktop. There was a small pool of blood near his head with a streak leading toward the edge of the tent. His dark hair was close-cropped, sprinkled with gray.

Porter donned another pair of latex gloves from a box at his left and gently lifted the man’s head. It pulled away from the cold asphalt with a slurp not unlike Fruit Roll-Ups as they’re peeled from the plastic. His stomach grumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten yet. Probably a good thing. “Can you help me turn him over?”

Eisley took the man’s shoulder, and Nash positioned himself at his feet.

“On three. One, two …”

It was too soon for rigor to set in; the body was loose. It looked like the right leg was broken in at least three spots; the left arm too, probably more.

“Oh, God. That’s nasty.” Nash’s eyes were fixed on the man’s face. More accurately, where his face should have been. His cheeks were gone, only torn flaps remaining. His jawbone was clearly visible but broken — his mouth gaped open as if someone had gripped both halves of his jaw and pulled them apart like a bear trap. One eye was ruptured, oozing vitreous fluid. The other stared blindly up at them, green in the bright light.

Porter leaned in closer. “Do you think you can reconstruct this?”

Eisley nodded. “I’ll get somebody on it as soon as we get him back to my lab.”

“Tough to say, but based on his build and the slight graying in the hair, I’d guess he’s late forties, early fifties, at the most.”

“I should be able to get you a more precise age too,” Eisley said. He was examining the man’s eyes with a penlight. “The cornea is still intact.”

Porter knew they were able to able to estimate age through the carbon dating of material in the eyes; it was called the Lynnerup method. The process could narrow the age down to within a year or two.

The man wore a navy pinstripe suit. The left sleeve was shredded; a jagged bone poked out near the elbow.

“Did someone find his other shoe?” The right was missing. His dark sock was damp with blood.

“A uniform picked it up. It’s on that table over there.” Nash pointed to the far right. “He was wearing a fedora too.”

“A fedora? Are those making a comeback?”

“Only in the movies.”

“There’s something in this pocket.” Watson was pointing at the right breast pocket of the man’s jacket. “It’s square. Another box?”

“No, too thin.” Porter carefully unbuttoned the jacket and reached inside, retrieving a small Tops composition book, like the ones students carried prior to tablets and smartphones: 4½" x 3¼" with a black and white cover and college-ruled pages. It was nearly full, each page covered in handwriting so small and precise that two lines of text filled the space normally occupied by one. “This could be something. Looks like some kind of diary. Good catch, Doc.”

“I’m not a —”

Porter waved a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah.” He turned back to Nash. “I thought you said you checked his pockets?”

“We only searched the pants for a wallet. I wanted to wait for you to process the body.”

“We should check the rest, then.”

He began with the right front pants pocket, checking them again in case something was missed, then worked his way around the body. As items were discovered, he gently set them down at his side. Nash tagged them and Watson photographed.

“That’s it. Not much to go on.”

Porter examined the items:

Dry cleaner’s receipt

Pocket watch

Seventy-five cents in assorted change

The receipt was generic. Aside from number 54873, it didn’t contain any identifying information, not even the name or address of the cleaners.

“Run everything for prints,” Porter instructed.

Nash frowned. “What for? We have him, and his prints came back negative.”

“Guess I’m hoping for a Hail Mary. Maybe we’ll find a match and it will lead to someone who can identify him. What do you make of the watch?”

Nash held the timepiece up to the light. “I don’t know anyone who carries a pocket watch anymore. Think maybe this guy’s older than you thought?”

“The fedora would suggest that too.”

“Unless he’s just into vintage,” Watson pointed out. “I know a lot of guys like that.”

Nash pushed the crown, and the watch’s face snapped open. “Huh.”

“What?”

“It stopped at fourteen past three. That’s not when this guy got hit.”

“Maybe the impact jarred it?” Porter thought aloud.

“There’s not a scratch on it, though, no sign of damage.”

“Probably something internal, or maybe it wasn’t wound. Can I take a look?”

Nash handed the pocket watch to Porter.

Porter twisted the crown. “It’s loose. The spring’s not grabbing. Amazing craftsmanship though. I think it’s handmade. Collectible for sure.”

“I’ve got an uncle,” Watson announced.

“Well, congrats on that, kid,” Porter replied.

“He owns an antique shop downtown. I bet he could give us some color on this.”

“You’re really trying to earn a gold star today, aren’t you? Okay, you’re on watch duty. Once these things are logged into inventory, take it down there and see what you can find out.”

Watson nodded, his face beaming.

“Anybody notice anything odd about what he’s wearing?”

Nash examined the body once more, then shook his head.

“The shoes are nice,” Eisley said.

Porter smiled. “They are, aren’t they? Those are John Lobbs. They go for about fifteen hundred a pair. The suit is cheap, though, possibly from a box store or the mall. Probably no more than a few hundred at best.”

“So, what are you thinking?” Nash asked. “He works in shoes?”

“Not sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Just seems odd a man would spend so much on shoes without a comparable spend on his suit.”

“Unless he works in shoe sales and got some kind of deal? That does makes sense,” Watson said.

“I’m glad you concur. Silly comments will get your gold star revoked.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries, Doc. I’m just busting your balls. I’d pick on Nash, but he’s too used to my shit at this point. It’s no fun anymore.” Porter’s attention drifted back to the small composition book. “Can you hand me that?”

Watson passed it to him, and he turned to the first page. Porter’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the text.

Hello, my friend.

I am a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper. I’ve killed for fun. I’ve killed out of necessity. I have killed for hate. I have killed simply to satisfy the need that tends to grow in me with the passage of time. A need much like a hunger that can only be quenched by the draw of blood or the song found in a tortured scream.

I tell you this not to frighten you or impress you but simply to state the facts, to put my cards on the table.

My IQ is 156, a genius level by all accounts.

A wise man once said, “To measure your own IQ, to attempt to label your intelligence, is a sign of your own ignorance.” I did not ask to take an IQ test; it was administered upon me — take from that what you will.

None of this defines who I am, only what I am. That is why I’ve chosen to put pen to paper, to share that which I am about to share. Without the sharing of knowledge, there can be no growth. You (as a society) will not learn from your many mistakes. And you have so much to learn.

Who am I?

To share my name would simply take the fun out of this, don’t you think?

You most likely know me as the Four Monkey Killer. Why don’t we leave it at that? Perhaps 4MK, for those of you prone to abbreviate? The simpler of the lot. No need to exclude anyone.

We are going to have such fun, you and I.

“Holy fuck,” Porter muttered.

5

Diary

I’d like to set the record straight from the very beginning.

This is not my parents’ fault.

I grew up in a loving home that would have made Norman Rockwell take note.

My mother, God bless her soul, gave up a promising career in publishing to stay home after my birth, and I don’t believe she ever longed to return. She had breakfast on the table every morning for my father and me, and supper was held promptly at six. We cherished such family time, and it was spent in the most jovial of ways.

Mother would recount her exploits of the day with Father and me listening attentively. The sound of her voice was that of angels, and to this day I long for more.

Father worked in finance. I am most certain he was held in high regard by his peers, although he didn’t discuss his work at home. He firmly believed that the day-to-day happenings of one’s employ should remain at the place of business, not brought home and spilled within the sanctuary of the residence as one might dump out a bucket of slop for the pigs to feast on. He left work at work, where it belonged.

He carried a shiny black briefcase, but I never once saw him open it. He set it beside the front door each night, and there it remained until he left for the office on the next business day. He would scoop the briefcase up on his way out, only after a loving kiss for Mother and a pat on the head for me.

“Take care of your mother, my boy!” he would say. “You are the man of the house until I return. Should the bill man come knocking, send him next door to collect. Do not pay him any mind. He is of no consequence in the large scheme of things. Better you learn this now than fret about such things when you have a family of your own.”

Fedora upon his head and briefcase in hand, he would slip out the door with a smile and a wave. I would go to the picture window and watch him as he made his way down the walk (careful of the ice during the cold winters) and climbed into his little black convertible. Father drove a 1969 Porsche. It was a marvelous machine. A work of art with a throaty growl that rumbled forth with the turn of the key and grew louder still as it eased out onto the road and lapped up the pavement with hungry delight.

Oh, how Father loved that car.

Every Sunday we’d take a large blue bucket from the garage along with a handful of rags and wash it from top to bottom. He would spend hours conditioning the soft black top and applying wax to its metal curves, not once but twice. I was tasked with cleaning the spokes on the wheels, a job I took very seriously. When finished, the car shone as if the showroom was a recent memory. Then he would put the top down and take Mother and me on a Sunday drive. Although the Porsche was only a two-seater, I was a tiny lad and fit snugly in the space behind the seats. We would stop at the local Dairy Freeze for ice cream and soda, then head to the park for an afternoon stroll among the large oaks and grassy fields.

I would play with the other children as Mother and Father watched from the shade of an old tree, their hands entwined and love in their eyes. They would joke and laugh, and I could hear them as I ran after a ball or chased a Frisbee. “Watch me! Watch me!” I would shout. And they would. They watched me as parents should. They watched me with pride. Their son, their joy. I’d look back at the myself at that tender age. I’d look back at them under that tree, all in smiles. I’d look back and picture their necks sliced from ear to ear, blood pouring from the wounds and pooling in the grass beneath them. And I would laugh, my heart fluttering, I would laugh so.

Of course, that was years ago, but that is surely when it began.

6

Porter

Day 1 • 7:31 a.m.

Porter parked his Charger at the curb in front of 1547 Dearborn Parkway and stared up at the large stone mansion. Beside him, Nash ended the call on his phone. “That was the captain. He wants us to come in.”

“We will.”

“He was pretty insistent.”

“4MK was about to mail the box here. The clock is ticking. We don’t have time to run back to headquarters right now,” Porter said. “We won’t be long. It’s important we stay ahead of this.”

“4MK? You’re really going to run with that?”

“4MK, Monkey Man, Four Monkey Killer. I don’t care what we call the crazy fuck.”

Nash was looking out the window. “This is one hell of a house. One family lives here?”

Porter nodded. “Arthur Talbot, his wife, a teenage daughter from his first marriage, probably one or two little yapping dogs, and a housekeeper or five.”

“I checked with Missing Persons, and Talbot hasn’t phoned anyone in,” Nash said. They exited the car and started up the stone steps. “How do you want to play this?”

“Quickly,” said Porter as he pressed the doorbell.

Nash lowered his voice. “Wife or daughter?”

“What?”

“The ear. Do you think it’s the wife or daughter?”

Porter was about to answer when the door inched open, held by a security chain. A Hispanic woman, no taller than five feet, glared at them with cold brown eyes. “Help you?”

“Is Mr. or Mrs. Talbot available?”

Her eyes shifted from Porter to Nash, then back again. “Momento.”

She closed the door.

“My money’s on the daughter,” Nash said.

Porter glanced down at his phone. “Her name is Carnegie.”

“Carnegie? Are you kidding me?”

“I’ll never understand rich people.”

When the door opened again, a blond woman in her early forties was standing at the threshold. She wore a beige sweater and tight black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Attractive, Porter thought. “Mrs. Talbot?”

She smiled politely. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

The Hispanic woman appeared behind her, watching from the other side of the foyer.

“I’m Detective Porter and this is Detective Nash. We’re with Chicago Metro. Is there someplace we can talk?”

Her smile disappeared. “What did she do?”

“Excuse me?”

“My husband’s little shit of a daughter. I’d love to get through one week without the drama of her shoplifting or joyriding or drinking in the park with her equally little shit-whore friends. I might as well offer free coffee to any law enforcement officers who want to stop by, since half of you show up on a regular basis anyway.” She stepped back from the door; it swung open behind her, revealing the sparsely furnished entry. “Come on in.”

Porter and Nash followed her inside. The vaulted ceilings loomed above, centered by a chandelier glistening with crystal. He fought the urge to take his shoes off before walking on the white polished marble.

Mrs. Talbot turned to the housekeeper. “Miranda, please be a dear and fetch us some tea and bagels — unless the officers would prefer donuts?” She said the last with the hint of a smile.

Ah, rich-person humor, Porter thought. “We’re fine, ma’am.”

There was nothing rich white women hated more than being called —

“Please, call me Patricia.”

They followed her through the foyer, down the hall, and into a large library. The polished wood floors glistened in the early-morning light, covered in specks of sun cast by the crystal chandelier hanging above a large stone fireplace. She gestured to a couch at the center of the room. Porter and Nash took a seat. She settled into a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair and ottoman across from them and reached for a cup of tea from the small table at her side. The morning Tribune lay untouched. “Just last week she OD’ed on some nonsense, and I had to pick her up downtown at the ER in the middle of the night. Her caring little friends dropped her there when she passed out at some club. Left her on a bench in front of the hospital. Imagine that? Arty was off on business, and I had to get her back here before he got home because nobody wants to ruffle his feathers. Best for Stepmommy to clean it up and make like it didn’t happen.”

The housekeeper returned with a large silver tray. She set it on the table in front of them, poured two cups of tea from a carafe, handed one to Nash and the other to Porter. There were two plates. One contained a toasted plain bagel, the other a chocolate donut.

“I’m not above stereotypes,” Nash said, reaching for the donut.

“This isn’t necessary,” Porter said.

“Nonsense; enjoy,” Patricia replied.

“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Talbot? Is he home?”

“He left early this morning to play a round of golf out at Wheaton.”

Nash leaned over. “That’s about an hour away.”

