“Do they belong to you?”
“I don’t know. I own many shoes. If you’d like a pair, I can recommend a nice store downtown.”
“Smart-ass,” Nash said. “The Monkey Killer was wearing these shoes yesterday morning when he stepped in front of that bus. We lifted your fingerprints. How do you explain that?”
Fischman raised his hand again and leaned over to Talbot, whispering in his ear.
“I can’t,” Talbot said. “Perhaps someone stole them from one of my residences. I own dozens of John Lobbs. They’re quite comfortable.”
A condescending smirk had filled his face. Clair wanted to hit him. “What size shoe do you wear?”
Talbot glanced at his attorney, who nodded, then looked back to Clair. “Eleven.”
“Same size as these.”
Talbot picked up the picture and tossed it aside. “You’re wasting your time chasing me on this, Detectives. Whether you believe it or not, I love my daughter and I would never do anything to put her in harm’s way. If you’d prefer to think of me as some kind of heartless bastard, then rest easy in the fact I need her alive in order to complete the Moorings project successfully. Either way, as long as you’re in here with me, you’re not out there trying to find her, and that is not acceptable.”
Fischman squeezed Talbot’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Arty.”
Arty again.
“I think you’ve wasted enough of my client’s time, Detective Norstrum,” said Fischman.
“It’s Norton.”
“Yes, well, forgive me,” he replied. “Are you filing charges? If not, we’ll be leaving now.”
Clair let out a frustrated sigh and motioned for Nash to follow her into the adjoining room. He closed the door as he stepped in behind her. “Not a fucking word out of you,” she said to the engineer.
He raised his hands and held back a smile.
“It wasn’t a total loss,” Nash said. “At least he’s going to hook us up with a good shoe store.”
Clair punched him in the chest.
“Christ, Clair-bear!” He guffawed. “I’m one of the good guys, remember?”
“Waste of fucking time,” Clair said. “He’s in on it . . . has to be.”
Nash was shaking his head. “You’re getting too wrapped up in this. You’ve gotta step back. I think 4MK is playing us. Talbot is his target. That doesn’t necessarily mean he should be ours. If what he said about the trust pans out, I think he’s off the hook. Do you think that guy killed his CFO? Like that? I don’t. The boxes were the same ones 4MK has used from the beginning. How would somebody like Talbot even know what kind to get? If he wanted to kill his CFO to cover something up, he would hire someone to take him out, make it look like an accident, a drowning or a car wreck, maybe even a heart attack. I’m willing to bet Hosman will link the CFO to the financial crimes—that’s reason enough for 4MK to move on him. We’ve seen him kill for less.”
She knew he was right, but she sure as shit wasn’t about to admit it.
“We’ll still get Talbot on the financial crimes, just not on this. We’ve got to stay on track, focus on finding Emory.”
“We’re no closer now than we were twelve hours ago. That girl is going to die of dehydration before we find her,” Clair said quietly. “We’re running out of time.”
Nash nodded at the white box on the interrogation room table. “What about that?”
Clair shrugged. “It’s empty. I figured it would put him on edge.”
He rolled his eyes. “Let the feds book him on the financial crimes. We should head back downstairs and run the board.”
Clair’s phone buzzed and she glanced down at the display. “It’s Belkin.” She hit the Talk button and put the call on speaker.
“Detective? I’m down at University of Chicago’s Medical Center. A nurse here ID’ed 4MK from a photo of the reconstruction.”
“Is she sure?” Clair said.
“Positive. Said he always wears the fedora and mentioned he stares at an old-fashioned pocket watch for the duration of his treatment. It’s our guy. His name is Jacob Kittner. I’ve got an address. I’m texting it to you now.”
“Send it to Espinosa with SWAT, and tell them to meet us there. We’re on our way.” She disconnected the call and smiled at Nash. “I’d kiss you right now if you weren’t such an ugly son of a bitch.”
53
Diary
“Pass the potatoes, please,” I asked of nobody in particular.
Mother had returned home about two hours earlier and immediately started on dinner. Father walked in and sat at the table without so much as a hello to her. He rubbed my head with a “How’s my little man doing?” but I could tell it was forced.
There was tension in the air, and it was thick.
When the potatoes didn’t arrive at my plate, I reached across the table and grabbed the bowl myself, procuring a generous helping. Neither Mother nor Father said anything when I avoided the greens entirely this evening, leaving the broccoli for the adults while grabbing an extra slice of meatloaf.
The unsteady clink of our forks against porcelain seemed so loud, I was fairly certain our neighbors would have heard them if one wasn’t dead and the other chained up in the basement.
I reached for my milk, chugged it, and wiped my chin with the back of my hand.
“A man came by today. He was looking for the Carters. At first I thought he might be a cop, but now I’m not so sure.”
Father peeked up from his meal and glanced at Mother. When their eyes met, he turned to me. He was eating the broccoli, a piece of it stuck between his two front teeth. “You shouldn’t call him a cop. You should refer to him as a police officer. Calling him a cop is disrespectful.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Did he say he was a police officer?”
Earlier, I had pondered this long and hard. “He had a badge, but no, sir, he did not. But he acted like one. At first anyway, then not so much.”
“What do you mean?”
I ran through the conversation as best as I could recall.
“A Plymouth Duster?” Mother said when I finished. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. My friend Bo Ridley’s father has one just like it, except his is yellow. I’d recognize that car anywhere.”
Father turned to her. “Does that mean something to you? Do you know him?”
Mother hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then shook her head. “No.” She stood and started clearing the dishes.
Father and I looked at each other. He saw too.
She wasn’t telling the truth.
54
Porter
Day 2 ? 9:23 a.m.
Porter and Watson followed the uniform through the halls of the Fifty-First and paused outside a second-floor door. “The investigating officer’s name is Ronald Baumhardt. He’s waiting for you inside.” He looked down at his shoes for a second, then back at Porter. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”
Porter gave him a nod and entered the small room.