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

The view was breathtaking.

The penthouse occupied the entire northeast corner of the building. The outer walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows with a balcony. The city sprawled out around them, with Lake Michigan visible in the distance. “When I was fifteen,” Porter said, “my room was nothing like this.”

“My apartment could fit in this living room,” Nash said. “After today, I may have to trade in my badge and become a real estate mogul.”

“I don’t think you can jump right into something like that,” said Porter. “You probably need to take some kind of course on the Internet.”

Nash pulled two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, handed one set to Porter, and put on the other.

A number of CSI techs were already hard at work inside. Paul Watson spotted them and came over from the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall. “If there was a struggle, there’s no sign. This is the cleanest apartment I’ve ever seen. The fridge is fully stocked. I found a receipt in the trash from two days ago. We’re pulling the phone records, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either. I was able to scroll back through the last ten incoming numbers, and they all belonged to her father.”

“She has a landline? Really?”

Watson shrugged. “Maybe it came with the apartment.”

“Daddy probably put it in. Can’t claim no signal or missed calls with a landline,” Nash pointed out.

Porter asked, “What about outgoing?”

“Three numbers. We’re running them now,” said Watson.

Porter began walking around the apartment, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood floors.

The kitchen had cherry cabinets and dark granite countertops. All stainless steel appliances — Viking stove and Sub-Zero refrigerator. The living room held a large sectional beige leather couch. It appeared so comfortable, Porter got tired just glancing at the plush cushions. The television was at least eighty inches. “That’s a 4K display,” Watson told him.

“4K?”

“Four times more pixels than your standard 1080p HD television.”

Porter only nodded. He still had a nineteen-inch tube television at home. He refused to replace the ancient unit with a flat panel while it was working, and the damn thing wouldn’t die.

There was a den with a large oak desk. A tech was copying the files from a twenty-seven-inch iMac.

“Anything useful?” he asked.

The tech shook his head. “Nothing stands out. We’ll analyze her files and social network activity back at the station.”

Porter continued on into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made. No posters were on the walls, only a few paintings. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Nash pulled a few of the drawers; each was lined with perfectly folded clothes. “Yeah. Seems more like a model home, almost staged. If a fifteen-year-old girl lives here, she’s the neatest teenager I’ve ever come across,” Nash said.

There was a single framed picture on her nightstand of a woman in her mid- to late twenties. Flowing brown hair, the greenest eyes Porter had ever seen. “Her mother?” he asked nobody in particular.

“I believe so,” Watson replied.

“Talbot said she died of cancer when Emory was only three,” Porter said, studying the photograph. “A brain tumor, of all things.”

“I can research that if you’d like,” Watson proposed eagerly.

Porter nodded and replaced the picture. “That would be helpful.”

“You could bounce a quarter on this bed,” said Nash. “I don’t think a kid made it.”

“I’m still not convinced a kid lives here.”

The master bathroom was amazing — all granite and porcelain tile. Two sinks. You could throw a party in the shower. Porter counted no fewer than six showerheads with additional jets built into the walls.

He walked over to the sink and touched the tip of her toothbrush. “Still damp,” he said.

“I’ll get someone to bag that,” Watson told him. “In case we need the DNA. Hand me that hairbrush too.”

There was a sitting room attached to the master. The walls were lined with shelves teeming with books, a few hundred or more. Porter spotted everything from Charles Dickens to J. K. Rowling. A Thad McAlister novel was lying open on a large, fluffy recliner at the center of the room. “Maybe she does live here after all,” Porter said, picking up the book. “This came out a few weeks ago.”

“And you know this how?” Nash asked.

“Heather picked it up. She’s a big fan of this guy.”

“Ah.”

“Look at this,” Watson said. He was holding up an English literature textbook. “I remember spotting a calculus book on the desk in the den. This particular brand, Worthington Studies, is popular with homeschoolers. Did Mr. Talbot say where she went to school?”

Porter and Nash glanced at each other. “We didn’t ask.”

Watson was flipping through the pages. “If she was enrolled somewhere, we can track down some of her friends.” His face grew red. “I’m sorry, sir. I mean, you can track down some of her friends. If you think that might be useful.”

Talbot had given Porter a business card with his cell phone number. He tapped his pocket, confirming it was still there. “I’ll check with her father when we’re done here.”

They left the master and continued down the hall. “How many bedrooms in this place?”

“Three,” Watson replied. “Take a look at this one.” He gestured to a room on their right.

Porter stepped inside. A basket of laundry sat atop a queen-size bed. A large Catholic cross hung over the headboard. The dresser was covered in framed photographs, two rows deep.

Nash picked one up. “Is that her? Emory?”

“Must be.”

They ranged in age from a toddler to a picture of a stunning young girl in a dark-blue dress next to a boy of about sixteen with long, wavy dark hair. A small caption in the corner read WHATNEY VALE HIGH HOMECOMING, 2014.

“Is she enrolled there?” Porter asked.

“I’ll find out.” Watson pointed at the young man standing next to her. “Think that’s her boyfriend?”

“Might be.”

“Can I see that?” Watson asked.

Porter handed him the frame.

Watson flipped it over and slid the tiny tabs aside, then removed the backing board. He carefully extracted the photo. “Em and Ty.” He showed them the back. The names were in small print on the bottom right.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Porter said.

“No, Whatney Vale is a high school.”

Nash chuckled. “I love this guy. Can we keep him?”

“The captain will kill me if I bring home another stray,” Porter said.

“I’m serious, Sam. We’re going to need the manpower. We’ve got two, possibly three days on the outside to find this girl. He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Nash said. “If you don’t fill the task force bench, the captain will. Better you do it, or we’ll get stuck with someone like Murray.” He nodded toward a detective standing in the hallway, who was staring at the tip of his ballpoint pen. “I’m thinking we bring the kid in as a CSI liaison.”

Porter thought about this for a moment, then turned back to Watson. “Any interest in working this case?”

“I’m a private contractor with CSI. Can I work as law enforcement?”

“As long as you don’t shoot anyone,” Nash said.

“I don’t carry a weapon,” he replied. “I never felt the need to take the exam. I’m more of a bookworm.”

“Chicago Metro has an agreement with the crime lab. Officially, you’d be a consult on loan,” Porter explained. “Think you can clear it with your supervisor?”

Watson set the photo down on the dresser and pulled out his cell phone. “Give me a minute — I’ll call him.” He walked to the far corner of the room and punched in the number.