Porter reached for a cup of tea and took a slow sip, then returned it to the tray. “And your daughter?”

“Stepdaughter.”

“Stepdaughter,” Porter corrected.

Mrs. Talbot frowned. “How about you tell me what kind of trouble she’s in? Then I can decide if I should let you speak to her directly or ring one of our attorneys.”

“So she’s here?”

Her eyes widened for a moment. She refilled her cup, reached for two sugar cubes and dropped them into her tea, stirred, and drank. Her fingers twisted around the warm mug. “She’s sound asleep in her room. Has been all night. I saw her a few minutes ago preparing for school.”

Porter and Nash exchanged a glance. “May we see her?”

“What has she done?”

“We’re following a lead, Mrs. Talbot. If she’s here right now, there is nothing to worry about. We’ll be on our way. If she’s not” — Porter didn’t want to frighten her unnecessarily — “if she’s not, there may be cause for concern.”

“There’s no need to cover for her,” Nash explained. “We just need to know she is safe.”

She turned the mug in her hand. “Miranda? Could you fetch Carnegie, please?”

The housekeeper opened her mouth, considered what she was about to say, then thought better of it. Porter watched as she turned and left the library, crossing the hallway and ascending the staircase that wound up the opposite wall.

Nash elbowed him, and he turned. Porter followed his eyes to a framed picture on the fireplace mantel. A young blond girl dressed in riding gear beside a chestnut horse. He stood and walked over to it. “Is this your stepdaughter?”

Mrs. Talbot nodded. “Four years ago. She turned twelve a month before that photo. Came in first place.”

Porter was looking at her hair. The Four Monkey Killer had only taken one blonde before today; all the others had been brunette.

“Patricia? What’s going on?”

They turned.

Standing at the doorway was a teenager dressed in a Mötley Crüe T-shirt, white robe, and slippers. Her blond hair was frazzled.

“Please don’t call me Patricia,” Mrs. Talbot snapped.

“Sorry, Mother.”

“Carnegie, these gentlemen are from Chicago Metro.”

The girl’s face went pale. “Why are the police here, Patricia?”

Porter and Nash were staring at her ears. Both her ears. Right where they should be.

7

Porter

Day 1 • 7:48 a.m.

A drizzle had begun to fall. The flagstone steps were wet and slippery as Porter and Nash rushed from the Talbot residence back to their car at the curb. Both jumped inside and pulled the doors shut behind them, eyeing the foreboding sky. “We don’t need this shit, not today,” Porter complained. “If it starts to rain, Talbot may call his game off and we lose him.”

“We have a bigger problem.” Nash was tapping at his iPhone.

“Captain Dalton again?”

“No, worse. Somebody tweeted.”

“Somebody what?”

“Tweeted.”

“What the hell is a tweet?”

Nash handed him the phone.

Porter read the tiny print.

@4MK4EVER IS THIS THE FOUR MONKEY KILLER?

It was followed by a photograph of their bus victim from this morning, facedown against the asphalt. The edge of the city bus was barely visible at the corner.

Porter frowned. “Who released a photo to the press?”

“Shit, Sam. You really need to get with the times. Nobody released anything. Somebody snapped a picture with their phone and put it out there for everyone to see,” Nash explained. “That’s how Twitter works.”

“Everyone? How many people is everyone?”

Nash was tapping again. “They posted it twenty minutes ago, and it’s been favorited 3,212 times. Retweeted more than five hundred.”

“Favorited? Retweeted? What the fuck, Nash. Speak English.”

“It means it’s out there, Porter. Viral. The world knows he’s dead.”

Nash’s phone rang. “Now that’s the captain. What should I tell him?”

Porter started the car, threw it into gear, and sped down West North Street toward 294. “Tell him we’re chasing a lead.”

“What lead?”

“The Talbots.”

Nash looked puzzled. “But it’s not the Talbots — they’re home.”

“It’s not those Talbots. We’re going to chat with Arthur. I’m willing to bet the wife and daughter aren’t the only women in his life,” Porter said.

Nash nodded and answered the call. Porter heard the captain screaming from the tiny speaker. After about a minute of repeating “Yes, sir,” Nash cupped his hand over the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him I’m driving. It’s not safe to talk on the phone while driving.” He tugged the wheel hard to the left, circling around a minivan traveling much slower than their current speed of eighty-seven.

“Yes, Captain,” Nash said. “I’m putting you on speaker. Hold on —”

The captain’s voice went from tiny and tinny to loud and booming as the iPhone switched to the Bluetooth speaker system in the car. “… back at the station in ten minutes so we can get a team together and get in front of this. I’ve got every television and print reporter clawing at me.”

“Captain, this is Porter. You know his timeline as well as I do. He was about to mail the ear this morning. That means he grabbed her a day or two ago. The good news is he never kills them right away, so we can be sure she’s still alive … somewhere. We don’t know how much time she’s got. If he just planned to run out and mail the package, chances are he didn’t leave her with food or water. The average person can live three days without water, three weeks without food. Her clock is ticking, Captain. At best, I think we’ve got three days to find her, maybe less.”

“That’s why I need you back here.”

“We need to chase this down first. Until we figure out who he’s got, we’re spinning wheels. You want something — give me an hour, and hopefully I can give you a name for the press. You put a picture of the missing girl out to them, and they’ll back down,” Porter said.

The captain fell silent for a moment. “One hour. No more.”

“That’s all we need.”

“Tread gently around Talbot. He rubs elbows with the mayor,” the captain replied.

“Kid gloves, got it.”

“Call me back after you speak with him.” The captain disconnected the call.

Porter raced up the ramp onto 294. Nash plugged Wheaton into the GPS. “We’re twenty-eight miles out.”

The car picked up speed as Porter forced the accelerator down just a little more.

Nash flipped on the radio.

… Although Chicago Metro has yet to make an announcement, speculation is that the pedestrian killed early this morning by a city transit bus in Hyde Park is, in fact, the Four Monkey Killer. A box photographed at the scene matches those sent by the killer in the past. He was dubbed the Four Monkey Killer by Samuel Porter, a detective with Chicago Metro, and one of the first to recognize his behavior, or signature.

“That’s not true; I didn’t come up with that —”

“Shh!” Nash interrupted.

The four monkeys comes from the Tosho-gu Shrine in Nikko, Japan, where a carving of three apes resides above the entrance. The first covering his ears, the second covering his eyes, and the third covering his mouth, they depict the proverb “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.” The fourth monkey represents “Do no evil.” The killer’s pattern has remained consistent since his first victim, Calli Tremell, five and a half years ago. Two days after her kidnapping, the Tremell family received her ear in the mail. Two days after that, they received her eyes. Two days later, her tongue arrived. Her body was found in Bedford Park two days following the postmark on the last package, a note clenched in her hand that simply read, DO NO EVIL. Later it was discovered that Michael Tremell, the victim’s father, had been involved in an underground gambling scheme funneling millions of dollars into offshore accounts …

Nash clicked off the radio. “He always takes a child or sibling to punish the father for some kind of crime. Why not this time? Why didn’t he take Carnegie?”

“I don’t know.”

“We should get someone to check out Talbot’s finances,” Nash suggested.

“Good idea. Who do we have?”

“Matt Hosman?”

Porter nodded. “Make the call.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the diary, and tossed it into Nash’s lap. “Then read this aloud.”

8

Diary

Mother and Father were rather close to our neighbors, Simon and Lisa Carter. As just a boy of eleven the summer when they first joined our wonderful neighborhood, I considered them all to be old in the limited pages of my book. Looking back, though, I realize that Mother and Father were in their mid-thirties, and I can’t imagine the Carters were more than one or two years younger than my parents. Three, at most. Maybe four, but I doubt more than five. They moved into the house next door, the only other house at our end of the quiet lane.

Have I mentioned how incredibly beautiful my mother was?

How rude of me to leave out such a detail. Blubbering on about such minute matters and neglecting to paint a picture that properly illustrates the narrative you so graciously agreed to follow along with me.

If you could reach into this tome and slap me silly, I would encourage you to do so. Sometimes I ramble, and a firm swat is necessary to put my little train back on the rails.

Where was I?

Mother.

Mother was beautiful.

Her hair was silk. Blond, full of body, and shimmering with just the right amount of healthy glimmer. It fell halfway down her slender back in luxurious waves. Oh, and her eyes! They were the brightest of green, emeralds set in her perfect porcelain skin.

I am not ashamed to admit that her figure caught many an eye as well. She ran daily, and I would venture to say she didn’t carry an ounce of fat. She probably weighed no more than 110 soaking wet, and she came to my father’s shoulders, which would make her about five foot four or so.

She had a fondness for sundresses.

Mother would wear a sundress on the hottest of days or in the dead of winter. She paid no mind to the cold. I recall one winter with snowdrifts nearly to the windowsill, and I found her humming happily in the kitchen, a short, white, flowered sundress fluttering about her frame. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of happiness in her hands, and Mother told her she wore such dresses because they made her feel free. And she favored short dresses because her legs, she felt, were her best asset. She went on to say how Father was so fond of them. How he would caress them. How he enjoyed them on his shoulders, or wrapped around —

Mother spotted me at that point, and I took leave.

9

Porter

Day 1 • 8:49 a.m.

Porter knew little about golf. The idea of hitting a little white ball, then chasing after it for hours on end, did not appeal to him. While he understood it was challenging, he did not consider it a sport. Baseball was a sport. Football was a sport. Anything you could play at eighty years old while toting your oxygen tank and wearing pastel slacks would never be a sport in his book.

The restaurant was nice, though. He had taken Heather to the Chicago Golf Club two years ago for their anniversary and purchased the most expensive steak he had ever eaten. Heather had ordered the lobster and raved about it for weeks. A cop’s salary didn’t allow for much, but anything that made her happy was a worthwhile spend.

He pulled up to the large clubhouse and handed his keys to the valet. “Keep it close. We won’t be long.”

They had beaten the weather. While the sky appeared hazy, the dark storm clouds had paused over the city.

The lobby was large and well-appointed. Several members were gathered around a fireplace in the far corner overlooking the lush course just beyond french doors. Their voices echoed off the marble floor and mahogany wainscoting.

Nash whistled softly.

“If I catch you panhandling, I’ll make you wait in the car.”

“As this day progresses, I find myself regretting I didn’t wear a nicer suit,” Nash admitted. “This is a very different world than the one we putt around in, Sam.”

“Do you play?”

“The last time I held a golf club, I couldn’t get past the windmill. This here is big-boy golf. I don’t have the patience for it,” Nash replied.

A young woman sat at a desk near the center of the lobby. As they approached, she glanced up from her laptop and smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to the Chicago Golf Club. How may I help you?”

Behind her gleaming white smile, Porter could sense her sizing them up. She hadn’t asked if they had a reservation, and he doubted that was an oversight. He pulled out his badge and held it up to her. “We’re looking for Arthur Talbot. His wife said he was playing today.”

Her smile faded as her eyes darted from the badge to Porter, then Nash. She picked up the receiver on her desk and dialed an extension, spoke softly, then disconnected. “Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.” She gestured toward a couch in the far corner.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Porter told her.

The smile again. She returned to her computer, slim, manicured fingers bouncing across the keys.

Porter checked his watch. Nearly 9:00 a.m.

A man in his mid-fifties entered the lobby from a door to their left. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back, his dark-blue suit pressed to perfection. As he approached, he extended his hand to Porter. “Detective. I’ve been told you’re here to see Mr. Talbot?” His grip was soft. Porter’s father had called it a dead fish shake. “I’m Douglas Prescott, senior manager.”

Porter flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Porter, and this is Detective Nash with Chicago Metro. This is extremely urgent. Do you know where we can find Mr. Talbot?”

The blond woman was watching them. When Prescott glanced at her, she turned back to her laptop. His gaze returned to Porter. “I believe Mr. Talbot’s party had a seven-thirty tee time, so they’re out on the course. You’re more than welcome to wait for him. You’ll find a fine complimentary breakfast in the dining room. If you like cigars, our humidor is top-notch.”

“This can’t wait.”

Prescott frowned. “We don’t disturb our guests during play, gentlemen.”

“We don’t?” Nash said.

“We do not,” Prescott insisted.

Porter rolled his eyes. Why did everyone seem to go out of their way to make things difficult? “Mr. Prescott, we don’t have the time or patience for this. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can take us to Mr. Talbot, or my partner here will arrest you for obstruction, handcuff you to that desk, and start shouting Talbot’s name until he comes to us. I’ve seen him do it — the man is loud. It’s your choice, but I honestly think option A will prove least disruptive to your business.”

The receptionist stifled a chuckle.

Prescott shot her an angry glance, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mr. Talbot is a substantial contributor and personal friends with your boss, the mayor. They played together just two weeks ago. I don’t think either would be happy to learn two officers were willing to blemish the record of Chicago Metro by threatening civilians simply for doing their job. If I were to call him right now and tell him you were here, preparing to make a scene, he would no doubt refer you to his attorney before he would consider taking the time to speak with you.”

Nash pulled the handcuffs from his belt. “I’m arresting this little shit, Sam. I want to see how well he holds up in the tank surrounded by crackheads and bangers. I’m sure Ms.” — he glanced down at the blond woman’s name tag — “Piper will be more than willing to help us out.”

Prescott’s face grew red.

“Take a deep breath and think carefully about the next thing you say, Mr. Prescott,” Porter warned.

Prescott rolled his eyes, then turned to Ms. Piper. “Where is Mr. Talbot’s party now?”

