21st Birthday

by James Patterson

“Mommy. Lookit this!”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s from Franny!”

  “Oh, wow, honey. That’s so cool.”

  Franny is Francesca, Joe’s adult daughter from his first marriage. She lives in Rome, and after her mother died recently, she came here to see Joe, and to meet her little half sister, Julie. Big surprise to us all, but a good one.

  My little girl showed me the envelope with her name and address printed in blue. When I took a closer look at the card, I saw a few Italian words between the bands of the rainbow.

  “Can you read this, Mommy?”

  “It says…Ciao Bella.”

  She said “Ciao Bella” along with me and I had to laugh. I said, “It means, ‘Hello, pretty.’ Sweet, huh?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  They’d had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, a favorite meal at the Molinari household. Now Daddy needed some computer time, so after I showered and dressed in pajamas, I snuggled up with my little kiddo, a glass of Chardonnay, and a pint of pralines and cream and we watched a sitcom on TV.

  I sneaked looks at her, wondering at her innocence and easy laughter, trying to remember if I had been like Julie when I was her age. Nothing came to me. By the first commercial break her eyelids closed, and I whispered, “Time for bed, Julie Bugs.”

  She yawned and put her arms around my neck and I carried my nearly four-year-old to her bed. She wanted water, but by the time I returned she was asleep, breathing deeply under the stars and moon mobile hanging over her big-girl bed.

  I found Joe in the kitchen with his hands in dishwater. I grabbed a towel.

  He shot me a concerned look. “Start talking, Blondie.”

  “Grrr. Must I?”

  “You know you want to.”

  “Ohhh-kay. Clapper told me to stay out of the Burke case but I decided to go interview Lucas Burke by myself. Kept Richie out of it, which, as we all know, shows consciousness of guilt.”

  He handed me a wet dish. “How’d it turn out?”

  “Nothing to show for it. Burke plausibly denied having anything to do with his missing wife and child.”

  “He has an alibi?”

  “Said he was on time for class the day she disappeared. That may be true but doesn’t account for the night before. What he says is that in the morning, they had a fight about money. He destroyed her credit card. He left for school, and his theory is that Tara looted the safe, took the baby, and drove off to piss him off. He says she’ll be home when she runs out of cash.”

  “He didn’t express concern about the baby?”

  “Not so you could tell. According to Cindy, Burke has a girlfriend.”

  “Motive enough for some men to off their wives.”

  “Yup. And I would like to get into this for real. I’d like to interview the girlfriend. But. It’s not my case, says Clapper in an uncharacteristically stern tone of voice.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Joe asked.

  “What would you do?”

  “I asked first.”

  I sighed as I dried and put away the last of the dishes. Then I said, “I’ll write up my interview notes, tell Clapper what I did, say ‘sorry,’ and make a case for him not to treat me like a rookie. I mean, come on. I ran Homicide not too long ago. I’ve closed more cases than…than anyone.”

  “That I know, Blondie. I hope he’s secure enough in his new job to cut you some slack.”

  “Cindy’s running photos of Tara and Lorrie Burke online tonight and in the morning print edition—”

  “It’s already on the tube,” said Joe. “I had to change the channel so ‘big eyes’ didn’t see it.”

  “Hunh. Well. Maybe Tara Burke will see it and step forward. That would be a happy conclusion, and would get me off the hook with Clapper. Oh, man, if only Tara phoned in. Or someone else with a tip leading to her and the baby. Or even a credible sighting, confirmation that they were still alive.”

  Joe said, “Either way, I think you’re covered.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I emptied the remains of the Chardonnay into my glass and drank it all down.

  Chapter 14

  I was at my desk by 7:30 a.m., the third time this week, and it was only Wednesday.

  The message light on my phone console was blinking impatiently. Cindy had warned me that her story about the missing Burkes with the headlined reward was going to set our hotline on fire. But I had a hunch that this call was something different.

  I picked up the receiver and stabbed the red button. As I’d thought, the message was from Charlie Clapper, chief of police.

