Mrs. Carter wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “What about . . . what did they do with . . . oh, God, is he really dead?”
The tears came again. Years later I would ponder this. Women seemed to have an endless supply. They came so easily and in such force at the drop of an emotional cue. Not men, though. Men rarely cried, not from emotion, anyway. For them, pain brought on the waterworks, pain turned that spigot all the way to full blast. Women were perfectly capable of handling pain but not emotion. Men handled emotion but not pain. The differences were sometimes subtle, but they were there nonetheless.
I never cried. I doubted I even could.
I stood up from my chair and offered my hand to Mrs. Carter. “Come on. Let me get you home.”
28
Porter
Day 1 ? 4:17 p.m.
Officer Thomas Murray met Porter and Nash at the front door of Emory’s apartment with a cup of coffee in one hand and a ham sandwich in the other. Murray had mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth, and another blotch was slowly dripping down the front of his uniform shirt. Porter considered telling him about the errant condiment, then decided to let it go. He was curious how long it would take to slide all the way down the front and drip to the floor. Nash caught it too but said nothing. The two exchanged a knowing glance. “Making yourself at home?” Porter asked him, stepping inside.
Murray took a bite of the sandwich and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Beats being trapped in a patrol car for eight hours,” he muttered between chews. He nodded his head back toward the living room. “That couch over there has Magic Fingers or something built in. You just sit down and the cushions give you a massage. The television somehow knows when you’re there too—it snaps on when you enter the room. Not that I’m sitting down on the job or anything—not for more than a minute or two, anyway. Oh, and downstairs they’ve got a full restaurant and deli. That’s where I got this. It may be the best sandwich I ever had.” He took another bite. A chunk of ham fell from the bread and landed on his shoe.
“Where is she, Tom?” Porter asked, his patience thin.
Murray pointed down the hallway, nearly spilling his coffee. “She’s in her room, left door, not the right. First name’s Nancy, by the way. Nancy Burrow. She’s a real firecracker.”
Porter pushed past him and started down the hall. Murray followed.
As Nash walked by, he said: “I want one of those.”
Murray frowned. “The sandwich or a coffee?”
“The couch,” Nash replied.
“Ah yeah, me too.” Murray took another bite and swore as the mayonnaise finished its trek and landed on the hardwood floor with a decisive splat.
The bedroom door was closed. Porter rapped softly. “Ms. Burrow? I’m Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro. May I come in?”
“It’s open, Detective,” a woman’s voice replied from the other side. She had a slight Australian accent, which reminded him of Nicole Kidman’s.
Porter twisted the knob and opened the door.
Okay. A large Nicole Kidman. At least 250, possibly more.
Nancy Burrow was sitting at the desk in the corner, with a book resting in her plump lap. She frowned as he stepped inside. “That Neanderthal out there locked me in my quarters while he pillaged the kitchen and God only knows what else. You better believe I’ll be filing a complaint with your supervisor, not to mention Mr. Talbot. He will not stand for this, that is for sure. Somebody even had the nerve to go through my clothing, my personal items. What gives you the right to do such a thing?”
Porter offered his best we come in peace smile. “I apologize, Ms. Burrow. We’re all just trying to do our best to find Emory. Mr. Talbot gave us permission to enter the premises. Nobody was here, and we went about searching for anything that could help us find his little girl. If we rifled through your personal items, we had the best intensions at heart.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you expected to find a clue or two in my underwear drawer?”
Porter had no response to that. He glanced at Nash, who only shrugged. He decided to ignore the question. “How about you tell us where you were earlier?”
“I went shopping.”
“She had groceries on her when she came back,” Murray said from the doorway. “But I don’t get how anyone spends seven hours in the Food Mart.”
She let out a deep sigh. “If you must know, today is my personal day. I had my hair done and ran a few other errands. Since when is leaving one’s own apartment a crime?”
Porter shifted his weight to his other leg. “When was the last time you saw Emory, Ms. Burrow?”
“She went out for a run last night around six. Quarter after at the latest,” she said. “It looked like rain, but she wanted to go anyway.”
“And you weren’t concerned when she didn’t come back?”
Burrow shook her head. “I assumed she went to her boyfriend’s house. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together of late.”
“At what point did you realize something was wrong?”
Her eyes shifted to the book in her hands. “I’m not sure I did. Like I said, she sometimes visits with her boyfriend.”
“She’s fifteen,” Nash said. “Eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? Ten? What’s her curfew? I’ve got a daughter her age. There’s no way I’d let her run around the city after dark, especially with some boy.”
“I’m not her mother, Detective.”
Porter gestured to the pictures on her nightstand. “You played a big part in raising her. You obviously care about her.”
Burrow studied the pictures, then turned back to the detectives. “I’ve done my best to be there for her, and I’ll be the first to admit, over the years we have grown quite close, but her father has made it clear I am simply a member of his staff, nothing more, one who could be easily replaced should I step over any particular line. My own feelings about Emory aside, I enjoy the job and harbor no desire to see my employment come to an end.”
“What exactly is your job, Ms. Burrow?” Nash asked.
“Primarily, I am Emory’s tutor. I’ve been with her since her mother passed. I oversee her studies as well as the household staff.”
“Like Mrs. Doubtfire?”
She frowned. “Who?”
Porter pushed him aside. “Never mind. Emory doesn’t go to school?” Porter asked.