She pointed a pink-shellacked finger at her monitor. “They just pulled up to the sixth hole.”

“You have video?” Nash asked.

She shook her head. “Our golf carts are equipped with GPS trackers. It allows us to watch for bottlenecks and keep everyone’s game moving efficiently.”

“So if someone is playing slow, you pluck them off the course and take them to the kiddy range?”

“Nothing that drastic. We may send a pro out to give them a few tips. Help them move along,” she explained.

“Can you give us a ride out there?”

She eyed Prescott. He raised both hands in defeat. “Just go.”

Ms. Piper plucked her purse from beneath her desk and gestured toward a hallway at the west end of the building. “This way, gentlemen.”

A moment later they were in a golf cart heading down a cobblestone path. Ms. Piper was driving, with Porter beside her and Nash on a small bench behind them. He cursed as they hit a bump, bouncing him in the seat.

Porter shoved his hands into his pockets. It was cold out here in the open.

“I apologize for my boss. He can be a little …” She paused, searching for the right word. “A bit of a mucker sometimes.”

“What the hell is a mucker?” Nash asked.

“Someone you wouldn’t want at your bachelor party,” Porter said.

Nash snickered. “I’m not walking down the aisle anytime soon, unless Ms. Piper has a friend in search of a civil servant who makes a low wage for getting shot at on a fairly regular basis. I also tend to work long hours and hit the bottle far more often than I’m willing to admit to someone I just met.”

Porter turned back to Ms. Piper. “Ignore him, miss. You’re under no legal obligation to set up members of law enforcement with attractive friends.”

She glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You sound like quite the catch, Detective. I’ll reach out to my sorority sisters the moment I get back to my desk.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Nash said.

Porter couldn’t help but marvel at the landscaping. The grass was short and lush, not a single weed or blade out of place. Tiny ponds dotted the course on either side of the cart path. Large oaks loomed over the sides of the fairway, their branches shielding the players from the sun and wind.

“There they are.” Ms. Piper nodded toward a group of four men standing around something that resembled a tall, skinny water fountain.

“What is that thing?” Nash asked.

“What thing?”

Ms. Piper smiled. “That, gentlemen, is a ball washer.”

Nash massaged his temple and closed his eyes. “So many jokes just popped into my head, it actually hurts.”

Ms. Piper pulled to a stop behind Talbot’s cart and locked the brake. “Would you like me to wait for you?”

Porter smiled. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Nash jumped off the back. “I’m calling shotgun for the ride back. The rumble seat is all yours.”

Porter walked over to the four men preparing to tee off and showed his badge. “Morning, gentlemen. I’m Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro. This is my partner, Detective Nash. I’m sorry to interrupt your game, but we have a situation that simply couldn’t wait. Which one of you is Arthur Talbot?”

A tall man in his early fifties with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair cocked his head slightly and offered what Nash liked to call a politician’s grin. “I’m Arthur Talbot.”

Porter lowered his voice. “Could we speak to you alone for a moment?”

Talbot was dressed in a brown windbreaker over a white golf shirt, brown belt, and khakis. He shook his head. “No need, Detective. These guys are my business partners. I don’t keep secrets from these men.”

The older man to his left pushed his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose and flattened what was a promising start to a comb-over against the thin breeze. Anxious eyes locked on Porter. “We can play on, Arty. You can catch up if you need a minute.”

Talbot raised a hand, silencing him. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You seem very familiar,” Nash said to the man on Talbot’s right.

Porter thought so too but couldn’t place him. About six feet tall. Thick, dark hair. Fit. Mid-forties.

“Louis Fischman. We met a few years ago. You were working the Elle Borton case, and I was with the district attorney’s office. I’m in the private sector now.”

Talbot frowned. “Elle Borton. Why do I recognize that name?”

“She was one of the Monkey Killer’s victims, wasn’t she?” the third man chimed in. He had begun fiddling with the ball washer.

Porter nodded. “His second.”

“Right.”

“Fucking crazy bastard,” the man with glasses muttered. “Any leads?”

“City transit may have clipped him this morning,” Nash said.

“City transit? A cabdriver turned him in?” Fischman asked.

Porter shook his head and explained.

“And you believe it’s the Monkey Killer?”

“Looks like it.”

Arthur Talbot frowned. “Why are you here to see me?”

Porter took a deep breath. He hated this part of his job. “The man who was killed, we believe he was trying to cross the street to get to a mailbox.”

“Oh?”

“The package had your home address on it, Mr. Talbot.”

His face went pale. Like most of Chicago, he was familiar with the Monkey Killer’s MO.

Fischman put his hand on Talbot’s shoulder. “What was in the package, Detective?”

“An ear.”

“Oh no. Carnegie —”

“It’s not Carnegie, Mr. Talbot. It’s not Patricia, either. They’re both safe. We stopped at your residence before driving out here. Your wife told us where to find you,” Porter said as quickly as he could, then lowered his voice in an attempt to calm the man down. “We need your help, Mr. Talbot. We need you to help us determine who he took.”

“I’ve got to sit down,” Talbot said. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Fischman glanced at Porter, then tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. “Arty, let’s get you back to the cart.” Moving away from the tee box, he guided a white-faced Talbot to the golf cart and lowered him into the seat.

Porter motioned for Nash to stay put and followed the other two men back to the vehicle. He sat beside Talbot so he could speak quietly. “You know how he operates, don’t you? His pattern?”

Talbot nodded. “Do no evil,” he whispered.

“That’s right. He finds someone who has done something wrong, something he feels is wrong, and he takes someone close to them. Someone they care about.”

“I di-didn’t …” Talbot stammered.

Fischman dropped into lawyer mode. “Arty, I don’t think you should say another word until we have a moment to talk.”

Talbot’s breathing was heavy. “My address? You’re sure?”

“It’s 1547 Dearborn Parkway,” Porter told him. “We’re sure.”

“Arty …” Fischman muttered under his breath.

“We need to figure out who it is, who he took.” Porter hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Do you have a mistress, Mr. Talbot?” He leaned in close. “If it’s another woman, you can tell us. We’ll be discreet. You’ve got my word. We only want to find whomever he has taken.”

“It’s not like that,” said Talbot.

Porter put a hand on Talbot’s shoulder. “Do you know who he has?”

Talbot shook him off and stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, crossed to the other side of the cart path, and hammered in a number. “Come on, answer. Please pick up …”

Porter stood and slowly approached him. “Who are you calling, Mr. Talbot?”

Arthur Talbot swore and disconnected the call.

Fischman walked over to him. “If you tell them, you can’t untell them. You understand? Once it’s out there, the press could get wind. Your wife. Your shareholders. You have obligations. This is bigger than you. You need to think this through. Maybe talk to one of your other attorneys, if you’re not comfortable discussing this matter with me.”

Talbot shot him an angry glance. “I’m not going to wait for a stock analysis while some psycho has —”

“Arty!” Fischman interjected. “Let’s at least confirm it on our own first. Let’s be sure.”

“That sounds like a great way to get this person killed,” Porter said.

Arthur Talbot waved a frustrated hand at him and hit Redial on his phone, the anxiety growing on his face. When he disconnected the call, he tapped the screen so hard that Porter wondered if he had broken it.

Porter signaled Nash to approach, then: “You have another daughter, don’t you, Mr. Talbot? A daughter outside your marriage?” As Porter said the words, Talbot looked away. Fischman seemed to deflate, letting out a deep breath.

Talbot glanced at Porter, then Fischman, then back to Porter again. He ran his hand through his hair. “Patricia and Carnegie know nothing about her.”

Porter stepped closer to the man. “Is she here in Chicago?”

Talbot was shaking, flustered. Again, he nodded. “Flair Tower. She has penthouse 2704 with her caregiver. I’ll call and let them know you’re coming so you’re able to get in.”

“Where’s her mother?”

“Dead. Going on twelve years now. God, she’s only fifteen …”

Nash turned his back and made a phone call to Dispatch. They could have someone at Flair Tower in a few minutes.

Porter followed Talbot back to the golf cart and sat beside him. “Who takes care of her?”

“She had cancer, her mother. I promised her I would take care of our daughter when she was gone. The tumor grew so fast; it was over in just about a month.” He tapped the side of his head. “It was right here. They couldn’t operate, though; it was too deep. I would have paid anything. I tried. But they wouldn’t operate. We must have talked to three dozen doctors. I loved her more than anything. I had to marry Patricia, I had … commitments. There were reasons beyond my control. But I wanted to marry Catrina. Sometimes life gets in the way, you know? Sometimes you have to do things for the greater good.”

Porter didn’t know. In fact, he didn’t understand. Was this the 1400s? Forced marriages were long gone. This guy needed to grow a spine. Aloud, he said, “We’re not here to judge you, Mr. Talbot. What’s her name?”

“Emory,” he said. “Emory Conners.”

“Do you have a photo?”

Talbot hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “Not on me. I couldn’t risk Patricia finding it.”

10

Porter

Day 1 • 9:23 a.m.

“Carnegie and Emory? I’m buying this family a baby-name book for Christmas,” Nash said. “And how the hell do you hide a daughter and your girlfriend in one of the most expensive penthouses in the city without your current wife catching on?”

Porter tossed him the keys and rounded his Charger to the passenger door. “You drive; I need to keep reading this diary. There might be something helpful in it.”

“Lazy bastard, you just like to be chauffeured around. Driving Ms. Porter …”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m lighting the apple; we need to make good time.” Nash flicked a switch on the dashboard.

Porter hadn’t heard that term since he was a rookie. They used to call the magnetic police light on undercover cars apples. In today’s world they were long gone, replaced with LED light bars so slim along the window’s edge, you couldn’t see them from the inside.

Nash dropped the car into third without letting up on the gas and steered for the exit gate. The car jerked and the tires squealed with delight as power surged through them.

“I said you could drive, not play Grand Theft Auto with my wheels.” Porter frowned.

“I drive a 1988 Ford Fiesta. Do you have any idea what that’s like? The humiliation I suffer every time I climb inside and pull that squeaky door shut and fire up that monster of a four-cylinder engine? It sounds like an electric pencil sharpener. I’m a man; I need this every once in a while. Humor me.”

Porter waved him off. “We told the captain we’d call him back after we spoke to Talbot.”

Nash tugged the wheel hard to the left and raced past a minivan dutifully driving the speed limit. They drew so close, Porter spotted Angry Birds on the iPad screen of a little girl secured in the back seat. She looked up and grinned at the flashing lights, then went back to her game.

“I shot him a text back at Wheaton. He knows we’re going to Flair Tower,” Nash said.

Porter thought about the little girl with the iPad. “How do you hide a daughter for fifteen years in today’s world? It can’t be easy, right? Birth records aside, how do you keep that secret online? All the social networks? Press? Talbot’s on the news all the time, particularly since he started that new waterfront project. Cameras follow him around just waiting for him to fuck up. You’d think someone would have caught a picture or something.”

“Money can hide a lot of things,” Nash pointed out, squealing around a hard left back onto the highway.

Porter sighed and returned to the diary.

11

Diary

The summers on our little piece of earth could be quite warm. By June I would find myself spending most of my time outside. Behind our house there were woods, and deep within the woods was a small lake. It froze during the winter, but during the summer its water would be the clearest blue and the most soothing temperature.

I liked to visit the lake.

I would tell Mother I was going fishing, but truth be told, I wasn’t one to fish. The idea of piercing a worm with a hook and tossing the creature into the water only to wait for something to come along and nibble at the creepy-crawly did not appeal to me. Did fish eat worms in the wild? I had my doubts. I had yet to see a worm enter the lake of its own accord. As I understood it, fish ate smaller fish, not worms. Perhaps if one were to fish with smaller fish in hopes of catching a larger one, one would be more successful? Regardless, I never had the patience for such silliness.

I did enjoy the lake, though.

So did Mrs. Carter.

I remember the first time I saw her there.

It was June 20. School had been out for seven glorious days and the sun was high in the sky, smiling down upon our little patch of earth with bright yellow love. I walked to the lake with my fishing pole in hand and the whistle of a smart tune on my lips. I was always such a happy child. Right as rain, I was.

I plopped down at my favorite tree, a large oak looming with the kind of size that can only come with age. I imagined if I sliced the tree’s belly and counted the rings, there would have been many, perhaps a hundred or more. Years came and went as the oak stood its ground and looked down upon the rest of the forest. It was a fine tree indeed.

As the summer progressed, I wore a nice little spot at the base of that tree. I always placed my fishing pole to my left and my lunch bag (containing a peanut butter and grape jam sandwich, of course) to my right. Then I would pull my latest read from my pocket and get lost within the book’s pages.

On this day, I was researching a theory. The month before in science class, we had learned that Earth was 4.5 billion years old. We’d previously learned the human race was only 200,000 years old. After I’d heard these factoids, a thought raised its hand at the back of my mind. Hence the reason I had picked up this particular book from the library the day before — a book about fossils.

You see, objects embedded in rocks are “fossilized” and stay that way for … for — I don’t know, but it’s a very long time, millions of years, in the case of dinosaurs. And most animals don’t even become fossils at all. After all, an animal would first have to get trapped in the rock to become fossilized. If the elements destroyed it before that could happen, the evidence would disappear without a trace.

The month before, I had killed a cat and laid the stiff body out at the edge of the lake to see what would happen.

