The Fourth Monkey: A twisted thriller you won’t be able to put down. J.D. Barker

probably one or two little yapping dogs, and a housekeeper or five.”

      “I checked with Missing Persons, and Talbot hasn’t phoned anyone in,” Nash said. They exited the car and started up the stone steps. “How do you want to play this?”

      “Quickly,” said Porter as he pressed the doorbell.

      Nash lowered his voice. “Wife or daughter?”

      “What?”

      “The ear. Do you think it’s the wife or daughter?”

      Porter was about to answer when the door inched open, held by a security chain. A Hispanic woman, no taller than five feet, glared at them with cold brown eyes. “Help you?”

      “Is Mr. or Mrs. Talbot available?”

      Her eyes shifted from Porter to Nash, then back again. “Momento.”

      She closed the door.

      “My money’s on the daughter,” Nash said.

      Porter glanced down at his phone. “Her name is Carnegie.”

      “Carnegie? Are you kidding me?”

      “I’ll never understand rich people.”

      When the door opened again, a blond woman in her early forties was standing at the threshold. She wore a beige sweater and tight black slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Attractive, Porter thought. “Mrs. Talbot?”

      She smiled politely. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

      The Hispanic woman appeared behind her, watching from the other side of the foyer.

      “I’m Detective Porter and this is Detective Nash. We’re with Chicago Metro. Is there someplace we can talk?”

      Her smile disappeared. “What did she do?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “My husband’s little shit of a daughter. I’d love to get through one week without the drama of her shoplifting or joyriding or drinking in the park with her equally little shit-whore friends. I might as well offer free coffee to any law enforcement officers who want to stop by, since half of you show up on a regular basis anyway.” She stepped back from the door; it swung open behind her, revealing the sparsely furnished entry. “Come on in.”

      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.

      Ah, rich-person humor, Porter thought. “We’re fine, ma’am.”

      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 Tribune lay untouched. “Just last week she OD’ed on some nonsense, and I had to pick her up downtown at the ER in the middle of the night. Her caring little friends dropped her there when she passed out at some club. Left her on a bench in front of the hospital. Imagine that? Arty was off on business, and I had to get her back here before he got home because nobody wants to ruffle his feathers. Best for Stepmommy to clean it up and make like it didn’t happen.”

      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, Mother.”

      “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. Both her ears. Right where they should be.

       7

       Porter

       Day 1 • 7:48 a.m.

      A drizzle had begun to fall. The flagstone steps were wet and slippery as Porter and Nash rushed from the Talbot residence