21st Birthday

by James Patterson

  Except for matching her home address to the one on her driver’s license—she had moved to Sausalito from Santa Barbara two years ago—three databases had turned up a big pile of nothing so far. She had no record, not even a parking ticket. She’d graduated from UCLA. She was single, painted and sold seascapes, according to an article in a local paper that had covered her one-woman show. Sausalito is in Marin County and, accordingly, Clapper had tossed the case to Marin PD.

  He had done the right thing, to be honest. Our task force still had Lorrie Burke’s open murder and her missing or dead young mother, and our Homicide squad was still responsible for any homicide investigation in both the Southern and Northern Districts.

  I heard a booming voice and looked up to see DA Leonard “Red Dog” Parisi striding down the center aisle, the floor vibrating as he marched past me and into Brady’s office.

  He closed the door, but I could hear him bellow, “Tell me I got this wrong. Tell me we didn’t lose Burke.”

  I didn’t dare watch them through the glass walls, but I heard most of the back and forth. Burke hadn’t returned after his dramatic flight from his house. We’d kept him for less than a day and he’d been gone for one. That was enough to alarm the DA.

  Brady said, “We’re looking for him, Len. We. Could. Not. Hold him.”

  Brady’s office door opened. Parisi stepped out and said, “Clapper wants to discuss.”

  He noticed me. “Boxer,” he said in greeting. Then, he kept going toward the exit.

  Brady said to me, “Clapper wants us. Grab the tip lines, will ya? We’ve got to follow every lead.”

  “Ten-four, boss.”

  Four other cops in the bullpen were also at their desks taking calls. I stabbed a button.

  “Sergeant Boxer. Homicide.”

  “I saw Tara Burke,” a man’s voice said. “And I took her picture. Before I post on Instagram—”

  “Right,” I said. “Send it to me. Your name please?”

  He didn’t give me his name, but did stay on the line while he texted me a night view of a woman in a crowd.

  “You’re sure this is Tara?” I said. “I can’t make out much of her face.”

  “I could be wrong,” he said. “I want to help.”

  “Where was this taken?”

  “Fresno,” he said. “Last night.”

  I thanked Mr. Anonymous, printed out the photo. It was hard to tell from the photograph if the subject was Tara or some other pretty young woman.

  “Last night? Did you approach her?”

  Line went dead. More calls came in and piled up. It got to be that within a couple of seconds I could tell if the caller was having a good time at our expense or sincerely thought they knew where to find Tara Burke. But none of the many calls I took in the next half hour gave me any real hope at all.

  Brady stopped by my desk on his return from his meeting with Clapper.

  He said, “Hallows found nothing in Burke’s house that indicates a violent death. Or the cleanup of any kind of crime. Or even the thought of a crime. He allows as smothering a baby might leave no trace. So. Square one by process of elimination. And that means weekends and holidays are canceled.”

  I just hate square one. I also hate coloring within the lines, staying in my lane, and doing it by the book.

  Risking the wrath of Clapper, I called Claire.

  Chapter 33

  Claire answered her phone, “Washburn. What do you need?”

  The snappish greeting told me to get right to the point.

  “I’d like to see you about Wendy Franks.”

  “No good, Linds. Her parents are coming in to identify her. Any minute.”

  “Ah. Whatever you can tell me on the phone. I just need the basics.”

  “Well, first of all, it’s a damned shame.”

  “Right. More, please.”

  “Okay. Unofficially. Healthy white female, killed by a deep knife slash across her throat by a common hunting knife approximately twenty-four hours before she was found. So there’s your cause, time, and manner of death.

  “It appears that the killer took her from behind and cut left to right.”

  I said, “Like, she was sitting, and the killer puts a hand on her shoulder and draws the blade across with the other hand?”

  “Could be. He used considerable force. She’d pretty much bled out before the douchebag who did it dumped her.”

  “So, you’re thinking she was killed somewhere else, then dumped. Possibly the grave was pre-dug. Which would make this premeditated.”