Don’t worry, it wasn’t someone’s pet, only a stray cat. A little tabby that lived in the forest. At least, that is where I found it. If the animal did, in fact, belong to someone, it did not wear a tag. If it was a pet and they allowed it to roam free without a tag, any blame for the creature’s demise should fall upon the careless owners.

The cat did not look well. It hadn’t for some time.

The remains smelled something awful the first few days, but that quickly passed. First the flies came, then the maggots. Something larger may have picked at it some night during those early days. Now, though, after only a month, nothing remained but bones. Wind and rain would surely take those. Then it would be gone.

I imagine a person would disappear just as quickly.

At first the noise startled me. In all the time I had been coming to the lake, I had yet to spot another person. Nothing is forever, though, and here one stood less than a hundred feet away at the lake’s edge, gazing out over the water.

I shuffled around to the side of my tree so as not to be spotted.

Although her angle prevented me from seeing her face, I immediately recognized her hair, those long chocolate curls at her back.

She glanced in my direction and I ducked back. Then she turned to her right, surveying her surroundings. Finally content she was alone, she reached into a large bag, pulled out a towel, and spread it on the shore.

After she looked one more time in all directions, her hand went to the back of her dress and untied it at the neck. It fell from her body and pooled at her feet in a puddle of white, flowered cloth.

My mouth dropped open.

She wore nothing else.

I had never seen a naked woman before.

She closed her eyes and turned her head up to the sun and smiled.

Her legs were so long.

And breasts!

Oh my. I felt my face blush. It blushes to this day.

I saw a tiny tuft of hair at that spot, that special little spot.

Mrs. Carter walked to the water and stepped in, hesitant at first. No doubt it was cold.

She went farther still, slowly disappearing with the increasing depth.

When the water climbed above her knees, she bent down, took a handful, and splashed it over her chest. She dove in a moment later and swam toward the center of the lake.

From the safety of my tree, I watched.

• • •

The night came and went and proved to be quite restless.

With summer also came the heat, and my room became rather toasty once spring shrugged off its coat.

It wasn’t the heat that had kept me up, though; it was thoughts of Mrs. Carter. I dare to say, they were most unpure and very new to me. When I closed my eyes I still saw her standing in the lake, the water glistening on her damp flesh in the bright light. Her long legs … so long and tender. It made blood rush to a place it never had before, made me feel —

Let us say for a young boy, I was smitten.

I woke the next morning to the sound of her voice.

At first I thought it was only another dream, and I welcomed it, wishing to watch her remove her dress and walk into the lake again and again in the theater of my mind. Her voice drifted through the air on a whisper, followed by Mother’s chuckle. My eyes snapped open.

“It was kinky,” she said. “I had never been tied up before.”

“Never?” Mother replied.

Mrs. Carter giggled. “Does that make me a prude?”

“It just makes you inexperienced. In time, you’ll be surprised by what your husband can come up with to get his rocks off.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Just last week …” Mother’s voice dropped to a whisper.

I sat up in bed. Now the voices were faint, somewhere else in the house.

I hastily dressed and pressed my ear to my door, but still I couldn’t make out the words.

With a gentle twist of the knob, I opened the door and made my way down the hallway, my stockinged feet noiseless on the hardwood floor.

The hallway ended at the living room, which in turn faced the kitchen. I smelled something baking: the lofty aroma of apples and bread. Pie, perhaps? I love a good pie.

Mother and Mrs. Carter burst out laughing simultaneously.

I crouched low against the wall near the end of the hallway. I was still unable to hear well but dared not enter the living room. This position would have to do.

“My Simon is not that adventurous,” Mrs. Carter said. “I’m afraid to say his bag of tricks is rather light. More of a satchel than a bag, really. Or perhaps one of those little paper lunch sacks.”

The refrigerator door opened with the jingle of bottles.

“Not my husband,” Mother replied. “Sometimes I’ll put on the game just to get his mind out of the bedroom. Or the laundry room. Or the kitchen table.”

“No!” Mrs. Carter cried out with a laugh.

“Oh yes,” said Mother. “The man is like an animal in heat. Sometimes there is no stopping him.”

“But you have a kid.”

“Oh, that boy is always off doing something. When he’s not, he’s in bed sleeping like a bear in the dead of winter. The earth could open up beneath him, and he’d sleep through the carnage.”

I eased my head around the corner without so much as a sound, immediately drawing it back so as not to be seen.

Mother was mixing something at the counter. Mrs. Carter sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug at hand.

“Maybe you should try something to spice things up,” Mother continued. “Missionary is for missionaries, I always say. Introduce a toy or bring some food into the bedroom. All men like whipped cream.”

I was not permitted to bring food into my room. Not since Mother had found a half-eaten tin of cookies under my bed.

Mrs. Carter giggled again. “I could never.”

“You should.”

“But what if he doesn’t like it, or thinks I’m some kind of freak? How would I survive the embarrassment?”

“Oh, he’ll like it. They always do.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

The women fell silent for a moment, then Mrs. Carter spoke. “Has your husband ever, you know, not been able to, well, you know …”

“My husband?” Mother shrieked with amusement. “My Lord, no. His plumbing is in top order.”

“Even when he drinks?”

“Especially when he drinks.”

One of our wooden chairs scraped against the floor.

I peeked around the corner for just an instant. Mother had sat beside Mrs. Carter and put a hand on her shoulder. “Does it happen a lot?”

“Only when he drinks.”

“Does he drink a lot?”

Mrs. Carter paused, searching for the right words. “Not every night.”

Mother squeezed her shoulder. “Well, men will be men. He still has some growing up to do.”

“You think?”

“Sure. When starting out in life, there are so many pressures on a man, on both of you, but especially on him. He bought you that lovely home. I imagine you’ve talked of children?”

Mrs. Carter nodded.

“All those things, they add up like big, heavy weights on his shoulders. Each one adding another pound or two until he can barely walk, barely stand. He drinks to help deal with that, that’s all. I find nothing wrong with a little sauce to calm an edgy nerve. Don’t you fret. When things improve, when the pressure lifts, things will get better. Just you wait and see.”

“You don’t think it’s me?” Mrs. Carter said, her voice almost childlike.

“A pretty thing like you? Of course not,” Mother told her.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Mother snorted. “I can’t believe you’d even have to ask. You are gorgeous. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“That is so sweet of you to say,” Mrs. Carter said.

“It’s the truth. Any man would be lucky to have you,” Mother told her.

The women fell silent again, and I stole another glance, crawling around the corner as quiet as a mouse.

Mother and Mrs. Carter were kissing.

12

Emory

Day 1 • 9:29 a.m.

Darkness.

It swirled around her like the current of the deepest sea. Cold and silent, crawling across her body with the touch of a stranger.

“Em,” her mother whispered. “You gotta get up. You’re going to be late for school.”

“No,” she groaned. “A few more minutes …”

“Now, baby, I’m not going to tell you again.”

“I’ve got a bad headache. Can I stay home?” Her voice was soft and distant, soaked and heavy with sleep.

“I’m not going to make up another excuse for you with the principal. Why do we have to go through this every day?”

But this wasn’t right. Her mother had died long ago, when she was only three. Her mother had not been there on her first day of school. She had never sent her off to school. She had been homeschooled most of her life.

“Momma?” she said softly.

Silence.

Her head hurt so bad.

She tried to force her eyelids open, but they fought her.

Her head ached, throbbed. She heard the pounding of her own heartbeat, the rhythm fast and strong behind her eyes.

“Are you there, Momma?”

She peered through the darkness at her left, searching for the illuminated red numbers of her alarm clock. The clock wasn’t there, though; her room was pitch-dark.

The city lights normally cast a glow on her ceiling, but they too were dark.

She couldn’t see anything.

It’s not your room.

The thought came swiftly, an unknown voice.

Where?

Emory Connors tried to sit up, but a hammer of pain pulsed on the left side of her head, forcing her to lie back down. Her hand went to her ear and found a thick bandage. Wetness.

Blood?

Then she remembered the shot.

He had given her a shot.

Who was he?

Emory didn’t know. She couldn’t remember. She remembered the shot, though. His arm had reached around from behind and plunged the needle into her neck. Cold liquid rushed out under her skin.

She had tried to turn.

She had wanted to hurt him. That was what she had been taught to do, all those self-defense classes her father insisted she take. Punish and maim. Crack him in the nuts, honey. That’s my girl.

She had wanted to spin around with a well-placed kick and a punch to his nose or his windpipe, or maybe his eyes. She had wanted to hurt him before he could hurt her, she had wanted to …

She didn’t turn.

Instead, her world had gone dark, and sleep engulfed her.

He’ll rape and kill me, she had thought as consciousness slipped away. Help me, Momma, she had thought as the world faded to black.

Her mom was gone. Dead. And she was about to join her.

That was okay, that was good. She would like to see her mom again.

He hadn’t killed her, though. Had he?

No. The dead do not feel pain, and her ear throbbed.

She forced herself to sit up.

The blood rushed from her head, and she almost passed out again. The room spun for a second before settling.

What had he given her?

She had heard of girls getting roofied at parties and clubs, waking up in strange places with their clothes askew and no memory of what had happened. She hadn’t been at a party; she had been running in the park. He had lost his dog. He looked so sad standing there with the leash, calling out her name.

Bella? Stella? What was the dog’s name?

She couldn’t remember. Her mind was foggy, thick with smoke, choking her thoughts.

“Which way did it go?” she had asked him.

He frowned, near tears. “She saw a squirrel and took off after it, that way.” He pointed to the east. “She’s never run away before. I don’t get it.” Emory had turned, her gaze following his.

Then the arm around her neck.

The shot.

“Sleepy time, beautiful,” he whispered at her ear.

There had been no dog. How could she have been so stupid?

She was cold.

Something held her right wrist down. Emory tugged and heard the clank of metal on metal. Reaching over with her left hand, she explored the smooth steel around her wrist, the thin chain.

Handcuffs.

Fastened to whatever she was lying on.

Her right wrist was handcuffed to something; her left was free.

She took a deep breath. The air was stale, damp.

Don’t panic, Em. Don’t let yourself give in to the panic.

Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but it was so black, absolute. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the bed.

No, not a bed. Something else.

It was steel.

Hospital gurney.

Emory wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did, she just knew.

Oh God, where was she?

She shivered, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

She hesitated for a moment, then reached down and felt between her legs. She wasn’t sore.

If he had raped her, she would know, wouldn’t she?

She wasn’t sure.

She had only had sex once before, and it had hurt. Not painful, just uncomfortable, and only at first. Her boyfriend, Tyler, had promised to be gentle, and he had. It was over fast, his first time too. That was only a few weeks ago. Her father had let her go to Tyler’s homecoming dance at Whatney Vale High. Tyler had rented a room at the Union, and even managed to score a bottle of champagne from somewhere.

God, her head.

She reached back up and tentatively touched the bandages. Her ear was completely wrapped up. Some kind of tape held the dressing in place. Gently, she peeled back the bandage. “Fuck!”

The cool air felt like the blade of a knife.

She pulled at the bandage anyway, tugging until she could get her hand under the cloth.

Tears welled in her eyes as her fingertips brushed over what remained of her ear, a ragged wound at best, stitched and tender. “No … no … no,” she cried.

Her voice bounced off the walls and echoed back at her mockingly.

13

Porter

Day 1 • 10:04 a.m.

Nash pulled the Charger into a handicapped spot at the front of Flair Tower and killed the engine.

“You’re really going to park here?” Porter frowned.

Nash shrugged. “We’re the po-po; we get to do things like that.”

“Remind me to put in for a new partner when this is all over.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan. Then maybe I’ll get saddled with some hot female rookie fresh out of the academy.” Nash grinned.

“Maybe you can requisition one with daddy issues.”

“I don’t recall that question on the form, but I may have missed it.”

The doorman propped open the large glass doors for them, and they moved past him to the front desk. Porter flashed his badge. “Penthouse twenty-seven?”

A young woman with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes smiled back at him. “Your colleagues arrived about twenty-five minutes ago. Take elevator number six to the twenty-seventh floor. The penthouse will be on your right as you exit.” She handed him a keycard. “You’ll need this.”

They boarded elevator number six, and the door closed behind them with a quick swoosh of air. Porter pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor, but nothing happened.

“You need to slide the card through the thingy,” Nash instructed.

“The thingy? How the fuck did you become a detective?”

“Forgive me for not consulting my word-a-day calendar this morning,” he retorted. “The card reader over there. Looks like a credit card machine.”

“Got it, Einstein.” Porter slid the plastic access card through the reader and pushed the button again. This time the panel lit up in bright blue, and they began to ascend.

The elevator door opened onto a hallway that extended in both directions. Large railed openings offered views of a massive atrium on the floor below. Near the end of the hallway to the right a door was open, a uniformed officer standing guard.

Porter and Nash approached, showed their badges, and stepped inside.

The view was breathtaking.

The penthouse occupied the entire northeast corner of the building. The outer walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows with a balcony. The city sprawled out around them, with Lake Michigan visible in the distance. “When I was fifteen,” Porter said, “my room was nothing like this.”

“My apartment could fit in this living room,” Nash said. “After today, I may have to trade in my badge and become a real estate mogul.”

“I don’t think you can jump right into something like that,” said Porter. “You probably need to take some kind of course on the Internet.”

Nash pulled two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, handed one set to Porter, and put on the other.

A number of CSI techs were already hard at work inside. Paul Watson spotted them and came over from the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall. “If there was a struggle, there’s no sign. This is the cleanest apartment I’ve ever seen. The fridge is fully stocked. I found a receipt in the trash from two days ago. We’re pulling the phone records, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either. I was able to scroll back through the last ten incoming numbers, and they all belonged to her father.”

