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

Ms. Piper plucked her purse from beneath her desk and gestured toward a hallway at the west end of the building. “This way, gentlemen.”

A moment later they were in a golf cart heading down a cobblestone path. Ms. Piper was driving, with Porter beside her and Nash on a small bench behind them. He cursed as they hit a bump, bouncing him in the seat.

Porter shoved his hands into his pockets. It was cold out here in the open.

“I apologize for my boss. He can be a little …” She paused, searching for the right word. “A bit of a mucker sometimes.”

“What the hell is a mucker?” Nash asked.

“Someone you wouldn’t want at your bachelor party,” Porter said.

Nash snickered. “I’m not walking down the aisle anytime soon, unless Ms. Piper has a friend in search of a civil servant who makes a low wage for getting shot at on a fairly regular basis. I also tend to work long hours and hit the bottle far more often than I’m willing to admit to someone I just met.”

Porter turned back to Ms. Piper. “Ignore him, miss. You’re under no legal obligation to set up members of law enforcement with attractive friends.”

She glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You sound like quite the catch, Detective. I’ll reach out to my sorority sisters the moment I get back to my desk.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Nash said.

Porter couldn’t help but marvel at the landscaping. The grass was short and lush, not a single weed or blade out of place. Tiny ponds dotted the course on either side of the cart path. Large oaks loomed over the sides of the fairway, their branches shielding the players from the sun and wind.

“There they are.” Ms. Piper nodded toward a group of four men standing around something that resembled a tall, skinny water fountain.

“What is that thing?” Nash asked.

“What thing?”

Ms. Piper smiled. “That, gentlemen, is a ball washer.”

Nash massaged his temple and closed his eyes. “So many jokes just popped into my head, it actually hurts.”

Ms. Piper pulled to a stop behind Talbot’s cart and locked the brake. “Would you like me to wait for you?”

Porter smiled. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Nash jumped off the back. “I’m calling shotgun for the ride back. The rumble seat is all yours.”

Porter walked over to the four men preparing to tee off and showed his badge. “Morning, gentlemen. I’m Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro. This is my partner, Detective Nash. I’m sorry to interrupt your game, but we have a situation that simply couldn’t wait. Which one of you is Arthur Talbot?”

A tall man in his early fifties with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair cocked his head slightly and offered what Nash liked to call a politician’s grin. “I’m Arthur Talbot.”

Porter lowered his voice. “Could we speak to you alone for a moment?”

Talbot was dressed in a brown windbreaker over a white golf shirt, brown belt, and khakis. He shook his head. “No need, Detective. These guys are my business partners. I don’t keep secrets from these men.”

The older man to his left pushed his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose and flattened what was a promising start to a comb-over against the thin breeze. Anxious eyes locked on Porter. “We can play on, Arty. You can catch up if you need a minute.”

Talbot raised a hand, silencing him. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You seem very familiar,” Nash said to the man on Talbot’s right.

Porter thought so too but couldn’t place him. About six feet tall. Thick, dark hair. Fit. Mid-forties.

“Louis Fischman. We met a few years ago. You were working the Elle Borton case, and I was with the district attorney’s office. I’m in the private sector now.”

Talbot frowned. “Elle Borton. Why do I recognize that name?”

“She was one of the Monkey Killer’s victims, wasn’t she?” the third man chimed in. He had begun fiddling with the ball washer.

Porter nodded. “His second.”

“Right.”

“Fucking crazy bastard,” the man with glasses muttered. “Any leads?”

“City transit may have clipped him this morning,” Nash said.

“City transit? A cabdriver turned him in?” Fischman asked.

Porter shook his head and explained.

“And you believe it’s the Monkey Killer?”

“Looks like it.”

Arthur Talbot frowned. “Why are you here to see me?”

Porter took a deep breath. He hated this part of his job. “The man who was killed, we believe he was trying to cross the street to get to a mailbox.”

“Oh?”

“The package had your home address on it, Mr. Talbot.”

His face went pale. Like most of Chicago, he was familiar with the Monkey Killer’s MO.

Fischman put his hand on Talbot’s shoulder. “What was in the package, Detective?”

“An ear.”

“Oh no. Carnegie —”

“It’s not Carnegie, Mr. Talbot. It’s not Patricia, either. They’re both safe. We stopped at your residence before driving out here. Your wife told us where to find you,” Porter said as quickly as he could, then lowered his voice in an attempt to calm the man down. “We need your help, Mr. Talbot. We need you to help us determine who he took.”

“I’ve got to sit down,” Talbot said. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Fischman glanced at Porter, then tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. “Arty, let’s get you back to the cart.” Moving away from the tee box, he guided a white-faced Talbot to the golf cart and lowered him into the seat.

Porter motioned for Nash to stay put and followed the other two men back to the vehicle. He sat beside Talbot so he could speak quietly. “You know how he operates, don’t you? His pattern?”

Talbot nodded. “Do no evil,” he whispered.

“That’s right. He finds someone who has done something wrong, something he feels is wrong, and he takes someone close to them. Someone they care about.”

“I di-didn’t …” Talbot stammered.

Fischman dropped into lawyer mode. “Arty, I don’t think you should say another word until we have a moment to talk.”

Talbot’s breathing was heavy. “My address? You’re sure?”

“It’s 1547 Dearborn Parkway,” Porter told him. “We’re sure.”

“Arty …” Fischman muttered under his breath.

“We need to figure out who it is, who he took.” Porter hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Do you have a mistress, Mr. Talbot?” He leaned in close. “If it’s another woman, you can tell us. We’ll be discreet. You’ve got my word. We only want to find whomever he has taken.”

“It’s not like that,” said Talbot.

Porter put a hand on Talbot’s shoulder. “Do you know who he has?”

Talbot shook him off and stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, crossed to the other side of the cart path, and hammered in a number. “Come on, answer. Please pick up …”

Porter stood and slowly approached him. “Who are you calling, Mr. Talbot?”

Arthur Talbot swore and disconnected the call.

Fischman walked over to him. “If you tell them, you can’t untell them. You understand? Once it’s out there, the press could get wind. Your wife. Your shareholders. You have obligations. This is bigger than you. You need to think this through. Maybe talk to one of your other attorneys, if you’re not comfortable discussing this matter with me.”

Talbot shot him an angry glance. “I’m not going to wait for a stock analysis while some psycho has —”

“Arty!” Fischman interjected. “Let’s at least confirm it on our own first. Let’s be sure.”

“That sounds like a great way to get this person killed,” Porter said.