  “That’s for you and the DA to decide. So, here’s the final flourish. The knife work I call serial killer gibberish. He made those cuts in her breasts while she was still alive, but probably unconscious. No defensive wounds on her arms, no bruising, no blood or tissue under her nails. Wendy never saw it coming.”

  “Sick, sick, sick,” I said. “A fetish thing?”

  Cappy walked by, overheard me. Gave me a look, patted my shoulder. I nodded to him, then, stared down at my desk.

  Claire was saying, “Maybe, but I’m thinking he didn’t kill her for sexual pleasure.”

  “Because?”

  “She wasn’t raped. Still she was naked. I’m swabbing her neck, shoulders, face. See if that wretch left any DNA on her. Her blood’s on the way to the lab,” Claire said. “Where should I send the results and the autopsy report?”

  “Send it to Captain Brevoort, Marin County PD.”

  I thanked her and let her go back to her work. It was only three in the afternoon. I walked to the washroom, splashed my face with cold water, and stared at my reflection. I looked bad but I felt worse. I wanted to work this case, find Wendy Franks’s killer and put him where he could never hurt anyone again. There was no proof, but I also felt sure there was a connection between Wendy Franks and Lucas Burke.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I wanted to talk with Misty Fogarty, the girl with the long braid and blue-painted fingernails who had come to Burke’s office doorway while I was interviewing him on Tuesday afternoon.

  I called Cindy and sweetly asked for Misty’s phone number.

  “Why?” she said.

  “If I tell you, you’ll have to tell Richie, so just give me the number, hmmm, girl reporter? If it pans out, if I can tell you—”

  “If, if, if. I’ve heard this before. I must really love you.”

  She read out Misty’s number and blew me a kiss. After we hung up, I duly dialed it.

  Misty answered with a cheerful “This is Mis-teeee.”

  Luckily for me, the current headlines had zero impact on her yackety-yak personality, the kind detectives just love. She talked about herself and volunteered to meet me at a diner called the Comfy Corner at four.

  An hour from now.

  I called Joe and we exchanged brief news bulletins. Then I left a message for Brady. “Following up on a lead.” I threw on my jacket, waved good-bye to all the deskbound cops and Brenda, and then I left the building.

  Chapter 34

  I found Misty Fogarty waiting for me in a booth at the front of the diner.

  “Hiiii, Sergeant Boxer.”

  I slid into the banquette across from the eighteen-year-old high school student. She was pretty, a natural blonde, wearing the same blue-and-white school uniform I’d seen her wear three days ago. Her phone was on the table, faceup.

  “Misty. Nice of you to make time for me. I wonder if you can help me out. I’m trying to find Tara Burke.”

  “Oh. I thought you were going to tell me how Luke is doing. He hasn’t been at school for two whole days.”

  “We were holding him as a material witness but—”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s someone who may have direct knowledge of a crime.”

  “Like a suspect?”

  “No, no. More like he was the last one to see Tara and Lorrie, so we were keeping him safe and hoping he would have some ideas for us,” I soft-pedaled.

  “Bu
t he’s not in jail, anymore?”

  “He was released around lunchtime yesterday.”

  “Oh,” said Misty. She was visibly shaken. “He must be disoriented after being in jail, right? He’s very sensitive. But I guess . . . I guess you know that.”

  The waiter came by. Misty ordered green tea. I ordered coffee. Gave myself a little reminder. Make her your friend. Let her talk.

  “You’re close to Luke, huh?” I said.

  She nodded, wiped a tear away with a blue-tipped finger.

  “He’s wonderful. The best.”

  “In what way?”

  “The way he looks at me. Talks to me.”

  She shook her head and I felt a real meltdown coming.

  Misty said, “I know he’s married. I know that what I’m doing is wrong, but I love him so much. And now he’s all alone and I don’t know how to help him.”

  “It’s okay, Misty. He’s okay.”

  “I’m worried,” she said. “Whoever killed Lorrie and took Tara could have hurt him, too.”

  “When was the last time you and Luke were . . . alone?”