“She has a landline? Really?”

Watson shrugged. “Maybe it came with the apartment.”

“Daddy probably put it in. Can’t claim no signal or missed calls with a landline,” Nash pointed out.

Porter asked, “What about outgoing?”

“Three numbers. We’re running them now,” said Watson.

Porter began walking around the apartment, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood floors.

The kitchen had cherry cabinets and dark granite countertops. All stainless steel appliances — Viking stove and Sub-Zero refrigerator. The living room held a large sectional beige leather couch. It appeared so comfortable, Porter got tired just glancing at the plush cushions. The television was at least eighty inches. “That’s a 4K display,” Watson told him.

“4K?”

“Four times more pixels than your standard 1080p HD television.”

Porter only nodded. He still had a nineteen-inch tube television at home. He refused to replace the ancient unit with a flat panel while it was working, and the damn thing wouldn’t die.

There was a den with a large oak desk. A tech was copying the files from a twenty-seven-inch iMac.

“Anything useful?” he asked.

The tech shook his head. “Nothing stands out. We’ll analyze her files and social network activity back at the station.”

Porter continued on into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made. No posters were on the walls, only a few paintings. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Nash pulled a few of the drawers; each was lined with perfectly folded clothes. “Yeah. Seems more like a model home, almost staged. If a fifteen-year-old girl lives here, she’s the neatest teenager I’ve ever come across,” Nash said.

There was a single framed picture on her nightstand of a woman in her mid- to late twenties. Flowing brown hair, the greenest eyes Porter had ever seen. “Her mother?” he asked nobody in particular.

“I believe so,” Watson replied.

“Talbot said she died of cancer when Emory was only three,” Porter said, studying the photograph. “A brain tumor, of all things.”

“I can research that if you’d like,” Watson proposed eagerly.

Porter nodded and replaced the picture. “That would be helpful.”

“You could bounce a quarter on this bed,” said Nash. “I don’t think a kid made it.”

“I’m still not convinced a kid lives here.”

The master bathroom was amazing — all granite and porcelain tile. Two sinks. You could throw a party in the shower. Porter counted no fewer than six showerheads with additional jets built into the walls.

He walked over to the sink and touched the tip of her toothbrush. “Still damp,” he said.

“I’ll get someone to bag that,” Watson told him. “In case we need the DNA. Hand me that hairbrush too.”

There was a sitting room attached to the master. The walls were lined with shelves teeming with books, a few hundred or more. Porter spotted everything from Charles Dickens to J. K. Rowling. A Thad McAlister novel was lying open on a large, fluffy recliner at the center of the room. “Maybe she does live here after all,” Porter said, picking up the book. “This came out a few weeks ago.”

“And you know this how?” Nash asked.

“Heather picked it up. She’s a big fan of this guy.”

“Ah.”

“Look at this,” Watson said. He was holding up an English literature textbook. “I remember spotting a calculus book on the desk in the den. This particular brand, Worthington Studies, is popular with homeschoolers. Did Mr. Talbot say where she went to school?”

Porter and Nash glanced at each other. “We didn’t ask.”

Watson was flipping through the pages. “If she was enrolled somewhere, we can track down some of her friends.” His face grew red. “I’m sorry, sir. I mean, you can track down some of her friends. If you think that might be useful.”

Talbot had given Porter a business card with his cell phone number. He tapped his pocket, confirming it was still there. “I’ll check with her father when we’re done here.”

They left the master and continued down the hall. “How many bedrooms in this place?”

“Three,” Watson replied. “Take a look at this one.” He gestured to a room on their right.

Porter stepped inside. A basket of laundry sat atop a queen-size bed. A large Catholic cross hung over the headboard. The dresser was covered in framed photographs, two rows deep.

Nash picked one up. “Is that her? Emory?”

“Must be.”

They ranged in age from a toddler to a picture of a stunning young girl in a dark-blue dress next to a boy of about sixteen with long, wavy dark hair. A small caption in the corner read WHATNEY VALE HIGH HOMECOMING, 2014.

“Is she enrolled there?” Porter asked.

“I’ll find out.” Watson pointed at the young man standing next to her. “Think that’s her boyfriend?”

“Might be.”

“Can I see that?” Watson asked.

Porter handed him the frame.

Watson flipped it over and slid the tiny tabs aside, then removed the backing board. He carefully extracted the photo. “Em and Ty.” He showed them the back. The names were in small print on the bottom right.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Porter said.

“No, Whatney Vale is a high school.”

Nash chuckled. “I love this guy. Can we keep him?”

“The captain will kill me if I bring home another stray,” Porter said.

“I’m serious, Sam. We’re going to need the manpower. We’ve got two, possibly three days on the outside to find this girl. He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Nash said. “If you don’t fill the task force bench, the captain will. Better you do it, or we’ll get stuck with someone like Murray.” He nodded toward a detective standing in the hallway, who was staring at the tip of his ballpoint pen. “I’m thinking we bring the kid in as a CSI liaison.”

Porter thought about this for a moment, then turned back to Watson. “Any interest in working this case?”

“I’m a private contractor with CSI. Can I work as law enforcement?”

“As long as you don’t shoot anyone,” Nash said.

“I don’t carry a weapon,” he replied. “I never felt the need to take the exam. I’m more of a bookworm.”

“Chicago Metro has an agreement with the crime lab. Officially, you’d be a consult on loan,” Porter explained. “Think you can clear it with your supervisor?”

Watson set the photo down on the dresser and pulled out his cell phone. “Give me a minute — I’ll call him.” He walked to the far corner of the room and punched in the number.

“Sharp kid,” Nash said.

“It will be good to have some fresh eyes on this,” Porter agreed. “God knows you’re not much help.”

“Fuck you too, buddy.” Nash stuffed the photo into an evidence bag. “I’ll take this back to the war room.”

Porter ran his hand through his hair and glanced around the room. “You know what I haven’t seen yet?”

“What?”

“A single photo of the father,” he replied. “There’s not a damn thing in this place to indicate they’re related. I bet if we check the records, we won’t find anything to link him back here. The apartment is probably owned by a company that’s owned by a company that’s owned by a shell out of an island so remote, Gilligan’s bones are probably buried on the beach.”

Nash shrugged. “That surprise you? He’s got a family, a life. He’s the kind of guy who has political office on the brain. Illegitimate children don’t bode well in a campaign unless they belong to your opponent — same with mistresses. Let’s face it: even though he said he cared for this woman, that’s all she was to him, or he would have left the wife and married her rather than hide her in this tower, away from prying eyes. Kid or no kid.”

Watson returned, pocketing his cell phone. “He said as long as I stay on top of my current caseload, he’s okay with it.”

“Will that be a problem?”

He shook his head. “I can handle it. Frankly, I think I’ll enjoy the change of pace. It’ll be nice to get out of the lab for a little while.”

“Okay, then. Welcome to the Four Monkey Killer task force. We’ll take care of the paperwork back at the station.”

“Not very ceremonious, Sam. You’ll need to work on that,” Nash said.

Watson pointed at the photo. “Do you want me to try and track down Ty?”

“Yeah,” Porter replied. “See what you can dig up.”

He dropped the photograph into an evidence bag.

Nash pulled open the top left dresser drawer. Women’s underwear. He stretched them out between his hands and whistled. “Those are some big ’uns.”

“I’m thinking some kind of nanny or housekeeper lives in this room,” Porter said. “Emory’s only fifteen. There is no way she lives here by herself.”

“Okay, but then where is she now? Why hasn’t she reported the girl missing?” Nash asked. “It’s been at least a day, possibly longer.”

“She didn’t report anything to the police. Maybe she called somebody else,” Porter suggested.

“You mean Talbot?” Nash shook his head. “I don’t think so. He seemed genuinely surprised and upset when you told him.”

“If she’s illegal, she wouldn’t call the police,” Watson said. “Makes sense she would reach out to him.”

“Or someone who works for him.”

“Okay, assuming that’s the case, then why would Talbot pretend to be in the dark? Wouldn’t he want to find her?”

Porter shrugged. “His lawyer was pretty insistent about keeping all this quiet. Maybe that’s the Talbot stance. They’ve kept this girl a secret for fifteen years. Why stop now? He’s got resources, he’s probably got his own people out looking for her; no need for us.”

“Then why tell us about her at all? If his primary concern is hiding her from the world, wouldn’t he point us in another direction?”

Porter walked over to the laundry basket and felt a towel near the center. “Still warm.”

Nash nodded slowly. “So somebody phoned her, told her we were coming …”

“That would be my guess. She probably cleared out right after getting the call.”

“That doesn’t mean there’s some big conspiracy. She might just be an illegal like Dr. Watson over there suggested, and he didn’t want to see her get deported,” Nash said.

“I’m not a —”

Nash cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I bet she’s still close, then. We should post someone to keep an eye on the place.”

Nash’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display. “It’s Eisley.” He tapped the Answer button. “This is Nash.”

Porter took the opportunity to dial his wife. When he got voice mail, he disconnected without leaving a message.

Nash hung up and dropped his phone into his front pants pocket. “He wants us down at the morgue.”

“What did he find?”

“Said we needed to see for ourselves.”

14

Diary

“Would you like honey in your oatmeal, dear?”

Mother made wonderful oatmeal. Not the prepackaged kind, no sir. She purchased raw oats and cooked them to a magical deliciousness and served them with toast and juice at the little breakfast nook in our kitchen.

“Yes, Mother,” I replied. “More juice too, please?”

It was a little past eight in the morning on a sunny summer Thursday.

I heard a gentle knock at our screen door, and we both turned to find Mrs. Carter standing on the stoop.

Mother grinned. “Hey, you. Come on in.”

Mrs. Carter smiled back and pulled open the door. Thanks to the bright sun, I saw the outline of her legs through her dress as she stepped over the threshold. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and smiled before walking over to my mother and giving her a light peck on the cheek.

I have to say, after yesterday, it was fairly tame. However, I did catch a glance as it passed between them.

Mother stroked the other woman’s hair. “Your hair looks absolutely stunning today. I’d kill for hair like that. I’m having an Irish coffee. Would you care for one?”

“What is Irish coffee?”

“My, my, you are young in the ways of the world, aren’t you? Irish coffee is coffee with a splash of Jameson whiskey. I find it’s the perfect pick-me-up on a warm summer morning,” Mother told her.

“Whiskey in the morning? How devilish! Yes, please.”

Mother poured her a steaming cup of coffee, then took down a little green bottle with a yellow label from the cabinet I was not permitted to open. She removed the cap and topped off the mug before passing it to Mrs. Carter. I couldn’t help but notice that their hands lingered together a moment longer than one would think necessary.

Mrs. Carter took a sip and smiled. “This is to die for. It must do wonders during the winter.”

Mother looked at the woman and tilted her head. “Isn’t that the same dress you were wearing yesterday?”

Mrs. Carter blushed. “I’m afraid so. I desperately need to do laundry today.”

“I can’t let you go through the day in yesterday’s clothes. Follow me.” She stood and started for her bedroom, taking the bottle with her. “I have a few dresses I don’t wear anymore. I bet they would fit you perfectly.”

Mrs. Carter smiled at me and chased after Mother, her Irish coffee in hand. I watched them disappear down the hall, Mother’s door closing as they stepped inside.

For the briefest of moments, I considered staying there at the table and finishing my breakfast. After all, it is the most important meal of the day. As a growing boy, I understood the importance of nourishment. I didn’t do it, though. Instead, I tiptoed down the hallway and put my ear to her door.

Nothing but silence came from the other side.

I went outside and circled the house.

Mother’s window was on the east side, above a large rosebush shaded by an old cottonwood. Careful to ensure I could not be seen from the street, I positioned myself to the side of the tree and turned to the window. Unfortunately I was still rather short, my thin body that of a boy, and only the ceiling of the room was visible from that angle.

I quickly ran to the back of the house and returned with a five-gallon plastic bucket. Placing it upside down beside the tree, I climbed atop and again turned to the window.

Mrs. Carter’s back was to me, watching Mother as she dug through her closet with the ferocity of a dog creating a hole for its favorite bone. When Mother emerged, she held three dresses. Words were exchanged, but I was unable to make them out, as Mother’s window was closed. She wasn’t one to open her bedroom window, even at the peak of summer heat.

Mrs. Carter reached behind her head and untied the bow that held the back of her dress together. My breath caught in my throat as the thin material fell away. Aside from thin white cotton panties, she was naked. Mother handed her one of the dresses, and she slipped it over her head. Mother then stepped back and appraised the other woman. She produced the small green bottle with the yellow label and drank directly from it. She shivered, grinned, and handed the bottle to Mrs. Carter, who hesitated only for a moment before bringing the bottle to her own lips and taking a drink.

I knew what alcohol was, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mother drink, only Father. It was commonplace for him to pour a drink or two after a long day at work, but not Mother. This was new. This was different.

Our neighbor handed the bottle back to Mother, who drank again, then passed it back, the two of them laughing silently behind the glass.

Mother held up one of the other dresses, and Mrs. Carter nodded with enthusiasm. She removed her dress and walked over to Mother’s large mirror, holding the second dress against her chest.

My heart quickened.

