From behind the one-way mirror, Clair watched Talbot shuffle nervously in one of the interrogation room’s aluminum chairs. He tried to pull closer to the table, but the chair was bolted to the floor. Clair had often wondered if the designer did that on purpose—placed the chairs a little farther back from the table than would be comfortable to add to the unease of being locked in the small room. Louis Fischman, the attorney Nash and Porter had met the day before out at Wheaton, sat beside him. The golf clothes were gone, replaced with a crisp dark gray suit that probably cost more than her Honda Civic on its best day. Talbot wore a white dress shirt and khakis along with one of the shiniest Rolexes she had ever seen.
“Porter should be here for this,” Nash said beside her, his eyes fixed on Talbot.
“Yeah.”
Fischman leaned over and whispered something to his client, then glanced up at the one-way with a wary eye.
“Think he knows why he’s here?” Nash asked.
Clair shrugged. “All the shit a man like that is probably guilty of? I bet he’s running a laundry list through his head right now. His attorney is salivating over the future legal bills. He’s probably already picked out a new summer house on Lake Geneva.”
At a table crammed into the small observation room, a tech gave them both a nod. “We’re recording. Ready whenever you are.”
Nash nodded back and turned to Clair. “How do you want to play this?”
“Same as usual—good cop, crappy cop,” she replied, pointing a thumb first at herself, then back at him. Before he could respond, she picked up a large file box and carried it through the doorway into the interrogation room.
Talbot and his attorney both glanced up at her.
“Gentlemen, I appreciate you coming in on such short notice,” Clair said, setting the box down on the table before taking a seat across from them. Nash sat down beside her.
“Did you find Emory?” Talbot blurted out.
“Not yet, but we’ve got a lot of people searching for her.”
Fischman eyed the large box. “Then why is Mr. Talbot here?”
“When was the last time you saw Gunther Herbert?”
Talbot tilted his head. “My CFO? I don’t know, a few days ago. I haven’t been in the office. Why?”
Nash dropped a manila folder onto the table and flipped it open. Glossy photos stared back at them. “We’ve seen him recently, and he ain’t looking too good.”
“Oh, God.” Talbot turned his head to the side to avoid looking down.
Fischman glared at Nash. “What the hell is wrong with you? Is that even Gunther, or is this some kind of sick joke?”
“Oh, that’s Gunther.”
“What happened to him?” Talbot turned back to them, eyes forward, unwilling to look down at the images.
Clair shrugged. “We’re still waiting for the medical examiner to pinpoint cause of death, but I’m fairly confident he didn’t kill himself. Are you familiar with the Mulifax Building down by the waterfront, Mr. Talbot?”
Fischman raised his hand, silencing his client. “Why?”
Nash leaned in close. “Because your CFO was feeding the rats in the basement.”
Talbot looked pale. “Is that what . . . what did that?”
Fischman shot him a look and turned back to Nash. “Mr. Talbot’s company purchased that building from the city. If he visited at all, and I’m not saying he did, it was simply to evaluate the building’s worth.”
“Is that true, Mr. Talbot?” Clair asked.
“I told you it was,” Fischman barked.
“I’d prefer to hear it from your client.”
Talbot turned to Fischman. The attorney considered this and nodded.
“I was there with Gunther a few months ago. Like Louis said, we were thinking about buying it, along with a few other buildings on that block. The city had it set for demolition. We needed to determine if the structure could be salvaged and turned into loft apartments, or if we’d be better off letting the city tear it down and buying the land,” he explained.
“Can you think of any reason he’d go back alone?”
“Did the Monkey Killer do this?”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Talbot.”
“If he did, I didn’t ask him to,” said Talbot. “If he went back, it was of his own accord.”
“Was it the Monkey Killer?” Fischman repeated his client’s question.
Clair shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your client may have reasons of his own for wanting his CFO out of the picture. His daughter too, for that matter,” Nash said.
Talbot’s mouth dropped open. “That’s preposterous! Why would I—”
Clair cut him off. “Why have you kept Emory hidden all this time, Mr. Talbot?”
Fischman raised his hand. “Don’t answer that, Arthur.”
Clair noted how he had dropped the less formal Arty Porter mentioned from yesterday.
“I didn’t keep her hidden,” Talbot replied, eyeing his attorney angrily. “Emory had a hard time getting on after her mother died. I figured it would be best if she wasn’t attached to me. I’m constantly in the press. Reporters would put her picture on the front of every tabloid. ‘Billionaire child born out of wedlock’ and all that. They’d chase her all over town, harass her at every opportunity. Why subject her to such a sideshow? Bad enough Carnegie has to deal with that. I wanted to give Emory a chance at a normal life. Get a good education, start a family, make something of herself without the added pressure of my shadow.” He looked Clair directly in the eyes. “Bottom line, though, if she wished to go public, I would have supported her in a heartbeat. Damn the consequences to me. Do you have children, Detective?”
“I do not.”
“Then I can’t expect you to understand. When you have a child, life ceases being about you and becomes wholly about them. You’ll do anything for them. I spoke to Ms. Burrow about it once, and she asked me a simple question. ‘If Emory were standing in the middle of the street about to be hit by a car, would you sacrifice your own life to save hers?’ Without hesitation, I knew the answer was yes. When she asked me the same question about my wife, I found myself hesitating. This was very telling to me. You can never love someone as much as you love your own child, including yourself. And you will do absolutely anything to protect them.”
“Why do you think someone would take her?” Clair asked.
Fischman narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you mean, why would the Monkey Killer take her?”
“Sure, let’s go with that.” Clair shrugged. “Why would the Monkey Killer take your illegitimate daughter?”