The 20th Victim

by James Patterson

  She shouted at Cindy, “I’m Kath-leen Wyatt. K.Y. You remember now?”

  “Your screen name.”

  Wyatt said, “I posted on your crime blog this morning. My daughter, Linda, and her little baby girl are missing, and her husband killed them.”

  Security guard Rafe Bailey pulled up to the doorway, panting. “I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas. You,” he said to the woman who was leaning over the desk. “You come with me. Now.”

  Cindy said, “Kathleen, are you armed?”

  “Be serious.”

  “Stand by, Rafe,” Cindy said. “Kathleen. Sit down.”

  The guard said that he would be right outside the door and took a position a few feet away. Cindy turned her attention back to the woman now sitting in the chair across from her desk and ignored the inquiring eyes of writers in the newsroom peering through her office wall.

  Cindy said, “I remember you now. Kathleen, I had to take down your post from my blog.”

  “He beats her. They’re gone.”

  Cindy’s boss, Henry Tyler, leaned into her office. “Everything okay, Cindy?”

  “Thanks, Henry. We’re fine.”

  He nodded, then, tapped the face of his watch.

  Cindy nodded acknowledgment of the six o’clock closing. Her story was in the polish phase and it was half-past five. Henry had a word with Rafe and then closed the door.

  Cindy turned back to Kathleen Wyatt saying, “You accused a man of murder and used his name. The rules are right there on the site. No vulgarity, name-calling, or personal attacks. He could sue you for defamation. He could keep the Chronicle in court until the next ice age.”

  Wyatt said, “You come across as such a nice person, Cindy. But, like everyone else, you’re all about the money.”

  “You’re doing it again, Kathleen. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  The woman folded her arms over Cindy’s desk, dropped her head, and sobbed. Cindy thought Kathleen Wyatt was out of her mind with fear.

  Cindy said, “Kathleen. Kathleen, do you know for a fact that this man, Lucas, abducted Linda and your granddaughter?”

  She lifted her head and shook it, “No.”

  Cindy said, “Another question. Have you called the police?”

  This time when Kathleen Wyatt raised her head, she said, “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, but have they found the baby? No.”

  Chapter 2

  While Kathleen Wyatt dried her eyes with her sweatshirt Cindy retrieved the post she’d deleted this morning and read it again.

  Kathleen had written about her son-in-law, Lucas Burke, using ALL CAPS to shout in print that Burke had abused Kathleen’s daughter, Linda, and that he had even been violent with their one-year-old baby, Lorrie. Kathleen had written that she was terrified for them both, and even though the two had only been missing for a couple of hours, she trusted her gut.

  Cindy had seen the post a few minutes after Kathleen had submitted it. The screaming capital letters, the many misspellings, and the nature of the post unloaded on a newspaper blog made the poster sound crazy. Or else, it had been someone’s idea of fun.

  Now that Wyatt had broken into the newsroom and told the story to her face, her credibility had risen. But, damn it. Cindy couldn’t know if Kathleen was paranoid or in an understandable panic that her loved ones could be in danger—or worse. Her fear was relatable and the idea of a murderous husband plausible. It happened too often. And that it may have happened since Kathleen posted her cri de coeur this morning made Cindy feel awful and guilty. And still, there was nothing she could do to help.

  Kathleen slapped the desk to draw Cindy’s attention.

  Her voice was rough from yelling, but she said, “I called the police as soon as I couldn’t locate Linda. She has run away with the baby before. She’s twenty now. An adult. And after you call the police once or three times, you have to beg them to pay attention. But I did it. The cops called in the K-9 unit, put out an Amber Alert. Or so they say. I don’t know for sure.”

  Cindy said, “When there’s a missing baby, what’d you say, she’s a year old?”

  “Closer to a year and a half.”

  “They’re looking for her.”

  Kathleen reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a picture of mother and child. They both looked very young. “Lorrie is fourteen months to be exact. And you’re right. Anytime a baby is missing, they’re supposed to go all out. That baby could be dead already. If you’d run this picture in the paper six hours ago…”

  “I’m a reporter, Kathleen. I need confirmation, you must know that. But, still, I feel sorry—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me how sorry you are. Sorry won’t help my daughter. Sorry won’t help her baby girl.”