Mother stepped up behind her and brushed her hair to the side, revealing the curve of her neck. I peered in as Mother kissed her ever so tenderly on that spot where neck meets shoulder. Mrs. Carter closed her eyes and leaned back slightly, pressing against her. She dropped the dress to the floor. In the mirror’s reflection, I watched as Mother’s hand inched up the other woman’s stomach and found her right breast.

Unlike Mrs. Carter’s, Mother’s eyes were open. I know this because I could see them. I could see them staring back at me in the mirror’s reflection as her hands drifted down the length of the other woman’s body and disappeared within her panties.

15

Porter

Day 1 • 10:31 a.m.

The Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office was on West Harrison Street in downtown Chicago. Porter and Nash made good time from Flair Tower and parked in one of the spaces out front reserved for law enforcement. Eisley had instructed them to meet him in the morgue.

Porter had never been a fan of the morgue. Formaldehyde and bleach seemed to be the air freshener of choice, but there was no disguising the fact that the morgue smelled like feet, stale cheese, and cheap perfume. Whenever he stepped through the doorway, he was reminded of the fetal pig Mr. Scarletto had forced him to dissect in high school. He just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. The walls were painted a cheerful light blue, which did little to help one forget one was surrounded by dead people. The employees all seemed to wear the same nonchalant expression, one that made Porter wonder what he’d find if he took a gander inside their home refrigerators. Nash didn’t seem to mind, though. He had stopped halfway down the hallway and was peering into a vending machine.

“How could they run out of Snickers bars? Who’s in charge of this shit show?” he grumbled to nobody in particular. “Hey, Sam, can I borrow a quarter?”

Porter ignored him and pushed through the double swinging stainless steel doors opposite a green leather sofa that might have been new around the time JFK took office.

“Come on, man. I’m hungry!” Nash shouted from behind him.

Tom Eisley sat at a metal desk in the far corner of the room, typing feverishly at a computer. He glanced up and frowned. “Did you walk here?”

Porter considered telling him that they did, in fact, drive quite fast, lights and all, but thought better of it. “We were over at Flair Tower. We tracked down the victim’s apartment.”

Most people would have asked him what they found, but not Eisley; his interest in people started when their pulse stopped.

Nash came through the double doors, the remnants of a Kit Kat on his fingers.

“Feel better?” Porter asked him.

“Cut me some slack. I’m running on fumes.”

Eisley stood from the desk. “Put on gloves, both of you. Follow me.”

He led them past the desk and through another set of double doors at the back of the space into a large examination room. As they stepped inside, the temperature felt as if it dropped twenty degrees. Low enough for Porter to see his breath. Goose flesh crawled across his arms.

A large round surgical light with handles on either side swung over the exam table at the center of the room, a naked male body lying atop. The face had been covered with a white cloth. The chest had been splayed open with a large Y incision that started at his navel and branched at the pectoral muscles.

He should have brought gum — gum helped with the smell.

“Is that our boy?” Nash asked.

“It is,” Eisley said.

The dirt and grime from the road had been washed away, but there was no cleansing the road rash, which covered his skin in patches. Porter took a closer look. “I didn’t catch that this morning.”

Eisley pointed at a large purple and black bruise on the right arm and leg. “The bus hit him here. See these lines? That’s from the grill. Based on the measurements we took at the scene, the impact threw him a little over twenty feet, then he slid on the pavement for another twelve. I found tremendous internal damage. More than half his ribs cracked. Four of them punctured his right lung, two punctured the left. His spleen ruptured. So did one kidney. The head trauma appears to be the actual cause of death, although any one of the other injuries would have proved fatal. His death was near instantaneous. Nothing to be done.”

“That’s your big news?” Nash balked. “I thought you found something.”

Eisley’s brow creased. “Oh, there’s something.”

“I’m not big on suspense, Tom. What’d you find?” Porter said.

Eisley walked over to a stainless steel table and pointed at what appeared to be a brown ziplock bag filled with —

“Is that his stomach?” Nash asked.

Eisley nodded. “Notice anything odd?”

“Yeah. It’s not in him anymore,” said Porter.

“Anything else?”

“No time for this, Doc.”

Eisley let out a sigh. “See these spots? Here and here?”

Porter leaned in a little closer. “What are they?”

“Stomach cancer,” Eisley told them.

“He was dying? Did he know?”

“This is advanced. There’s no corrective treatment when the disease gets to this point. It would have been very painful. I’m sure he was well aware. I found a few interesting things in the tox screen. He was on a high dose of octreotide, which is typically used to control nausea and diarrhea. There was also a concentration of trastuzumab. It’s an interesting drug. They first used it to treat breast cancer, then discovered it helped with other types of cancer too.”

“You think we can track him down with the drugs?”

Eisley nodded slowly. “Probably. Trastuzumab in particular is administered intravenously for an hour, no less than once a week, possibly more often at this stage. I’m not aware of anyone offering this particular medication in private practice, which means he probably went to a hospital or a high-end cancer treatment center. There are only a handful of options in the city. It can cause heart complications, so they monitor patients closely.”

Nash turned to Porter. “If he was dying, do you think he stepped out in front of that bus intentionally?”

“I doubt it. Then why kidnap another girl? I think he’d want to see it through.” He turned back to Eisley. “How much time do you think he had left?”

Eisley shrugged. “Hard to say. Not much, though — a few weeks. A month on the outside.”

“Was he on something for the pain?” Porter asked.

“I found a partially digested oxycodone tablet in his stomach. We’re testing his hair for older medications, things that left his system. I imagine we’ll turn up morphine,” said Eisley.

Porter glanced at the man’s dark hair. Hair retained trace evidence of medication and diet. 4MK cut it short, no more than an inch long. The average person’s hair grows half an inch per month, meaning they should be able to get a history dating back at least a couple of months. Drug testing of hair was nearly five times more accurate than a urine sample. Over the years, he had seen suspects flush drugs out of their system with everything from cranberry juice to consumption of actual urine. There was no flushing out your hair, though. This was the reason many drug addicts on probation shaved their heads.

“He has hair,” Porter said quietly.

Eisley furrowed his brow for a moment, then realized Porter’s point. “I didn’t find any sign of chemotherapy, not even a single cycle. It’s possible they discovered the cancer too late and traditional treatment wasn’t an option.” Eisley walked over to another table. The man’s personal effects were neatly laid out. “That little metal tin right there” — he pointed to a small silver box — “is full of lorazepam.”

“That’s for anxiety, right?”

Nash smirked. “Being a serial killer is an odd choice of pastime for someone with anxiety issues.”

“Generic Ativan. With stomach cancer, doctors sometimes prescribe it to help manage acids. Anxiety leads to increased production, lorazepam cuts it back,” Eisley said. “Chances are, he was calmer than any of us.”

Porter glanced down at the pocket watch, now tagged and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. The cover was intricately carved, the hands visible beneath. “Were you able to get prints from this?”

Eisley nodded. “He got a few abrasions on the hands, but the fingertips weren’t damaged. I pulled a full set and sent them to the lab. Haven’t heard back yet.”

Porter’s eyes landed on the shoes.

Eisley followed his gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot about those. Check this out, very odd.” He picked up one of the shoes and returned to the body, then placed the heel of the shoe against the man’s bare foot. “They’re nearly two sizes too big for this guy. He had tissue paper stuffed in at the toes.”

“Who wears shoes two sizes too big?” Nash asked. “Didn’t you say those go for around fifteen hundred?”

Porter nodded. “Maybe they’re not his. We should dust them for prints.”

Nash glanced at Eisley, then around the room. “Do you have a … never mind — I got it.” He hurried over to another counter and returned with a fingerprint kit. With expert precision, he powdered the shoes. “Bingo.”

“Lift them and send them to the lab. Make sure they understand how urgent this is,” Porter said.

“On it.”

Porter turned back to Eisley. “Anything else?”

Eisley frowned. “What? The drug evidence isn’t enough for you?”

“That’s not —”

“There is one other thing.”

He led Porter to the other side of the body and picked up the man’s right hand. Porter tried not to look into the gaping hole in his chest.

“I found a small tattoo,” Eisley told him. He pointed at a small black spot on the man’s inner wrist. “I think it’s the number eight.”

Porter leaned in. “Or an infinity symbol.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

“It’s fresh. See the redness? He got it less than a week ago.”

Porter tried to make sense of it all. “Could be some kind of religious thing. He was dying.”

“I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives,” Eisley said.

Porter lifted the edge of the white cloth covering the head. The material peeled away with a sound not unlike Velcro.

“I’m going to try and reconstruct his face.”

“Yeah? You think you can do that?” Porter asked.

“Well, not me,” Eisley confessed. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Museum of Science and Industry. She specializes in this sort of thing — old remains and such. She spent the last six years restoring the remains of an Illiniwek tribe discovered downstate near McHenry County. She normally works with skull and bone fragments, nothing this … fresh. But I think she can do it. I put in a call.”

“She, huh?” Nash chimed in. “Did you make a lady friend?” He finished with the shoes and packed up the fingerprint kit. “I’ve got six partials and at least three full thumbs. Three thumbprints, I should say. I don’t mean to imply our unsub has three thumbs, although that would make him a lot easier to identify. I’m going to walk these down. Do you want to regroup in the war room? Maybe an hour? I’ll check in with the captain too.”

Porter thought of the diary in his pocket. An hour sounded good.

16

Diary

Mother saw me, but I did not run away. I knew I should go. I knew this was a private moment, something not meant for my eyes, but I kept watching anyway. I don’t think I could have stopped even if I wanted to. I stayed next to that tree until Mother and Mrs. Carter disappeared from view. More accurately, they sank from view, whether to the bed or the floor, I was not sure.

Beneath me, my bucket wobbled. I wobbled. My legs felt like Jell-O. Wiggle waggle! My heart thudded with a parade cadence. I’ll tell you, it was exhilarating to say the least!

I found myself so ensconced in this activity, I didn’t hear Mr. Carter’s car drive past our house. It wasn’t until it crunched down the gravel driveway next door that I took notice. Mrs. Carter must have heard the car then too. Like a groundhog on the last day of winter, her head popped up in the window frame, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a gasp. She spotted me the same moment I saw her. There was nothing to do, I froze looking back at her. She turned and shouted something, and then my mother appeared. She did not look out at me.

Both disappeared from the window.

Mr. Carter’s car door slammed. He was never home at such an hour. Normally he did not return from work until after five, about the same time as my father. He saw me standing next to the tree, perched high on my bucket, and gave me a puzzled glance. I waved. He did not wave back. Instead, he bounded up his front walk and disappeared into his house.

A moment later Mrs. Carter walked briskly out our front door and crossed the lawn, her hands smoothing her dress as she went. She gave me a quick glance as she passed. I offered her a howdy-do, but she did not reciprocate. When she entered her own house, she did so with caution, closing the front door ever so softly behind her.

I jumped down off my bucket and followed her.

I wouldn’t call myself a nosy child. I was curious, that’s all. So I crossed over to the Carters’ lawn without a second thought. I was halfway to their driveway when I heard the slap.

There was no mistaking that particular sound. My father was a firm believer in discipline, and he had brought his hand to my backside on more than one occasion. Without going into detail, I am willing to admit I deserved a good whack or two on each and every one of those occasions, and I hold no ill will toward him for doing so. That sound was well-known to me, and after being on the receiving end (no pun intended) I also recognized the quick scream that followed such pain.

When Mrs. Carter cried out immediately following the slap, I realized that Mr. Carter had hit her. Another slap quickly followed, then another sharp yelp.

I reached Mr. Carter’s car. The engine still made a steady tick, tick, tick. Heat floated above the hood, and exhaust filled the air.

Mr. Carter crashed through the front door as I stood beside his car. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growled, before pushing past me and walking across the lawn toward my house.

Mrs. Carter appeared in the doorway but stopped at the threshold. She held a damp towel to the side of her face. Her right eye was puffy, pink, and teary. When she noticed me, her lips trembled. “Don’t let him hurt your mother,” she whispered.

Mr. Carter reached our kitchen door and pounded the frame with his fist. I found it odd that it was closed. Nearly every summer day, the door was opened in the morning and remained that way until late into the night, with only the screen door to keep Mother Nature’s creatures out of the house. Mother must have —

I spotted Mother standing in a side window. She glared at Mr. Carter on our back stoop.

“Open the door, you fucking cunt!” he shouted. “Open the goddamn door!”

Mother watched him but remained still.

I started back toward the house, and her hand shot up, motioning for me to stay put. I stopped in my tracks, unsure of what I should do. Looking back, I see it was naive of me to believe I could do much of anything. Mr. Carter was a large man, maybe even bigger than Father. If I attempted to stop him in any way, he would swat me as if I were an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

“You think you can turn my wife into your own personal rug cleaner?” He banged at the door. “I knew it, I fucking knew it, you insatiable little cunt. I knew something was going on. Always over at your house. Smelling of your stink. I tasted you on her, you know that? Believe it. I sure as shit could. Now I think you owe me. A tit for tat. Or how about a tit for a twat — if I dumb it down, does it make more sense to you? There’s consequences, you little bitch. There’s payment due. Nothing in this world is free!”

Mother disappeared from the window.

Mrs. Carter began to sob behind me.

Mr. Carter turned and shook an angry finger at her. “Shut the fuck up!” His face burned bright red. Sweat glistened on his brow. “Don’t think I’m done with you. When I finish up over here, you and I are going to have a long, hard talk. Believe that. When I’m done collecting from this hussy, it’s your turn. You think that little scratch hurts? Wait until I come home for dessert!”

It was then our back door opened. Mother stepped out into the light and beckoned him inside.

