Real life doesn’t work that way. I’ve seen more lives end than I can count, and they all seem to hold that same expectation at the end, their eyes glancing at the door, waiting for their savior to arrive. He doesn’t, though. In real life, the only true savior is oneself.
She had succeeded in chipping away the paint on the pipe, nothing more. Not even a dent. She had tried, though, and that is what I found to be important. The game got boring when they eventually gave up.
And she would give up. Eventually. They always do.
“If you let me go, I won’t say anything,” she said. “I promise I won’t. Simon was a bad man—he had it coming to him. Your parents did me a favor. They set me free. I owe them. They don’t have to worry about me. I promise. We can all walk away from this.”
“You broke the rules,” I said softly. “Unfortunately, there are consequences.”
“And how did I do that? By letting my husband beat me?”
“Better to consider why your husband beat you, don’t you think?”
Another tear fell from her eye and started down her cheek. She tried to wipe at it, but the cuffs held both her hands. She couldn’t reach her face.
Sitting on the edge of the cot, I pulled the handkerchief from my back pocket and blotted it away. She stared at me but said nothing.
“I found the picture.”
“What picture?”
“Oh, I think you know what picture.”
With that, the color left her face. “You’ve got to hide it.”
“Mother was with me; she has it now. I don’t know what she did with it.”
“Your father hasn’t seen it?”
“Not yet,” I told her. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t.”
“But you won’t tell him, right?”
I didn’t answer, which I guess gave her an answer.
“If he sees that picture, not only will he hurt me, he’ll go after your mother too. Is that what you want?”
Again, I said nothing.
44
Porter
Day 2 ? 6:53 a.m.
When Porter arrived in the war room, Nash, Clair, and Watson were standing around one of the desks, staring at a laptop screen. Nash looked up and beckoned him over. “Get any sleep?”
“Couldn’t. You?”
He knew by their red, puffy eyes that none of them had. Porter dropped his coat at his own desk and walked over. “We get something?”
“Oh, we got something. We got a few somethings. Eisley’s girlfriend came through, for starters. Check this out.” He turned the laptop so it was facing Porter.
“Is that a head from Madam Tussauds wax museum?”
Watson pointed at the image. “She boiled the skull, then applied spacers to simulate muscle and tissue depth—twenty-one specific places—then used clay to fill in the mass. I’ve heard of forensic anthropologists reconstructing facial renders like this, but I’ve never seen it. It’s quite impressive. To do it so quickly . . . Eisley said she didn’t even start until last night.”
Porter frowned. “Wait, this is 4MK?”
Watson went on, oblivious. “She already had his hair. That wasn’t damaged nearly as bad as the face. Even his dental held up, so she had that too. Eye color was already known . . . I can’t imagine this is far off. I checked out her website, and she usually works with Native American skulls found at archeological dig sites—many more unknowns with those, a lot of guesswork. With this, she may be dead-on.”
“I think Watson has a hard-on for Eisley’s girlfriend,” Nash said.
Watson shot him a sideways glance. “I’m merely pointing out I believe this is an accurate representation of the Monkey Killer, one she created in record time, that’s all. The artistry and skill are amazing. You couldn’t get this kind of detail with a computer rendering. This kind of accuracy takes a special hand.”
“It skeeves me the fuck out,” Nash replied. “Looks like it’s watching you. Like one of those paintings where the eyes follow you around the room. Creepy.”
“Clair, I want you to get some pictures of this and hit all the cancer treatment centers we talked about yesterday. Between the drugs and this image, we may be able to ID him,” Porter said.
“Oh, we got more, big guy,” Clair told him. “While you slept in until all hours, the rest of us have been working.”
Porter glanced at his watch. “It’s not even seven.”
“You damn near wasted half the day.”
He rolled his eyes. “What else did you find?”
“Our vic from the Mulifax Building? He was Gunther Herbert, CFO for Talbot Enterprises, which includes the Talbot Estates Development, the Moorings, and about a dozen other ventures. His wife reported him missing five days ago. Left for work and never arrived. Eisley identified him about an hour ago. He also put time of death around five days too, so he was most likely snatched on his way to the office.”
“Did you tell the captain yet?”
“There’s more, Sam,” Nash said. “Tell him, Clair-bear.”
Clair beamed. “The shoes dead guy number one was wearing when he kissed the bus? The prints Nash lifted came back from the lab with a match.”
“Who?”
Nash drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Arthur Talbot.”
“Did you call me Clair-bear?”
Porter silenced Nash before he could respond. “The shoes belong to Talbot?”
“He seems like the kind of guy to buy fifteen-hundred-dollar shoes, right?”
“Why would 4MK be wearing Talbot’s shoes?”
“Same reason he took Talbot’s daughter. The man did something bad, and 4MK wants us to know. This is his last hurrah, his swan song. He doesn’t want us to drop the ball, so he’s lining everything up nice and neat for us,” Nash said. “Somehow he snagged Talbot’s shoes, stuffed some newspaper in them so they’d fit on his wee little feet, and put them on before stepping out into traffic.”
“Clair, try and get Hosman on the phone. Find out where he is on the financials. We need to speed this up,” Porter instructed.
Clair grabbed her cell phone off the desk and walked toward the corner of the room, dialing.
Porter turned to Watson. “Anything on the watch?”
Watson shook his head. “I showed my uncle a photo, but he said he needs to see the real thing to provide any real help. I tried to sign the watch out of evidence, but I was told they would only release it to you or Nash.”
Porter rolled his eyes. He really didn’t need department policy slowing him down right now. “When we’re done here, I’ll walk up there with you.”
“One other thing,” Nash said. “The feds want in on this case; the local field office has been calling all night. Emory is over twelve, and there’s no proof of interstate transport, so it’s our call.”
“Let’s see where Hosman is. They may be able to help with Talbot’s books. Anything else on the Moorings or Mulifax after I talked to you?”
Nash shook his head. “They walked every house, found evidence of a couple squatters but nothing else. If 4MK had her there, she’s gone now. They’re still combing the tunnels, but those things go on for miles, all over the city. We’re not going to find her down there by wandering around in the dark. We need a bread crumb. Aside from the body, Mulifax was a bust.”
“4MK led us there. There’s a reason. It’s probably—”