Baumhardt, standing only a few feet away, began packing up his papers. “Do you want me to call you? Let you know what happens?”
“I’d like that.”
“He’s putting up a tough front, but he’ll cave. Even if he doesn’t, we’ve got the ballistic evidence and Tareq’s testimony. I’ve seen juries convict on much less.”
Porter reached out and shook his hand. “Thanks again.”
Watson was frowning at him.
“What?”
“You’re a little pale, that’s all.”
“I’ll be all right. I just need to get some air,” Porter replied. “Let’s go.”
Pushing through the doorway, he stepped out into the busy hallway and slammed into a bulky detective carrying a four-pack of Starbucks coffee. The hot liquid exploded over both of them and rained on the floor. Watson jumped out of the way.
“What the fuck!” the detective growled. “You don’t watch where you’re going?”
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“I don’t give a shit. You trying to send someone to the burn ward?” He frantically dabbed at the stain on his shirt with a single napkin.
Porter hadn’t fared much better. Coffee dripped from his sleeve and jacket, and there was a large stain on his pants leg. It felt as if his shoe had captured half the spill and his sock was soaking it up. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a damp business card. “I work Homicide downtown. Send me the cleaning bill, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right, you will,” the man said, snapping up the card. “You’re lucky I don’t make you hit an ATM right now and send you off to Starbucks for replacements.” He stomped down the hallway, muttering something about the state of cafeteria coffee.
“Let’s go,” Porter told Watson. “My place is on the way to your uncle’s shop. We’ll swing by and I’ll change.”
55
Clair
Day 2 ? 10:59 a.m.
“We should call Porter,” Nash said.
They had arrived at Kittner’s apartment building, a nondescript squat three-story brick structure with fifteen units, to find Espinosa and his team already in position, preparing to enter. Donning their own vests, they followed SWAT through the main entrance and up two flights of stairs. Kittner’s apartment was the last door on the right.
Clair checked the magazine in her Glock and positioned herself beside him against the hallway wall. “I don’t think we should bother him right now.”
“He’d want to know what’s going on,” Nash said.
“We gotta give him a little space.”
“Prepare to breach in five,” Espinosa’s voice barked in Clair’s earpiece.
“Go time,” she said.
Nash peered down the hallway and watched Brogan and Thomas slam Kittner’s door with the ram. It flew open with a splintered howl and crashed against the wall on the other side.
“Go! Go! Go!” Espinosa shouted before darting through the opening.
“Let’s go,” Clair told him before running down the hallway with her weapon held out before her, pointing toward the ground. As she reached the door, voices crackled in her ear.
“Brogan, clear.”
“Thomas, clear.”
“Tibideaux, bedroom is clear.”
“Espinosa, all clear. Sort of.”
Nash stepped inside the apartment with Clair on his heels. “Holy hell.”
If the living room held any furniture, you couldn’t tell. Newspapers stacked floor to ceiling cluttered the space, dozens of piles. Some were yellowed and faded with age; others were crisp and new. The newspapers were offset by stacks of books in both hardcover and softcover. “They’re organized by genre. This pile is westerns, then we’ve got romance and science fiction. These look like horror. How the hell does someone live like this?”
“It’s like that show, Hoarders,” Clair said. “People start collecting little things here and there, and they escalate over time. I picture your porn stash to look something like this.” She cocked her head. “Do you hear a cat?”
“I smell a cat,” Brogan said.
“It’s coming from back here,” Tibideaux said. “The litter box hasn’t been emptied in a few days.”
“How does it even find the litter box?” Nash asked.
Espinosa came out from the bathroom. “The clutter seems to be contained to the living room. The rest of the apartment is fairly clean.”
Tibideaux walked out of the bedroom holding a rather large Russian blue. The cat meowed in his arms and licked at the black plastic of his Kevlar vest. “Poor thing must be starving.”
Nash stepped back from him. “Keep that thing away from me—I’m allergic.”
Clair was digging through a stack of newspapers. She held up a copy of the Tribune. “This one is six years old.”
“Judging by these piles, he may have a decade’s worth in here,” Espinosa replied. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything that might tell us where we can find Emory,” Nash instructed.
Clair’s phone rang. “It’s Kloz.” She put the call on speaker.
“So, this is strange,” Kloz said, without a hello.
“What’s strange?”
“I pulled Kittner’s bank records—Porter, before you get on my ass, I got a warrant.”
“Porter’s not here right now.”
“Where is he?”
Clair rolled her eyes. “Busy. What did you find?”
“I found a wire in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars that came into his checking account five days ago. That’s not the weird part, though—another quarter million hit up yesterday afternoon after he died,” said Kloz.
“Can you tell where the funds originated?”
“A numbered account in the Cayman Islands. I’m trying to pull a name, but they’re not very cooperative down there. I’ve got a buddy at the Bureau who may be able to put a little fear into them. I’ll call him as soon as we hang up.”
Nash nudged Clair. “Think the money is from Talbot?”
“For what purpose?”
“I don’t know, some kind of payoff maybe?”
Clair turned back to the phone. “Kloz, does Talbot hold any accounts in the islands?”
“He has accounts everywhere. The money came from RCB Royal, and I was able to find wires both incoming and outgoing from several of Talbot’s businesses to that particular branch, but the account numbers don’t match up. That doesn’t mean we should rule it out, though.” He fell silent for a second; only the sound of a keyboard clicking came from his end of the phone. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I found another wire. Fifty thousand came into Kittner’s account exactly one month before the first two hundred fifty thousand was deposited five days ago. If this is some kind of payoff, it started at least a month ago.”
“What can you tell us about Kittner?” Clair asked.
“Fifty-six years old. He worked for UPS up until a month ago, then took an extended leave of absence. I requested his employment file, but I imagine it’s related to the cancer diagnosis.”
“Did he own a cell phone? Can you retrace his steps?”
“Nada. I can’t find one registered in his name, and UPS didn’t provide him with one. If he had a cell at all, it was a prepaid. There’s a landline in the apartment there. I’m running the logs now.”
“What about relatives? Anybody?”
More typing. “He has a younger sister, but she was killed in a car accident five years ago. Amelia Kittner. Married name Mathers.”