  “Sit tight,” Cindy said. She reviewed her story about the shooting in the Tenderloin, changed a few words and then rewrote the “kicker,” the last line. She addressed an email to Tyler, attached her story and pressed “send.”

  Kathleen Wyatt watched.

  When Cindy saw that the email had launched, she said to Wyatt, “No promises. Let me see what I can do.”

  Chapter 3

  Cindy speed-dialed the number, then drummed her fingers on her desk until Lindsay picked up.

  “Boxer.”

  “Linds, I need some advice. It’s important.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “No, I’m fine. Can you give a couple of moments to a woman with a missing daughter and grandchild?”

  “Me?”

  “Thanks, Linds. I’m putting you on speaker. Lindsay, this is Kathleen Wyatt. I’ll let her tell you. Kathleen, this is Sergeant Boxer of Homicide.”

  Lindsay said, “Kathleen. What happened?”

  “They’ve disappeared into a black hole.”

  “Say again?”

  Kathleen said, “My daughter, Linda, and her baby disappeared this morning, and her husband has threatened to kill them.”

  “You say they disappeared. Is there any indication that they were hurt?”

  “My daughter won’t answer the phone. She is always home all day with the baby. I went over there. The house is empty. Her car is gone. I’ve called her and called her, and we always, always speak in the morning after Lucas has gone to work.”

  “He’s the husband?”

  “Linda has told me I don’t know many times that he’s said that he hates her. He wishes Lorrie had never been born. He’s hit her, but not so it shows. And yes, I’ve called the police.”

  Lindsay asked, “Had Linda taken out a restraining order on Lucas?”

  “She wouldn’t do it. She’s only twenty. She doesn’t work. She was afraid of him, and also, oh God help her. She loves him. She’s too young. Too dumb. Too needy.”

  Horns honked over the phone line. Lindsay was in her car. She raised her voice over the clamor and asked Kathleen, “What was the police response?”

  “Today? They say they talked to Lucas, but he had an alibi. His girlfriend, probably. You should see him. Smooth as ice. Lucas. He denies threatening her, them, of course. They have some units searching and they have dogs now in the vicinity of his house. And drones. And they say Linda will come home. And Lindsay—if I may call you that? This time I really think he means to kill them. Or what I really think? It may be too late.”

  The words “too late” tailed up into a heart-wrenching howl. The security guard reached for the door, but Cindy put up her hand and shook her head.

  Lindsay said, finally, “Go on.”

  Kathleen said, “Linda told me his girlfriend is another dummy, younger than she is. He meets these girls where he teaches—”

  “Who was the officer who took your complaint?”

  “I don’t remember his name. I left his number in my car.”

  “Is he a uniformed officer?”

  “Yes. I flagged him down. Oh. Bernard. Officer Bernard.”

  “Kathleen,” Lindsay said. “I’ll check with Officer Bernard. Give Cindy your number and I’ll get back to you. I agre
e that if Linda has run away before, she may have done it again. But if a baby has been missing since eight this morning, that’s a police matter. Call the SFPD, major crimes division and ask for Sergeant Murray. Keep your phone charged.”

  “I’ve met him. Renny Murray. He doesn’t take me seriously.”

  “I’ll call him, too,” said Lindsay. “See how the investigation—Sorry, I’ve to go.”

  Cindy said goodbye to Lindsay, watched Kathleen write down her phone number with a shaking hand as she muttered, “You should help me, Cindy. Lorrie is dead. I feel it in my heart.”

  Kathleen was crying as if she was sure they were dead. As if she knew.

  Cindy said, “It’s almost dark. Go home and call the police again. Did you call Linda’s friends? What about her neighbors? If you hear anything at all, let me know. Wait. Give me that picture.”

  Kathleen handed the picture of Linda and Lorrie to Cindy who snapped it with her phone. She told Kathleen that she could run it with a request for information as to the whereabouts without mentioning Lucas Burke.

  Tugging at her watch cap, Kathleen muttered a thank you and Cindy walked her out to the elevator. Cindy went back to her office wondering why Kathleen Wyatt had come to her. Was going to a newspaper her way of getting ahead of suspicion? Was she right about her son-in-law? Or was Kathleen Wyatt a paranoid schizophrenic?

  She’d talk to Richie when she got home tonight.

  And then she’d call Lindsay.