  “Sunday night. For a couple of hours.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “My car.”

  The beverages came. Misty poured her tea.

  “He should have called me,” she said. “Look.” Misty turned on her phone, started scrolling through her pictures, found the one she was looking for, and held up the phone for me to see.

  It was a selfie with cars whizzing past in the background, Misty and Lucas grinning in the foreground.

  “Can I see?” I said.

  She handed me the phone and I looked at the time stamp on the photo. It was dated Sunday at 8:13 p.m. I scrolled through the picture file, saw other pictures of Misty with her friends, and a few where she was with Burke, her face lit with love-light.

  I sugared my coffee, took a sip, commiserated with Misty about how much she missed Lucas, and then edged in some questions about Tara, asking Misty how well she knew her, if she had any theories about her disappearance or on Lorrie’s death.

  Her answers were long, discursive, and thoughtful. I couldn’t have been more interested.

  In sum, Tara was only two or three years older than Misty; they’d even overlapped at Sunset Park Prep for one year. She thought Tara was bratty and not very smart, but sexy and attractive to men.

  I said, “I heard that she might have a boyfriend. A boyfriend would be a good suspect.”

  “If Tara had a boyfriend everyone at Sunset Park Prep would know it,” Misty scoffed. “And Luke would have been justified in getting a divorce.”

  Misty leaned across the table and told me just above a whisper that Luke complained about Tara, said that she was whiny and cold. Misty said she wouldn’t be totally surprised if Tara had killed the baby just to hurt Lucas and then taken off, never to be seen again.

  I asked for and paid the check, gave Misty my card, and told her to call me anytime. “I’m here for you,” I said.

  She stood up to give me a hug.

  “I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

  I stood with her in the aisle at the front of the diner as other customers brushed past us.

  “Misty, what do you think you should do?” I asked her.

  “I should break up with him, right?”

  “If I was your friend or family member, I would say so.”

  She nodded, hugged me again, hard, and I hugged her back.

  I was only fifteen minutes from home, and as I drove, I thought about Misty with Lucas Burke, sneaking time with him in her car, the rest of the time on the sidelines.

  My own theory of the crime was starting to gel.

  Chapter 35

  It was the first calm moment of the day.

  I sat at the kitchen counter while Joe loaded the dishwasher and filled me in on the domestic tranquility on Lake Street.

  Julie was across the hall with Mrs. Rose, who was showing her how to make cookies. Martha was sleeping on the rug in our bedroom, one of her favorite places. As he talked, Joe brought me a slab of lasagna and a glass of Chianti and sat down at the counter beside me.

  This was as good as life got.

  I kicked off my shoes and asked my sweet husband to brainstorm with me about heinous bloody murder.

  With his decades of experience in America’s Secret Service, he was an excellent brainstormer, and he didn’t have to be sworn to secrecy. He also enjoyed it.

  He poured himself a glass of wine and we clinked glasses, said “Cheers” in unison, and I started talking.

  I recapped for Joe how Lucas Burke had resisted our search warrants, had sped away, and was currently missing. That DA Parisi was in an uproar, that Chief Clapper was facing media coverage and increasing the pressure on Lieutenant Brady, which didn’t solve anything.

  I went over discovery of the body of Wendy Franks, who was found murdered in McLaren Park, and how she was briefly misidentified as Tara Burke.

  “Possibly Franks’s death is unrelated. But my gut says otherwise.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me more.”

  I dug into the lasagna, which was hot and tasty. Joe made the best lasagna in the world, and I told him so.

  “Good. Thanks. So keep talking, Blondie. You have about ten minutes before this place fills up with Julie, Mrs. Rose, and a pan of cookies.”

  “A timeline is forming in my mind.”

  “Go.”

  “On Sunday night, before we’ve even heard of Lucas Burke, he nips out, and according to Misty has a ‘date’ with her in her car—then, fresh from his teenage rendezvous, he goes home. Tara lights into him the minute he walks in. The fight picks up again in the morning.”

  Joe nodded and I went on.

