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?”