  Chapter 4

  I’d been at my desk since seven a.m.

  It was now eight-thirty on Tuesday morning. Brady had called a meeting for nine, all hands, and I had to get some answers for Kathleen Wyatt before the meeting.

  My partner, Inspector Rich Conklin, and I sit at facing desks at the front of the dull gray homicide bullpen. He’d just arrived, heard me talking to Sergeant Renny Murray over the phone and went to the break room to get coffee.

  He knew I was doing a favor for Cindy, his live-in love and my friend. When he got back to his desk, I thanked Murray and hung up as Conklin pushed a fresh mug of mud over to my desk. It was black, three sugars, just how I like it.

  He asked, “What did Murray say?”

  “He said that Lucas Burke is a bad dude, but he doesn’t think he’s a killer.”

  “How bad?”

  I blew on my coffee, then referred to my notes.

  “Lucas threatened a female motorist after a fender bender, grabbed her shoulders, called her names, and shook her. He was charged with assault and battery, but the motorist didn’t press charges. Same year, Lucas took a chain saw to a neighbor’s tree he claimed was on his property. It was the neighbor’s tree. He got fined. Looks like eight hundred dollars. End of that. Then, Kathleen reported him for domestic abuse of her daughter, but Linda denied it, said her mother is nuts. Kathleen is a little loosely wrapped, Richie. And that makes her hard to read, but also true, abused women often deny the abuse. Anyway, that’s Lucas Burke’s record. He’s at least combative. Sounds like he’s got an anger disorder.”

  Rich said, “While you were on the phone, I checked with missing persons. Missus and baby Burke are still missing. I hope to God Linda really did run away.”

  “It’s reasonable to hope,” I said. “Her phone, wallet, and car are gone. She hasn’t used her credit card, but that’s not proof. She could have a boyfriend picking up the tab on their way out of town to—I don’t know, name a place, Cancun.”

  I called Cindy and sipped coffee while Rich walked over to Cappy’s desk, sat on the edge of it, and traded what-ifs with him and Chi. I could hear them opining on the upcoming meeting, but there was little controversy. We were all of the same opinion. Brady was going to announce his future plans, and we all would be affected by it. But what had he decided to do?

  The root of the matter was the scandal that had devastated the Southern Station, our station, not long ago. Ted Swanson, lieutenant of Robbery, had conceived a get-rich plan that involved enlisting two teams of bad cops who had successfully knocked off drug dealers and a number of payday loan joints.

  A shooting war broke out between a ruthless drug kingpin and the cops. Eighteen people died in several shootouts and even Swanson took enough lead to kill him two or three times over. But he survived his injuries and was now serving out the rest of his worthless life at Chino, a maximum-security prison downstate.

  Warren Jacobi, our friend, my former partner, and at that time chief of police, had to take the fall for Swanson’s dirty, illegal, drug war that had gone on under his nose. He was retired out and Jackson Brady, our good lieutenant, picked up the slack for Jacobi, running Homicide and the Southern Station at the same time.

  Brady farmed out most of the robbery and narcotics crimes to different police divisions and still, managing so many cops, so many issues, was too much for one man, even if the man was Jackson Brady. When asked to choose which job he wanted, he’d put off the decision. Maybe he took too long. Lately, rumor had it that the Mayor was having talks with Stefan Rowan, a heavyweight organized crime commander from New York, to replace Jacobi. That meant Brady would stay in homicide and report to the new man.

  The bets heavily favored the New York top cop to become our boss of bosses.

  I looked past Conklin and saw Brady leave his office in the back corner of the squad room. He put on his jacket and headed up the center aisle toward the front of the room. Conklin got up from Cappy’s desk as Brady passed and joined me at our desks.

  Brady took the floor, his blond-white hair pulled back in a pony, his denim shirt tucked in, his dark jacket unbuttoned.

  I couldn’t read his expression, but I loved working for Brady. He was smart. He never asked anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do. He was brave. And he was loyal to the people who reported to him.

  What scared me most is that the rumor might be wrong. That Brady was going to step up to become chief of police, and the hard ass New Yorker would replace him as Homicide C.O.

  Maybe a promotion would be good for Brady, but speaking for myself, it would break my heart.

  Coming Soon

  The Capture

  1st Case

  The Midwife

  Best Defense

  A Taker of Sparrows