Джей Баркер – The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down (страница 7)
Porter and Nash followed her inside. The vaulted ceilings loomed above, centered by a chandelier glistening with crystal. He fought the urge to take his shoes off before walking on the white polished marble.
Mrs. Talbot turned to the housekeeper. “Miranda, please be a dear and fetch us some tea and bagels — unless the officers would prefer donuts?” She said the last with the hint of a smile.
There was nothing rich white women hated more than being called —
“Please, call me Patricia.”
They followed her through the foyer, down the hall, and into a large library. The polished wood floors glistened in the early-morning light, covered in specks of sun cast by the crystal chandelier hanging above a large stone fireplace. She gestured to a couch at the center of the room. Porter and Nash took a seat. She settled into a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair and ottoman across from them and reached for a cup of tea from the small table at her side. The morning
The housekeeper returned with a large silver tray. She set it on the table in front of them, poured two cups of tea from a carafe, handed one to Nash and the other to Porter. There were two plates. One contained a toasted plain bagel, the other a chocolate donut.
“I’m not above stereotypes,” Nash said, reaching for the donut.
“This isn’t necessary,” Porter said.
“Nonsense; enjoy,” Patricia replied.
“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Talbot? Is he home?”
“He left early this morning to play a round of golf out at Wheaton.”
Nash leaned over. “That’s about an hour away.”
Porter reached for a cup of tea and took a slow sip, then returned it to the tray. “And your daughter?”
“Stepdaughter.”
“Stepdaughter,” Porter corrected.
Mrs. Talbot frowned. “How about you tell me what kind of trouble she’s in? Then I can decide if I should let you speak to her directly or ring one of our attorneys.”
“So she’s here?”
Her eyes widened for a moment. She refilled her cup, reached for two sugar cubes and dropped them into her tea, stirred, and drank. Her fingers twisted around the warm mug. “She’s sound asleep in her room. Has been all night. I saw her a few minutes ago preparing for school.”
Porter and Nash exchanged a glance. “May we see her?”
“What has she done?”
“We’re following a lead, Mrs. Talbot. If she’s here right now, there is nothing to worry about. We’ll be on our way. If she’s not” — Porter didn’t want to frighten her unnecessarily — “if she’s not, there may be cause for concern.”
“There’s no need to cover for her,” Nash explained. “We just need to know she is safe.”
She turned the mug in her hand. “Miranda? Could you fetch Carnegie, please?”
The housekeeper opened her mouth, considered what she was about to say, then thought better of it. Porter watched as she turned and left the library, crossing the hallway and ascending the staircase that wound up the opposite wall.
Nash elbowed him, and he turned. Porter followed his eyes to a framed picture on the fireplace mantel. A young blond girl dressed in riding gear beside a chestnut horse. He stood and walked over to it. “Is this your stepdaughter?”
Mrs. Talbot nodded. “Four years ago. She turned twelve a month before that photo. Came in first place.”
Porter was looking at her hair. The Four Monkey Killer had only taken one blonde before today; all the others had been brunette.
“Patricia? What’s going on?”
They turned.
Standing at the doorway was a teenager dressed in a Mötley Crüe T-shirt, white robe, and slippers. Her blond hair was frazzled.
“Please don’t call me Patricia,” Mrs. Talbot snapped.
“Sorry,
“Carnegie, these gentlemen are from Chicago Metro.”
The girl’s face went pale. “Why are the police here, Patricia?”
Porter and Nash were staring at her ears.
A drizzle had begun to fall. The flagstone steps were wet and slippery as Porter and Nash rushed from the Talbot residence back to their car at the curb. Both jumped inside and pulled the doors shut behind them, eyeing the foreboding sky. “We don’t need this shit, not today,” Porter complained. “If it starts to rain, Talbot may call his game off and we lose him.”
“We have a bigger problem.” Nash was tapping at his iPhone.
“Captain Dalton again?”
“No, worse. Somebody tweeted.”
“Somebody what?”
“Tweeted.”
“What the hell is a
Nash handed him the phone.
Porter read the tiny print.
It was followed by a photograph of their bus victim from this morning, facedown against the asphalt. The edge of the city bus was barely visible at the corner.
Porter frowned. “Who released a photo to the press?”
“Shit, Sam. You really need to get with the times. Nobody released anything. Somebody snapped a picture with their phone and put it out there for everyone to see,” Nash explained. “That’s how Twitter works.”
“Everyone? How many people is
Nash was tapping again. “They posted it twenty minutes ago, and it’s been favorited 3,212 times. Retweeted more than five hundred.”
“Favorited? Retweeted? What the fuck, Nash. Speak English.”
“It means it’s out there, Porter. Viral. The world knows he’s dead.”
Nash’s phone rang. “Now that’s the captain. What should I tell him?”
Porter started the car, threw it into gear, and sped down West North Street toward 294. “Tell him we’re chasing a lead.”
“What lead?”
“The Talbots.”
Nash looked puzzled. “But it’s not the Talbots — they’re home.”
“It’s not those Talbots. We’re going to chat with Arthur. I’m willing to bet the wife and daughter aren’t the only women in his life,” Porter said.
Nash nodded and answered the call. Porter heard the captain screaming from the tiny speaker. After about a minute of repeating “Yes, sir,” Nash cupped his hand over the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him I’m driving. It’s not safe to talk on the phone while driving.” He tugged the wheel hard to the left, circling around a minivan traveling much slower than their current speed of eighty-seven.
“Yes, Captain,” Nash said. “I’m putting you on speaker. Hold on —”