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.”