I couldn’t help but think about Mr. Carter yelling at Mrs. Carter and Mother yesterday.
They must have caught themselves, because all went suddenly silent. The door opened and closed, and angry steps pounded through the living room. I think Father tossed the car keys. They clattered across the counter and fell to the floor. Mother simply said, “Do what you want. I won’t be party to it,” then stomped past my door and down the hallway to their room, the door slamming behind her.
Silence.
The loudest silence I have ever heard.
I could picture Father standing in the kitchen, his face aflame. His fists clenched tight, opened, and clenched again.
I peeled back the sheets and climbed out of bed. I walked on the tips of my toes and pressed my ear to the door.
“Champ?” Father’s voice bellowed from the other side.
I nearly tripped over my own feet as I jumped back, my heart pounding as I considered diving for my bed and the safety of the sheets.
I’d never make it.
“Champ? You up?”
I reached for the doorknob, twisted, and pulled the door open, sure and swift. Father’s frame filled the opening, his features dark and shadowed with the kitchen light burning at his back. His hand was still positioned where the doorknob had been a moment earlier, the other holding something behind his back.
“Burning the midnight oil, buddy?”
The anger I’d heard in his voice with Mother was either gone or cleverly masked, because now there was no trace. His face held nothing but a smile, his eyes twinkling.
Father once taught me the importance of projecting emotion. He told me I should always determine the emotion expected of me under a given circumstance and ensure it stood tall and true at the forefront, regardless of what I really felt on the inside. We practiced numerous times. Once, our dog, Ridley, had puppies of her own, and he snapped the neck of one right in front of me, then forced me to laugh. When I wasn’t able to do what he asked, he picked up another puppy, and I let the laughter flow rather than watch another die. That wasn’t enough, though; he said I didn’t sound sincere. By the fourth puppy I learned control. I was able to go from happy to sad, angry to somber, solemn to giddy with the snap of his fingers. Ridley went away soon after that. To where I do not know. I was only five at the time, and my memory of that age is spotty at best.
Father grinned like the Cheshire cat, and I had no way of knowing how he really felt, nor did I want to. If he suspected I thought he was anything but happy, the evening would not go well for Mother or me.
“I didn’t want to go to sleep until you got home. In case you needed help with anything.”
He reached out and ruffled my hair. “You are my little soldier man, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“As a matter of fact, I’d love for you to help me out with a little something, if you think you’re up for it. Feel like having a little fun?”
Again I nodded.
“Grab your mother’s big plastic salad bowl from the kitchen cupboard, and meet me down in the basement. I’ve got a little surprise for our guest.” He pulled a paper sack out from behind his back and held it up, then gave the bag a little shake. From inside, something scratched. “This is going to be great!” He smiled.
This time I knew he really was happy.
46
Clair
Day 2 ? 7:18 a.m.
“Did he say why he had to go down there?” Nash asked, staring at the elevator floor number display.
Clair rolled her eyes. “I told you three times already. He just said he had something he had to take care of down at the Fifty-First, nothing else. No secret handshake, no passing of notes, no nothing.”
“It’s got to be something about Heather, though, right?”
“If he wanted us to know, he would tell us.”
The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor; they stepped out into a mess of cluttered cubicles and rickety metal desks topped with computers old enough to still house floppy drives.
Nash took a quick glance around before negotiating the narrow pathway cluttered with file boxes and stacks of folders. “And what’s up with him taking Watson? Why wouldn’t he take one of us?”
“We don’t even know if it’s about Heather.”
“It’s got to be about Heather.”
Clair knew he was right. The captain never came down to the basement. “Yeah, probably.”
“So why Watson?”
“According to the hunk of metal they let you carry around, you’re a detective. Why do you think he didn’t want to take one of us?”
“I’m his best friend.”
Christ, was this man going to cry? “Maybe he wanted to be around someone who doesn’t know. Less pressure. I mean, I haven’t brought it up, but he knows we know and that creates all kinds of tension. It’s got to be hard for him to be back on the job, surrounded by all this, knowing he can’t do anything. I think he’s handling everything the best he can. Sure as shit better than I would. I’d be a fucking mess.”
They found Hosman’s office, two doors down from the end on the left side. His door was open and he waved them in. “Who’s ready to do some math?”
Clair pointed at Nash. “Here’s your guy. Nash won the state math championship in high school, three years in a row.”
Hosman looked up at Nash with raised eyebrows. “You did?”
“Sure did. Right after I won the gold in pole vaulting,” Nash replied, nodding his head. “I also bake a mean cherry pie. You should see all the ribbons I’ve received.”
“So. No math fans, then?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know what a Ponzi scheme is?”
Clair raised her hand. “It’s when a person or business pays returns to its investors from the capital raised from new investors rather than profits earned.”
Nash whistled. “You’re hot when you know stuff.”
Clair punched him in the shoulder.
Hosman tapped a stack of papers on his desk. “I think that’s what we’ve got going on here; not only with the Moorings but across all of Talbot’s holdings.”
Clair frowned. “How is that possible? He’s one of the richest men in the city, possibly the country.”
“He’s rich on paper. Crazy rich on paper, but he’s got some serious problems. Things started going south with the Moorings about two years ago. He bought all that land, and a week before his company was supposed to start bulldozing buildings, the Chicago Planning and Development’s Historical Preservation Division won an injunction and blocked the project. They felt the neighborhood should be preserved. During the heyday of Prohibition, at least a dozen speakeasies popped up in that area. Planning and Development felt the city would be better served if they rejuvenated the neighborhood with everything intact, turn the waterfront into a tourist mecca. One of them used to be frequented by Al Capone; the gangsters are always a good draw.”