Mr. Carter stood there for a moment, glaring at Mother. His face as red as a stop sign, his brow all crunched up and sweaty. His hands were balled in tight fists. At first I thought he would hit her, but he didn’t.

Mother peered over his shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for a moment before turning back to him. “It’s a one-time offer. Now or never.” She twirled a finger around a lock of blond hair, then slid it down the side of her neck, a grin playing at her lips.

“Are you kidding me?”

Mother turned back into the kitchen and nodded. “Come on.”

He watched her disappear through the doorway, then turned back to his wife. “Consider this part one of the lesson. When I’m done here, I’ll be home to teach you part two.” He snorted as if he had made the joke of all jokes, then walked into our house, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Carter sobbed.

I was but a boy, and I had no idea how to comfort a crying woman, nor did I have any desire to. Instead, I raced back around the house to Mother’s window and hopped back up on my bucket. I found the room empty.

From somewhere within the house, I heard a horrible scream. It had not come from Mother.

17

Emory

Day 1 • 9:31 a.m.

Emory was going to throw up.

The vomit crept up the back of her throat, thick and vile. She choked it down, cringing at the foul aftertaste.

She took a deep breath, the air catching between sobs.

He had cut off her ear! What the fuck? Why —

The answer came to her in an instant, and she drew in another breath so hard and fast that she whistled before coughing out another sob. The tears welled in her eyes and dripped on her knees. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but more came, salty and sharp.

She hiccupped between ragged breaths.

Her body shook with violent spasms. Snot dripped from her nose and mixed with her tears. Just when she thought it was over, her mind would flood with a mix of fear, pain, and anger, and the pattern would start again, lessening only a little each time.

When the fit finally ended, when she was able to reel in a breath and keep it, she found herself sitting in utter silence. Her mind was painfully hollow and quiet, her body sore, muscles aching, her face puffy and red. Her fingers brushed over the handcuffs, searching for some kind of release, hoping they weren’t real handcuffs but the kind you buy in a sex shop or a toy store — her friend Laurie had told her about those, how her boyfriend wanted to use them and she said no way, nohow.

There was no release switch, and the band around her wrist was tight; they weren’t coming off without a key. She could try to pick them, but that would mean finding something to pick them with, and that would mean exploring.

Who was she kidding? She had no clue how to pick a lock.

The handcuffs had an abnormally long chain on them too, at least two feet, the kind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.

She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then —

Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.

Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.

Her heart pounded within her chest.

How long before …

She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.

The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.

Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally —

The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.

You don’t remember me, dear?

Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.

“You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”

Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be —

You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. When you have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?

Emory caught herself nodding.

I only want what’s best for you.

“Stop.”

When you’re safe. Until then … this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.

“Quiet!”

Silence.

The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.

Where your ear used to be, dear.

“Please don’t. Please be quiet —”

Better that you accept it now. Accept it and move on.

Emory lowered her legs over the side of her makeshift bed. The wheels squeaked as the gurney rolled a few inches before scraping against a wall and stopped. When her feet touched the cold concrete, she almost pulled them back up. Not knowing what was beneath her creeped her out, but remaining still while waiting for her captor to return was not an option she was willing to consider. She had to find a way out.

Her eyes fought the darkness, trying to adjust and pull in the smallest bit of light, but there simply wasn’t enough. She raised her hand to her face, and it was barely visible unless she practically touched her nose.

Emory forced herself to stand, ignoring the dizziness swooning through her head and the pain at her ear. She took a deep breath and held the edge of the gurney for balance just below where her handcuffs were attached, standing still until the nausea left her.

It was so dark. Too dark.

What if you fall, dear? What if you try to walk, trip over something, and fall? Are you sure this is wise? Why don’t you sit back down and figure things out. How would that be?

Emory ignored the voice and tentatively reached out, her left hand stretching into the blackness, her fingers groping. When they found nothing, she took a step toward the top of the gurney, toward the wall it rested against. Right hand on the gurney, left hand reaching. One step, then another, then a —

Her fingers found the wall, and she nearly jumped back. The rough surface felt damp and grimy. Cautiously running her hand across the wall, she found a groove and traced the edge with the tip of her finger, following horizontally until she found another groove, this one vertical. The pattern repeated about a foot down. Rectangles.

Cinder blocks.

You know, where there’s one wall, there’s usually another. Sometimes there’s a door or a window or two. Perhaps a walk of the perimeter is in order? Figure out just what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into? You’re tied to that pesky gurney, though — not really fit for travel.

Emory tugged on the gurney until the frame moved, rolling an inch or so on squeaky wheels. She squeezed the rail. Just holding the metal frame, holding on to something, made her feel a little safer. It was silly, she knew that, but —

It’s a crutch. Isn’t that the word?

“Fuck you,” she muttered.

With her left hand on the wall and her right dragging the gurney, she inched along, her feet shuffling. She counted as she went, attempting to map out the space in her mind’s eye. She took twelve steps before finding the first corner. Emory estimated the first wall to be about ten feet long.

She continued along the second wall. More cinder block. She ran her fingers up and down the wall in search of a light switch, a door, anything, but she found none; only more block.

Emory stopped for a second, her head turning up. She couldn’t help but wonder — how high could this room be? Was there a ceiling?

Of course there’s a ceiling, dear. Serial killers are smart; you’re not the first girl to attend his rodeo. He’s taken how many girls? Five? Six? He’s probably got the routine down to a science at this point. I’m sure this room is sealed up tight. You should keep exploring, though. I like this. Much better than sitting around waiting for him to come back. That’s a fool’s game. This has purpose. This shows initiative.

She continued around the room. The gurney fought again as she turned the corner, and she pulled the frame toward her with an angry yank.

Hey. I just thought of something. What if he’s watching you? What if he’s got cameras?

“It’s too dark.”

Infrared cameras can see in the dark plain as day. He’s probably got his feet up on a desk somewhere, watching Emory TV, a big, fat grin on his face. Naked girl in box. Naked girl trying to get out of box. The last girl took thirty minutes to venture this far around the room. This one is on a tear — she got there in twenty. How exciting. How entertaining.

Emory stopped moving and stared into the blackness. “Are you there? Are you … watching me?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Perhaps he’s shy?

“Shut up.”

I bet he’s got his pants around his ankles and his pecker out with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Emory TV After Dark is on, and the party is just getting started. This one’s a keeper. Did you see how high she jumped?

“Now I know you’re not my mother; she would never say that,” Emory said.

Well, I think he’s watching. Why else would he take your clothes? Men are perverts, dear. The whole lot of them. The earlier you realize that, the better.

Emory turned in a slow circle and peered into the darkness, her head tilted up. “There’s no camera in here. I’d see the little red light.”

Right. Because all cameras have little red lights. Flashing little red lights you can spot from a mile away. I know if I were a camera manufacturer, I’d never consider building one without the little red flashing light. I’m sure there’s an oversight committee that checks each of them to be sure —

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Emory shouted. Then her face flushed. She was fucking arguing with herself.

All I’m saying is not all cameras have little red lights, that’s all. No need to get huffy.

Emory let out a frustrated breath and reached back for the wall. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the room as a giant square. She had checked two walls without finding the door. That left two more.

She began to inch across the third wall with the gurney in tow, her fingers following the now familiar cinder block pattern, drawing a path through the thick dust. No door.

One wall left.

She pulled at the gurney, more angry now than scared, counting off the steps. When she reached twelve and her fingers found the corner, she stopped. Where was the door? Had she missed it? Four corners, four left turns. She knew she had traveled full circle. She had traveled full circle, right?

Was it possible the room didn’t have a door?

Well, that seems like a horrible design. Who builds a room without a door? I bet you skipped right past the opening.

“I didn’t miss it. There’s no door.”

Then how did you get in?

High above her, a click echoed over the walls. Music screeched down at her so loud, it felt as if someone had jammed knives into her ears. She slammed her hands against the sides of her head, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through her as her left hand impacted the tender flesh where her ear had been. The handcuff cut into her other wrist. She bent forward and cried out in pain. She couldn’t block out the music, though — a song she had heard before. Mick Jagger howling about the devil.

18

Porter

Day 1 • 11:30 a.m.

Although only two weeks had passed since the last time Porter stepped into room 1523, deep within the basement of Chicago Metro headquarters on Michigan Avenue, the space seemed dormant, lifeless.

Sleeping.

Waiting.

He flicked on the light switch and listened as the fluorescent bulbs hummed to life, sending a charge through the stale air. He walked over to his desk and shuffled through the various papers and files scattered across the surface. Everything was just as he had left it.

His wife watched him from a silver frame at the far right corner. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, he pulled the phone over and punched in her cell number. Three rings, followed by her familiar voice mail message:

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 speak to you. If you’re willing to pay tribute in the form of chocolate cake or other assorted offerings of dietary delight, text me the details and I’ll reconsider your position in my social roster and possibly —

Porter disconnected and thumbed through a folder labeled Four Monkey Killer. Everything they had learned about him fit in this single folder, at least until today.

He had chased the Four Monkey Killer for half a decade. Seven dead girls.

Twenty-one boxes. You can’t forget about the boxes.

He’d never forget the boxes. They haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

The room wasn’t very large, thirty by twenty-five or so. Aside from Porter’s, there were five metal desks older than most of the Metro staff arranged haphazardly around the space. In the far corner stood an old wooden conference table Porter had found in a storage room down the hall. The surface was scratched and nicked; the dull maple finish was covered with tiny rings from the hundreds of glasses, mugs, and cans that had sat upon it over the years. There was a large brown stain on it that Nash swore resembled Jesus (Porter thought it only looked like coffee). They had given up trying to scrub the discoloration away a long time ago.

Behind the conference table stood three whiteboards. The first two held pictures of 4MK’s victims and the various crime scenes; the third was currently blank. The group tended to use the last one primarily for brainstorming sessions.

Nash walked in and handed him a cup of coffee. “Watson hit Starbucks. I told him to meet us down here after he checks in with the lieutenant upstairs. The others are on their way too. What’s going through that head of yours? I smell smoke.”

“Five years, Nash. I was beginning to think we’d never see an end to this.”

“There’s at least one more out there. We need to find her.”

Porter nodded. “Yeah, I know. And we will. We’ll bring her home.” He had said the same thing with Jodi Blumington just six months earlier, and they didn’t find her in time. He couldn’t face another family, not again, not ever.

“Well, there you are!” Clair Norton hollered from the doorway.

Porter and Nash turned from the whiteboards.

“This place has been like a morgue without you, Sammy. Give me some sugar!” She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. “If you need anything at all, you call me, okay? I want you to promise me,” she whispered at his ear. “I’m there for you, twenty-four/seven.”

Any attempt at affection made Porter nervous. He patted her on the back and drew away. He imagined he appeared as uncomfortable as a priest returning the hug of an altar boy with the eyes of the congregation upon him. “I appreciate that, Clair. Thanks for holding down the fort.”

Clair Norton had been on the force for nearly fifteen years. She became Chicago Metro’s youngest black female detective after only three years on patrol, when she helped break up one of the largest narcotics rings in the city’s history — every person involved was under eighteen. Twenty-four students in total, primarily from Cooley High, although the crimes spread across six high schools. They operated completely on school property, which made things difficult, and meant the young-looking Clair had to go undercover as a student.

The event had earned her the nickname Jump Street, after the old Fox TV show — nobody on the task force dared call her that to her face.

Clair shook her head. “Hell, you should be thanking me for babysitting your partner over there. He’s as dumb as a box of rocks. I bet if you locked him in a room, you’d come back an hour later to find him dead on the floor with his tongue stuck in an electrical outlet.”

“I’m standing right here,” Nash said. “I can hear you.”

“I know.” She turned and plucked the coffee from his hand. “Thank you, baby doll.”

Edwin Klozowski, “Kloz” to most, strolled in behind her, an overflowing briefcase in one hand and the remains of a Little Debbie chocolate cupcake in the other. “So, we’re finally getting the band back together? It’s about time. If I had to spend one more minute down in Central IT dissecting the hard drive of another porn lover gone rogue, I might have considered going back to video game design. How you doing, Sammy?” He reached out and smacked Porter’s shoulder.

“Hey, Kloz.”

“Good to see you back.” He dropped his briefcase on one of the empty desks and shoved the rest of the cupcake into his mouth.

Porter spied Watson standing at the door and motioned for him to come inside. “Kloz, Clair, this is Paul Watson. He’s on loan from CSI. He’s going to be helping us out. Has anyone seen Hosman?”

Clair nodded. “I talked to him about twenty minutes ago. He’s running Talbot’s finances but hasn’t come up with anything yet. Said he’ll get in touch with you as soon as he finds something.”

Porter nodded. “All right, let’s get started.”

They crossed the room and settled at the conference table. The Four Monkey Killer’s victims stared down at them from the whiteboards. “Nash, where’s that picture of Emory?”

Nash dug the photo out of his pocket and handed it to him. Porter taped it onto the board at the far right. “I’m going to run through this from the beginning. It’s old news for most of you, but Watson hasn’t heard it before and maybe we’ll pick something up from the refresher.” He pointed to the picture in the top left corner. “Calli Tremell. Twenty years old, taken March 15, 2009. This was his first victim —”

“That we know of,” Clair interjected.

“She’s the first victim in his pattern as 4MK, but the evidence suggests he’s sophisticated and had most likely killed before,” Klozowski said. “Nobody comes out of the box killing like him. They build up, developing methods and technique over time.”

