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

“Sharp kid,” Nash said.

“It will be good to have some fresh eyes on this,” Porter agreed. “God knows you’re not much help.”

“Fuck you too, buddy.” Nash stuffed the photo into an evidence bag. “I’ll take this back to the war room.”

Porter ran his hand through his hair and glanced around the room. “You know what I haven’t seen yet?”

“What?”

“A single photo of the father,” he replied. “There’s not a damn thing in this place to indicate they’re related. I bet if we check the records, we won’t find anything to link him back here. The apartment is probably owned by a company that’s owned by a company that’s owned by a shell out of an island so remote, Gilligan’s bones are probably buried on the beach.”

Nash shrugged. “That surprise you? He’s got a family, a life. He’s the kind of guy who has political office on the brain. Illegitimate children don’t bode well in a campaign unless they belong to your opponent — same with mistresses. Let’s face it: even though he said he cared for this woman, that’s all she was to him, or he would have left the wife and married her rather than hide her in this tower, away from prying eyes. Kid or no kid.”

Watson returned, pocketing his cell phone. “He said as long as I stay on top of my current caseload, he’s okay with it.”

“Will that be a problem?”

He shook his head. “I can handle it. Frankly, I think I’ll enjoy the change of pace. It’ll be nice to get out of the lab for a little while.”

“Okay, then. Welcome to the Four Monkey Killer task force. We’ll take care of the paperwork back at the station.”

“Not very ceremonious, Sam. You’ll need to work on that,” Nash said.

Watson pointed at the photo. “Do you want me to try and track down Ty?”

“Yeah,” Porter replied. “See what you can dig up.”

He dropped the photograph into an evidence bag.

Nash pulled open the top left dresser drawer. Women’s underwear. He stretched them out between his hands and whistled. “Those are some big ’uns.”

“I’m thinking some kind of nanny or housekeeper lives in this room,” Porter said. “Emory’s only fifteen. There is no way she lives here by herself.”

“Okay, but then where is she now? Why hasn’t she reported the girl missing?” Nash asked. “It’s been at least a day, possibly longer.”

“She didn’t report anything to the police. Maybe she called somebody else,” Porter suggested.

“You mean Talbot?” Nash shook his head. “I don’t think so. He seemed genuinely surprised and upset when you told him.”

“If she’s illegal, she wouldn’t call the police,” Watson said. “Makes sense she would reach out to him.”

“Or someone who works for him.”

“Okay, assuming that’s the case, then why would Talbot pretend to be in the dark? Wouldn’t he want to find her?”

Porter shrugged. “His lawyer was pretty insistent about keeping all this quiet. Maybe that’s the Talbot stance. They’ve kept this girl a secret for fifteen years. Why stop now? He’s got resources, he’s probably got his own people out looking for her; no need for us.”

“Then why tell us about her at all? If his primary concern is hiding her from the world, wouldn’t he point us in another direction?”

Porter walked over to the laundry basket and felt a towel near the center. “Still warm.”

Nash nodded slowly. “So somebody phoned her, told her we were coming …”

“That would be my guess. She probably cleared out right after getting the call.”

“That doesn’t mean there’s some big conspiracy. She might just be an illegal like Dr. Watson over there suggested, and he didn’t want to see her get deported,” Nash said.

“I’m not a —”

Nash cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I bet she’s still close, then. We should post someone to keep an eye on the place.”

Nash’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display. “It’s Eisley.” He tapped the Answer button. “This is Nash.”

Porter took the opportunity to dial his wife. When he got voice mail, he disconnected without leaving a message.

Nash hung up and dropped his phone into his front pants pocket. “He wants us down at the morgue.”

“What did he find?”

“Said we needed to see for ourselves.”

14

Diary

“Would you like honey in your oatmeal, dear?”

Mother made wonderful oatmeal. Not the prepackaged kind, no sir. She purchased raw oats and cooked them to a magical deliciousness and served them with toast and juice at the little breakfast nook in our kitchen.

“Yes, Mother,” I replied. “More juice too, please?”

It was a little past eight in the morning on a sunny summer Thursday.

I heard a gentle knock at our screen door, and we both turned to find Mrs. Carter standing on the stoop.

Mother grinned. “Hey, you. Come on in.”

Mrs. Carter smiled back and pulled open the door. Thanks to the bright sun, I saw the outline of her legs through her dress as she stepped over the threshold. She gave my shoulder a squeeze and smiled before walking over to my mother and giving her a light peck on the cheek.

I have to say, after yesterday, it was fairly tame. However, I did catch a glance as it passed between them.

Mother stroked the other woman’s hair. “Your hair looks absolutely stunning today. I’d kill for hair like that. I’m having an Irish coffee. Would you care for one?”

“What is Irish coffee?”

“My, my, you are young in the ways of the world, aren’t you? Irish coffee is coffee with a splash of Jameson whiskey. I find it’s the perfect pick-me-up on a warm summer morning,” Mother told her.

“Whiskey in the morning? How devilish! Yes, please.”

Mother poured her a steaming cup of coffee, then took down a little green bottle with a yellow label from the cabinet I was not permitted to open. She removed the cap and topped off the mug before passing it to Mrs. Carter. I couldn’t help but notice that their hands lingered together a moment longer than one would think necessary.

Mrs. Carter took a sip and smiled. “This is to die for. It must do wonders during the winter.”

Mother looked at the woman and tilted her head. “Isn’t that the same dress you were wearing yesterday?”

Mrs. Carter blushed. “I’m afraid so. I desperately need to do laundry today.”

“I can’t let you go through the day in yesterday’s clothes. Follow me.” She stood and started for her bedroom, taking the bottle with her. “I have a few dresses I don’t wear anymore. I bet they would fit you perfectly.”

Mrs. Carter smiled at me and chased after Mother, her Irish coffee in hand. I watched them disappear down the hall, Mother’s door closing as they stepped inside.

For the briefest of moments, I considered staying there at the table and finishing my breakfast. After all, it is the most important meal of the day. As a growing boy, I understood the importance of nourishment. I didn’t do it, though. Instead, I tiptoed down the hallway and put my ear to her door.

Nothing but silence came from the other side.

I went outside and circled the house.

Mother’s window was on the east side, above a large rosebush shaded by an old cottonwood. Careful to ensure I could not be seen from the street, I positioned myself to the side of the tree and turned to the window. Unfortunately I was still rather short, my thin body that of a boy, and only the ceiling of the room was visible from that angle.

I quickly ran to the back of the house and returned with a five-gallon plastic bucket. Placing it upside down beside the tree, I climbed atop and again turned to the window.

Mrs. Carter’s back was to me, watching Mother as she dug through her closet with the ferocity of a dog creating a hole for its favorite bone. When Mother emerged, she held three dresses. Words were exchanged, but I was unable to make them out, as Mother’s window was closed. She wasn’t one to open her bedroom window, even at the peak of summer heat.