  “Boxer, it’s Clapper. Call me when you get this.”

  Sometimes I just hate to be right.

  Conklin wasn’t in yet because, unlike me, or any parent, he could still get seven hours of sleep. I looked around the squad room. Brady’s office was dark. Paul Chi came in, threw his coat over his chair, and waved hello as he passed my desk on his way to the break room.

  I followed Chi and stood by as he filled the coffeepot.

  He asked, “How ya’ doing, Boxer?”

  “Five on a scale of ten.”

  “Sometimes I wish for a five,” he said. “I’m getting arthritis in my right shoulder.”

  “Sorry, Paul.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. I need to take some Advil, which I’m gonna take with the coffee. What’s it going to take to get you up to a seven?”

  “You’ve seen the news?” I said.

  “Yeah. If Tara Burke has hit the road with her baby, I hope she’s in Canada.”

  Someone on the night shift had stuck the morning paper on top of the microwave. I grabbed it and read the front page. Missing. REWARD FOR INFORMATION.

  The subhead was 25k Reward for Information leading to return of Tara Wyatt Burke and her baby daughter.

  I looked again at the photo but didn’t bother to read the article. I knew it by heart, both sides of the story. I poured myself a cup of hot java, took my mug back to my desk, and called Clapper.

  “Chief, it’s Boxer.”

  He didn’t bother to say hello.

  He said, “I just got off the phone with Tom Murry. He says you interviewed Lucas Burke. I don’t see a report from you. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. Murry asked me to help.”

  “That meant he was looking to you for support, not inviting you to take over his case.”

  This was really killing me. I’ve had nothing but an excellent relationship with Clapper since my first days in Homicide. I knew him. I liked him. I admired him. Sometimes I thought of him as family.

  “Charlie, I was wrong to do it. Sorry. But there’s a baby missing. A baby.”

  “Stop right there, Boxer. You have probable cause?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Charlie. I mean, chief. Why do you want to bust my chops—”

  “We have eyes on Burke. I hope to God you didn’t crowd him into making a move we’re all going to regret.”

  He hung up on me.

  Conklin pulled out his chair and sat down across from me. “What the hell was that?”

  “That was Clapper handing my ass to me. You’ve never heard me say this before, Rich, but I don’t know if I can work like this. I don’t know if I can stay in this job.”

  Chapter 15

  I reached for my coffee but hit the mug and knocked it over. A small lake of black coffee spread across my desk and cascaded onto Richie’s desk as well.

  Chi dropped off a roll of paper towels, and Rich and I had the spill mostly contained when I heard my name.

  It was Brady, and he was standing right there.

  The look on his face was terrible; eyes scrunched up, mouth turned down. He looked like he was in pain. I didn’t need a hunch. It was obvious Clapper had called him and I was about to be disciplined. I was ready.

  “I can’t believe I did this—” I sputtered.

  Brady said, “A red-haired baby girl, tentatively identified as Lorrie Burke, has washed up on Baker Beach.” />
  My thoughts scrambled. I had thought I’d be prepared for this, but it was too much, too fast.

  Brady continued, “Uniforms at the scene say the body is waterlogged. That’ll have to be confirmed. The ME has been called.”

  My hands were shaking as I dropped coffee-drenched paper towels into the trash can.

  I asked Brady, “So you’re thinking she’s been dead for a day or two?”

  “I’m not calling it, but that’s prob’ly right.”

  “Any sign of Tara?” Conklin asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Clapper knows?” I said.

  “I just told him.”

  I said, “I spoke to Lucas Burke in his office yesterday. I’ve got notes and was just going to work up a report.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He seemed pissed off at Tara but not worried or too calm.”

  Brady nodded, said, “Undercovers are watching Burke in case he runs. I’ll see you at Baker Beach.”

  Brady took a call and turned away from us. He was walking back to his office when Conklin said, “Lindsay. Let’s go.”

  I nodded, glanced back at the mess on our desks, and grabbed my jacket. I did a quick inventory to make sure I had my badge, my phone, my gun.