Porter went on. “Her parents reported her missing that Tuesday, and they received her ear in the mail on Thursday. Her eyes followed on Saturday, and her tongue arrived on Tuesday. All were packaged in small white boxes tied with black strings, handwritten shipping labels, and zero prints. He’s always been careful.”

“Suggesting she wasn’t really his first,” Klozowski reiterated.

“Three days after the last box arrived, a jogger found her body in Almond Park. She had been propped up on a bench with a cardboard sign glued to her hands, which read DO NO EVIL. We had picked up on his MO when her eyes arrived, but that sign confirmed our theory.”

Watson raised his hand.

Nash rolled his eyes. “This isn’t third grade, Doc. Feel free to speak up.”

“Doc?” Klozowski repeated. “Oh, I get it.”

“Didn’t I read somewhere that was how he picked his victims? ‘Do no evil’?” Watson asked.

Porter nodded. “With his second victim, Elle Borton, we caught that. Initially we thought the victims themselves had done something 4MK deemed wrong, and that was why he went after them, but with Elle we learned his focus wasn’t on the victims at all but on their families. Elle Borton disappeared on April 2, 2010, nearly a year after his first victim. She was twenty-three. Her case was handed to us when her parents received her ear in the mail two days later. When her body was found a little over a week after that, she was holding a tax return in her grandmother’s name covering tax year 2008. We dug a little bit and discovered that she actually died in 2005. Her father had been filing false returns for the past three years. We brought Matt Hosman in from Financial Crimes at that point, and he discovered that the scam went much deeper. Elle’s father had filed returns on more than a dozen people, all deceased. They were residents of the nursing home he managed.”

“How could 4MK possibly know that?” Watson asked.

Porter shrugged. “Not sure. But the new evidence prompted us to go back and look at Calli Tremell’s family.”

“The first victim.”

“Turns out her mother was laundering money from the bank where she worked, upward of three million dollars over the previous ten years,” Porter said.

Watson frowned. “Again, how could 4MK know what she was doing? Maybe that’s the link. Figure out who has access to this information, and you find 4MK’s identity.”

Klozowski snorted. “Yeah, ’cause it’s that easy.” He stood up and walked to the board. “Melissa Lumax, victim number three. Her father was selling kiddie porn. Susan Devoro’s father swapped fake diamonds for the real ones at his own jewelry store. Barbara McInley’s sister hit and killed a pedestrian six years before Barbara went missing. Nobody connected the sister to the crime until 4MK. Allison Crammer’s brother ran a sweatshop full of illegals down in Florida. Then there’s Jodi Blumington, his most recent victim —”

“Prior to Emory Connors,” Nash chimed in.

“Sorry, his most recent victim prior to Ms. Connors. Her father was importing coke for the Carlito Cartel.” He tapped each of the photos. “All of these girls are related to someone who did something bad, but there is no connection between them. The crimes are across the board, no common thread.”

“He’s like a vigilante,” Watson muttered.

“Yeah, with better intel than law enforcement. None of these crimes were on our radar; we found them while investigating the murders,” Porter told him. “Without 4MK, these people would still be on the streets.”

Watson stood and walked over to the board, his eyes narrowing as he reviewed the photographs one by one.

“What’s up, Doc?” Kloz said, before bursting into laughter.

Everyone stared at him.

Kloz frowned. “Oh, so it’s funny when Nash does it, but not the IT guy? I see how things work down here in the basement.”

Watson tapped the board. “He’s escalating. Look at the dates.”

“Escalated,” Nash said. “His killing days are behind him.”

“Right, escalated. About one per year until after his fifth victim, Barbara McInley, then about every six or seven months. There’s this too.” He pointed at the photo of Barbara McInley. “She’s the only blonde. All the others are brunettes. Is there any significance to that?”

Porter ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t think so. With these kills, he’s really punishing the families for their crimes. I don’t think it was ever about the victims for him.”

“All these other girls are similar in appearance. Pretty, long brown hair, close in age. For someone without a type, he sure seems to have a type. All but Barbara, the only blonde. She’s an anomaly.” Watson paused for a second before asking, “Were any of the girls sexually assaulted?”

Clair shook her head. “Not one.”

“Did any of the girls have a brother?”

“Melissa Lumax, Susan Devoro, and Calli Tremell each had brothers; Allison Crammer had two,” Clair said. “I spoke to them when I interviewed the families.”

Watson nodded, the gears churning in his head. “If we assume half these families had at least one son and he grabbed their children at random, one or two male victims should have presented. That didn’t happen, so there was a reason he took the daughters over the sons — we just don’t know why.”

Porter cleared his throat. “Honestly, I’m not sure that matters anymore. We don’t need to worry about his future victims. Like Nash said, he’s done killing. We need to focus on his last one.”

Watson returned to his chair. “I’m sorry. Sometimes my mind starts going down all these paths and I lose focus.”

“Not at all. This is why we asked you to join us. You’re a fresh pair of eyes on some old evidence and information.”

“Fair enough,” Watson said.

Porter picked up a blue marker and wrote EMORY CONNORS in large letters at the top of the third board. “Okay, what do we know about our victim?”

“According to the front desk at her building, she left for a jog yesterday at a little after six in the evening,” Clair said. “They said that was the norm for her. She ran nearly every day, usually in the evenings. Nobody saw her come back.”

“Did anyone know where she liked to run?” Nash asked.

Clair shook her head. “They only saw her come and go.”

“I might be able to answer that,” Kloz said. He was pecking away at a MacBook Air. “She wore a Fitbit Surge.”

“A what?”

“It’s a watch that monitors your heart rate, calories burned, distance traveled. It also has a built-in GPS. I found a program installed on her computer that recorded all the data. I’m accessing the information now.”

“Any chance the GPS is still active?”

Kloz shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. The watch records the GPS data as you wear it, then syncs to the cloud with a phone app or by interfacing with a computer. She paired with her phone — that’s dead too, but I think I know where she went.” He flipped his Mac around so the others could view his screen. A map filled the display. There was a dotted blue line beginning at Flair Tower, which followed West Erie Street toward the river. At the water’s edge, the trail circled a large green space. “I found the same pattern nearly every day.” He tapped the screen. “This is A. Montgomery Ward Park.”

Porter leaned in close. His eyesight was going to shit. “Clair, you want to check it out when we finish up here?”

“Will do, boss.”

He turned back to Kloz. “Did you find anything else on her computer?”

Kloz flipped the Mac back around and pecked at the keys. “You gave me the opportunity to legally search the hard drive of a hot teenage girl. Needless to say, I was thorough.”

Clair wrinkled her nose. “Fucking sicko.”

Kloz smirked. “I pride myself on my sicko-ness, my dear. One day you will thank me.” He studied the screen for a moment. “Emory’s boyfriend’s name is Tyler Mathers. He’s a junior at Whatney Vale High. And” — all the cell phones in the room beeped simultaneously — “I shot you a recent photo, his cell phone number, and home address,” Kloz said. “They’ve been beau and boo for about a month. She thinks they’re exclusive.”

“And they’re not?” Porter asked.

Kloz grinned mischievously. “I may have taken a peek at his private Facebook messages, and our boy is a bit of a player.”

The group stared at him.

“Oh, come on! If you use your wife’s or girlfriend’s name as your password, you deserve to get hacked.”

Porter made a mental note to change his e-mail password. “Next time, wait for the warrant. We don’t need you mucking up the case.”

Kloz saluted him. “Yes, my cap-i-tan.”

Porter wrote TYLER MATHERS on the whiteboard and drew an arrow to the boy in the homecoming picture with Emory. “Nash and I will pay Tyler a visit this afternoon. Anything else on her PC?”

“Emory has a Mac, a very nice one at that. Please don’t insult such a fine piece of engineering by calling it a PC. Such insults are beneath you,” Kloz said.

“Forgive me. Anything else on her Mac?”

Kloz shook his head. “No, sir.”

“What about the three outgoing numbers on the landline?”

Kloz held up his hand and ticked off three fingers. “A pizza place, a Chinese place, and Italian takeout. This girl knows how to eat.”

Clair cleared her throat. “There’s a T. Mathers on the permanent guest list. The only other person listed is A. Talbot.”

Porter wrote ARTHUR TALBOT on the whiteboard with the word FINANCES? directly beneath. “I’m really curious to see what Hosman turns up on this guy. 4MK took this girl for a reason; I’m willing to bet the guy’s crooked.”

“Why not bring him in?” Clair asked.

“We bring him in and he’ll just lawyer up — we won’t get a thing out of him. If we need to talk to him again, I think it’s best to keep it an informal setting, try and catch him off-guard someplace he feels comfortable. He’s more likely to slip,” Porter told her. “He’s also a bigwig around town, buddies with the mayor and who knows who else. If we bring him in early, we may get nothing, then if we try to bring him back, he may call one of his buddies to run interference. Best to wait until we have something concrete.”

“This is interesting,” Kloz said. His eyes were fixed on his MacBook again. “The fancy elevators in that building record all the card traffic in and out.”

Porter groaned. “Are you operating under the same warrant you used to hack the boyfriend’s Facebook page right now? ’Cause if you are —”

Kloz raised both hands. “Come on now, do I look like a repeat offender?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Clair said under her breath.

“Fuck you too, Ms. Norton.”

She smirked and stuck out her tongue.

“The building manager was kind enough to provide access to us,” Kloz said.

“What do you see?” Porter asked.

He pursed his lips and squinted as he scrolled through a text file. “We’ve got Emory going down at 6:03 p.m. yesterday; she never comes back. All is quiet until 9:23 p.m.; then an N. Burrow goes up. She came back down at 9:06 this morning.”

“That’s only a few minutes before Metro arrived,” Clair said.

“I’m willing to bet that’s our missing housekeeper,” Porter said. “Can you run that by the front desk at Flair Tower? Ask if they can provide a full name?”

“Will do,” Kloz said, making a note.

Porter drew in a breath. “All right, that brings us to the man of the hour, our victim from this morning.” He told the group what they had learned from Eisley.

“Shit, he was dying?” Kloz said.

“Less than a month left.”

“Do you think he stepped in front of that bus intentionally?”

“I think we need to consider that a possibility,” Porter replied. He wrote 4MK on the board and listed the following:

Dry cleaner receipt

Expensive shoes — two sizes too big

Cheap suit

Fedora

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

Pocket watch

Dying of stomach cancer

“I can’t believe the fucker was dying,” Kloz muttered, picking at something on his arm.

Porter tapped on the whiteboard. “What do the personal items tell us?”

“The dry cleaner receipt is a bust,” Clair said. “Aside from the number, there’s no identifying information, not even the name or address of the cleaners. It’s from a generic receipt book that can be ordered from hundreds of shops online. Half the cleaners in the city use the same one.”

“Kloz, I want you on that. Create a list of all cleaners within five miles of the accident this morning, and contact each one. Find out if they use this particular type of receipt. If they do, ask if number 54873 is active. Obviously, 4MK won’t be picking it up. Even if you find more than one, we’ll be able to narrow down the list as the other tickets get closed out. If you don’t find anything, expand your search grid. He was walking, though — I think the cleaners will be close.”

Kloz waved at him. “I accept your challenge.”

Nash scanned the board. “What do we do about the suit and shoes?”

“Kloz can check all the shoe stores while he’s running the dry cleaners,” Clair said.

Kloz raised his middle finger and stuck his tongue out at her.

Porter stared at the board a moment. “I’d rather Kloz focused on the cleaners. The size mismatch definitely bugs me too, but it’s just noise right now. We’ll keep the info on the board in case it comes into play later.”

“Coins aren’t much of a clue, either,” Nash pointed out. “Everyone in this room probably has a pocket of change right now.”

Porter considered erasing the seventy-five cents, then changed his mind. “We’ll leave that up there too.” He turned to Watson. “Any luck on the pocket watch?”

“I’ll head over to my uncle’s shop once we finish up here,” he replied.

Porter turned back to the board. “I think we’ll find him with this,” he said as he drew a line under DYING OF CANCER. “Eisley said he found octreotide, trastuzumab, oxycodone, and lorazepam in his system. Trastuzumab can only be administered by a handful of centers in the city. We need to reach out to each of them with a description of 4MK and hunt for missing patients.”

“I can do that,” Clair said. “How many fedora-wearing, cheap suit buying, expensive shoe owning stomach cancer patients can there possibly be out there? That’s where the clothing items will help us. He’d stand out walking into a treatment center dressed like that.”

“Good point,” Porter said. “Eisley also found a small tattoo on the man’s right inner wrist.” He loaded the image onto his phone’s screen and passed it around the room. “It’s fresh. Eisley said he probably got inked within the past week.”

Kloz studied it closely. “Is that an infinity symbol? Kinda ironic for a guy on his way out the exit door.”

“It obviously meant something to him,” Clair said, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look. “If you’re going to permanently mark your body, you put some serious thought behind your ink.”

Kloz grinned up at her. “Speaking from experience? Is there something you want to show the group?”

She winked at him. “You wish, geek boy.”

Porter reached into his pocket, removed the diary, and dropped it onto the table. “Then there’s this.” They all fell silent for a moment and stared at it.

“Shit, I thought Nash made that up,” Kloz said. “The fucker really had a diary on him? Did you log that into evidence? There’s no reference on the case log.”

Porter shook his head. “I don’t want the press to know. Not yet.”

Kloz whistled. “4MK’s handwritten manifesto? Hell, that’s worth a fortune.”

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