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.”