  Conklin watched me with concern in his eyes. He wasn’t going to say, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Instead, he put his hand on my back and guided me toward the door.

  “I’ll drive,” he said.

  No objection from me.

  Chapter 16

  Thirty minutes after speaking with Brady, Conklin and I arrived at Baker Beach, a curving acre of sand on the Pacific Coast with the Golden Gate Bridge to the east rising into the morning sky.

  The night shift had taped off the parking lot, excluding all but law-enforcement vehicles. I badged the uniform at the cordon. Richie parked the car. I turned off the radio and got slowly out of the car.

  Vehicles are not allowed on the beach, but in this case, Claire’s team had bypassed the beach ban on vehicles and driven across the sand to the horseshoe of yellow tape, the primary perimeter that took in a section of beach around the victim at the water’s edge.

  I saw the stoop-shouldered form of Gene Hallows, Crime Lab Director and Clapper’s new head of Forensics, standing just outside the tape watching his team take photos, sketch the location, but that’s all of the crime scene they’d be processing. No footprints. No car tracks. No other body in the surf.

  Four detectives from Northern Station interviewed the growing crowd of surfers and beachcombers and early-morning nudists in the parking lot, towels around their waists. The detectives would be asking people for any information they might have about anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

  Good luck with that.

  The baby could have been dumped into the water anywhere along South Bay.

  Lieutenant Tom Murry came over to me and unofficially passed the baton from Missing Persons to Homicide.

  He said, “Freakin’ tragedy. I’ve sent my preliminary report to the chief and copied Brady. We’ll keep searching for the child’s mother.”

  I mumbled something like “Monstrous. Keep in touch”—and just then Brady pulled into the lot next to an unmarked police vehicle. Probably Clapper’s ride. I saw him crossing the beach below, walking toward Hallows and the CSIs.

  Richie and I headed out, crossing the asphalt and walking down a path to the primary scene.

  Claire was hunkered down near the body but not touching her. Her techs stood by their vehicle, each holding something; a sheet, a body bag; two of the techs had a stretcher.

  Claire was waiting for us to view the body in situ and then she’d take the deceased to the morgue.

  Rich headed for the tape and I stood watching the little girl’s red hair moving with the action of the surf.

  Claire stood up. Of all days to return to a job she loved, her first case was a young child. The grief I felt for a baby I had never known was mirrored in Claire’s face.

  I reached for Claire and we went into each other’s arms.

  There would be no happy ending for this dead child. All we could hope for were answers to how, why, and who had ended her precious life.

  Chapter 17

  I stood with Conklin and Hallows outside the barrier tape, only yards from the shoreline where the little girl was in danger of being reclaimed by the tide.

  A clean white sheet had been laid out above the waterline, and as I watched the almost living surf bathe the little girl, Clapper broke away from the crowd of CSIs and waded into the water and lifted the child’s body out of the ocean.

  He walked a dozen yards up the sand and gently placed the little girl on the clean white sheet. If there was any doubt in my mind that this was the same Lorrie Burke I’d seen in the photo Kathleen Wyatt had shown us, it was gone.

  Clapper stepped back to let the CSIs take more photos.

  He glanced at me and said, “Boxer. You’ve got your case.”

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “Brady’s here, on his way down.”

  I looked up and saw Brady making his way along the path to the beach. A few yards away from where I stood, Bunny Ellis, Claire’s lab assistant, folded the sheet around the child, left side, right side, tucked up over her feet, then turned down over her face.

  Hallows unzipped the size small body bag and laid it down next to the sheet. Claire picked up the shrouded body, laid it inside the body bag, and Hallows zipped it, then carried the dead girl’s body to the rear doors of the ME’s van.

  These were solemn moments. No one spoke. Even the people watching from the parking lot up on the bluff were quiet—and then a scream shattered the silence, a woman crying out, “L-orrrrr—eeee!”

  I looked up toward the parking lot, flicking my gaze over the bystanders. Then I saw her.