  “Burke leaves the house at seven thirty, we have that on video. He arrives at Sunset Park Prep on time. That’s been verified. Tara leaves soon after Burke with the baby and an overnight bag. Also on video.”

  “Where’s she going?”

  “Don’t know. No sign of her car or of her. When she walked out the door, her attitude tells me she’s defiant. Either she’s getting back at her cheating dog of a husband—‘You’re not the boss of me.’ Or meeting her rumored but not verified boyfriend. Or she’s taking the baby and running away from home. Or she’s doing all three. Giving her husband the finger and running away from home with her boyfriend. Any which way, she hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

  “Got it,” said Joe. “I’m with you so far.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So continuing the timeline. Same day, Tara’s mother, Kathleen Wyatt, breaks the glass on the fire alarm. She posts bloody murder on Cindy’s blog, calls Lucas Burke a killer, and storms Cindy’s office. Cindy gets me involved, and on Tuesday afternoon, I talk to Lucas about his still missing wife. He says, ‘She’s run away before. I destroyed her credit card. She’ll be back when she runs out of gas. There’s nothing to see here.’”

  Joe said, “Then Wednesday morning, his daughter washes up dead on the beach.”

  “Correct.”

  I checked my watch to be sure of the date.

  “Yes, that was Wednesday. Claire estimates that the baby had been dead for about thirty hours. Asphyxiation. The story is a media bomb, and still no sign of Tara.”

  “So, who killed Lorrie?” Joe asked.

  I slugged down some wine, pushed my plate to the side.

  “I feel strongly that Tara is dead, which means she can’t have killed Lorrie and skipped town. My sketchy theory? Lorrie and Tara are killed together by Tara’s unknown rumored boyfriend. Or—track me here. Lucas meets Tara somehow, somewhere, after classes on Monday. He tells her all about Misty, and when Tara goes off on him, he kills her and smothers the baby with his hand. He wants nothing to do with this family.”

  Joe was nodding, saying, “Yep, yep, yep,” so I kept going.

  “Burke tosses the baby into the ocean. Maybe he doesn’t expect her to wash up so quickly, to be identified so so
on. He takes longer to get rid of Tara. If I’m right that she’s dead, then I feel certain that when her body is found there will be marks on her body indicating murder.”

  Joe said, “As theories go, yours works for me. If he killed the baby, he’d have to kill Tara and vice versa. If he had killed them at home, you’d have evidence, so that speaks to luring Tara to some location, remote probably—”

  The doorknob turned and Martha got her old haunches under her and trotted to the foyer.

  “To be continued,” said Joe. He went to the door and a grinning Julie stepped in, Gloria Rose behind her holding a tray of chocolate-chip cookies that smelled a hundred percent delicious.

  “See the faces?” Julie said, pointing to how the chocolate chips formed smiles, frowns; some cookies looked like they were laughing and some seemed very stern. Cracked me up. I grabbed Martha’s collar and said to our lovely neighbor and nanny, “I’ll fire up a pot of decaf.”

  “I’m all coffeed out,” she said, “but dying to taste the cookies. Got milk?”

  “Pull up a stool,” Joe said.

  He and Julie slid the cookies onto a plate, and minutes later, Julie was telling us who all the faces were—a kind of chocolate-chip-cookie mug book: guy at the grocery store, lady with a cat on a leash, me, Joe, Gloria Rose, and Martha.

  “This is me,” Julie said. “No one can eat this one. Not even me.”

  It was hilarious, chocolate chips arrayed across the upper curve of the cookie standing in for her curls and a chippy smile from side to side.

  For an hour, I lost myself in family magic time. It was all delicious and I soaked it up. I might need to draw on the good feelings in the days to come if the horrible Burke case continued to be unsolved, devolving from horrible to cold.

  Chapter 36

  I came through the bullpen gate at eight on Saturday morning and headed straight into the break room.

  Rich Conklin got up and followed me in, watched me vigorously clean out the coffee maker, refill the tank and the filter, tap the brew button with a vengeance.