28: Porter had spent the last hour sitting on his couch, the photograph on the coffee table before him. He had brought over the reading lamp from his bedside, removed the shade, and swapped out the bulb for a hundred-watt. The light was bright, unforgiving. He leaned over the picture, studying every inch, every pixel.
His mind raced.
Libby McInley killed Franklin Kirby. Barbara McInley died for the crime.
Of course, he knew the name.
Bishop told him that name right before he pushed Arthur Talbot into the elevator shaft. The name Franklin Kirby was etched into his skull along with all the loose strings surrounding 4MK. Franklin Kirby was the real name of the man who ran off with Bishop’s mother and neighbor, a lover to one, possibly both. He killed his partner, the man Bishop called Mr. Stranger in his diary. The man Bishop later told him was really named Felton Briggs. Briggs had been some type of security officer or private investigator employed by Talbot. Neither name had ever turned up in the various databases Porter searched.
Ghosts, just like Bishop.
Until now.
He looked back at the photograph. His eyes fixed on the woman.
He sat there for a long while, unmoving.
When he looked up, he eyed his apartment. The feds had made a mess of the place, pulling down books, emptying cabinets, dumping drawers. Heather’s picture stared up at the ceiling, knocked over in their search.
He didn’t want to be here.
He couldn’t be here.
Not now.
Porter stared at the photograph on the coffee table.
Ten minutes.
Twenty minutes.
“Fuck it.”
He stood, went to the bedroom closet, and pulled out his suitcase. Five minutes later the bag was packed and sitting at the front door.
He went to the freezer, removed the foil package labeled ground beef, peeled it open, and removed the contents—nearly three thousand dollars in cash at last count. He folded the bills, shoved them into his pocket, and returned to the living room.
He surveyed the room again, then went over to his La-Z-Boy, his favorite chair. He picked it up by the base and turned the chair on its side. The loud bang as it hit the hardwood echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment.
Porter slipped his fingers under the material at the bottom and tugged. It came away, held only with Velcro.
Bishop’s diary was duct-taped to the wood frame under the cloth. He never did log it into evidence. He pulled the small book free, removed the tape, and slipped the black and white composition book into his pocket with the money. Returning to the table, he retrieved the photograph from Bishop, his hand no longer gloved, and pocketed that too.
Porter took out his cell phone, switched it off, and placed it on the coffee table.
At the front door, he took one last look at his apartment, at Heather’s fallen picture, then picked up his suitcase and left, locking the door behind him.