  Kathleen Wyatt was wearing a blue sweatshirt, a black watch cap, leggings. Even from where I stood a hundred yards away, I could see the anguish on her face.

  I started running across the beach, taking the upward path to the parking lot, and Kathleen started running to me. Kathleen was only a few yards away from me. I called her. I meant to comfort her, to let her know that I would tell her everything I learned, as soon as I could. But I didn’t get the chance. The doors to the ME’s van had closed, and it started up the service road used by the park employee vehicles.

  Kathleen evaded me and ran in front of the van. The van squealed to a stop and Wyatt went to the rear and banged on the doors, calling her granddaughter’s name.

  I pulled her away from the van. Much stronger than Kathleen, I was able to hold her and signal the driver to go.

  “I can’t leave her alone!” Kathleen wailed. “I have to stay with her!”

  “Kathleen, Kathleen,” I said, spinning her around so that she was facing me. She looked so stunned, I wasn’t sure that she was actually seeing me.

  “Kathleen, the medical examiner is one of my best friends. Dr. Washburn is a great woman. She has three kids including a young daughter. Lorrie will be in the best of hands. If we’re going to find out who did this to her, we have to know everything we can about her death.”

  The word “death” was too much. I understood that she couldn’t yet absorb the truth.

  I said, “Kathleen, I’m the lead investigator on Lorrie’s case. I’m going to find out what happened, and I hope to God that we can find Tara alive.”

  As I held on to the sobbing woman, I wondered, where the hell was Tara Burke? I knew little about her. According to her husband, Tara was off her meds, crazed, and had run away with the baby before. According to her mother, Tara had married a bad man. He was unfaithful, and brutal to her and to the child. That he had a girlfriend had been validated, as had his temper, seen in small explosions with strangers. Had Tara actually killed her child? Or had Lucas killed his daughter—and maybe his wife as well?

  I was still holding Kathleen, and had cued up the words “I’m g
oing to let you go now. Don’t run.” But I was stopped by the sound of a racing car motor. I looked up the bluff and saw a silver Audi skid to a halt on the side of the road. A man got out of the driver’s side and began gesticulating to the uniformed cop blocking his way.

  I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew him.

  Lucas Burke.

  Chapter 18

  The sight of Lorrie Burke lying dead at the water’s edge had infuriated me.

  Someone had maliciously killed that helpless little girl, and I was outraged—but I couldn’t show it. When I saw Lucas Burke, our number one and only suspect, arguing with a cop in the parking lot, I wanted to throw him down and arrest him.

  But I couldn’t and didn’t.

  I kept my grip on Kathleen’s biceps as I looked around for my partner, Conklin. Then I saw him far down the beach, conferring with Clapper and Hallows, the three facing the ocean. Clapper was making circular hand motions, no doubt describing the tidal patterns.

  Lucas spotted me and called down from the parking area.

  Still holding Kathleen by the arm, I turned to look at him. He’d made a megaphone with his hands.

  “Sergeant! Is it Lorrie? No one will tell me! This is insane!”

  I shouted back, “Hang on! I’m coming up.”

  Kathleen and I were alone on that footpath. I didn’t want to bring her into proximity to her son-in-law and maybe set off a confrontation. Turning to face her, I said, “Kathleen. Wait for me here. I’ll be right back.”

  I had a plan.

  I’d get a couple of uniforms to drive her home, and two more would take Lucas to the Hall and hold him until Conklin and I could settle him in the box with a cup of coffee and sweat him until he gave up everything.

  My big idea fell apart instantly.

  Kathleen jerked away from me and ran up the footpath to the parking lot. She was fast, even at a forty-five-degree uphill sprint on sand. She ducked under the tape, raging, screaming accusations at Lucas. She reached him before I could catch up.

  The lot was still filled with sightseers who backed away from Kathleen as she closed in on her son-in-law, cursing him for killing her granddaughter. There was zero proof of this, but it didn’t matter to her. She had all the evidence she needed inside her grieving heart.