LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      “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.”

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