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

Чтение книги онлайн.

       9

       Porter

       Day 1 • 8:49 a.m.

      Porter knew little about golf. The idea of hitting a little white ball, then chasing after it for hours on end, did not appeal to him. While he understood it was challenging, he did not consider it a sport. Baseball was a sport. Football was a sport. Anything you could play at eighty years old while toting your oxygen tank and wearing pastel slacks would never be a sport in his book.

      The restaurant was nice, though. He had taken Heather to the Chicago Golf Club two years ago for their anniversary and purchased the most expensive steak he had ever eaten. Heather had ordered the lobster and raved about it for weeks. A cop’s salary didn’t allow for much, but anything that made her happy was a worthwhile spend.

      He pulled up to the large clubhouse and handed his keys to the valet. “Keep it close. We won’t be long.”

      They had beaten the weather. While the sky appeared hazy, the dark storm clouds had paused over the city.

      The lobby was large and well-appointed. Several members were gathered around a fireplace in the far corner overlooking the lush course just beyond french doors. Their voices echoed off the marble floor and mahogany wainscoting.

      Nash whistled softly.

      “If I catch you panhandling, I’ll make you wait in the car.”

      “As this day progresses, I find myself regretting I didn’t wear a nicer suit,” Nash admitted. “This is a very different world than the one we putt around in, Sam.”

      “Do you play?”

      “The last time I held a golf club, I couldn’t get past the windmill. This here is big-boy golf. I don’t have the patience for it,” Nash replied.

      A young woman sat at a desk near the center of the lobby. As they approached, she glanced up from her laptop and smiled. “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to the Chicago Golf Club. How may I help you?”

      Behind her gleaming white smile, Porter could sense her sizing them up. She hadn’t asked if they had a reservation, and he doubted that was an oversight. He pulled out his badge and held it up to her. “We’re looking for Arthur Talbot. His wife said he was playing today.”

      Her smile faded as her eyes darted from the badge to Porter, then Nash. She picked up the receiver on her desk and dialed an extension, spoke softly, then disconnected. “Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.” She gestured toward a couch in the far corner.

      “We’re fine, thank you,” Porter told her.

      The smile again. She returned to her computer, slim, manicured fingers bouncing across the keys.

      Porter checked his watch. Nearly 9:00 a.m.

      A man in his mid-fifties entered the lobby from a door to their left. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back, his dark-blue suit pressed to perfection. As he approached, he extended his hand to Porter. “Detective. I’ve been told you’re here to see Mr. Talbot?” His grip was soft. Porter’s father had called it a dead fish shake. “I’m Douglas Prescott, senior manager.”

      Porter flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Porter, and this is Detective Nash with Chicago Metro. This is extremely urgent. Do you know where we can find Mr. Talbot?”

      The blond woman was watching them. When Prescott glanced at her, she turned back to her laptop. His gaze returned to Porter. “I believe Mr. Talbot’s party had a seven-thirty tee time, so they’re out on the course. You’re more than welcome to wait for him. You’ll find a fine complimentary breakfast in the dining room. If you like cigars, our humidor is top-notch.”

      “This can’t wait.”

      Prescott frowned. “We don’t disturb our guests during play, gentlemen.”

      “We don’t?” Nash said.

      “We do not,” Prescott insisted.

      Porter rolled his eyes. Why did everyone seem to go out of their way to make things difficult? “Mr. Prescott, we don’t have the time or patience for this. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can take us to Mr. Talbot, or my partner here will arrest you for obstruction, handcuff you to that desk, and start shouting Talbot’s name until he comes to us. I’ve seen him do it — the man is loud. It’s your choice, but I honestly think option A will prove least disruptive to your business.”

      The receptionist stifled a chuckle.

      Prescott shot her an angry glance, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mr. Talbot is a substantial contributor and personal friends with your boss, the mayor. They played together just two weeks СКАЧАТЬ