21st Birthday

by James Patterson

  I was ready. We all were.

  “Who did this to Misty?”

  Brady said, “Where’ve you been, Mr. Burke? Let’s start with the last time we saw you, driving north on Dublin Street two days ago at about noon. Don’t leave anything out.”

  I took notes as Burke described speeding away from his house, not hiding his fury that in addition to the blow he’d taken over the death of his child and the insult of being locked up as a material witness, he’d been forced to leave his house so the cops could rummage through his belongings.

  “Find anything incriminating?” he shouted across the table. “Find any evidence?”

  “Where did you go after you left your house?” I said calmly.

  “Alex, my ex, called me when she heard about Lorrie. We’re still friends.”

  He told us that Conroy lived in Sacramento, so he drove up there. He spent the night. She suggested they get away from everything, go to a resort in Carmel-by-the-Sea.

  It was a few hours’ drive. They stayed in a suite with a balcony overlooking the pool. They drank a lot, slept by the pool, and Burke checked his phone all day and night hoping that Tara would call.

  “I thought she would call, and I would answer the phone and hear her crying,” said Burke. “I knew I could calm her down and get her to tell me where she was. Arrange somehow to get to her. And then, I would demand to know what the hell happened to Lorrie.”

  He covered his face with his hands. Tears fell but Brady wasn’t moved. He pushed, jabbed, prodded, and alternated his questions and demands.

  “Burke, you have very limited options. This girl that was murdered? Fogarty? She was your girlfriend, isn’t that right? Boxer? Jump in.”

  “It was common knowledge,” I said, “and she told me all about your relationship. Where you met. What you said. We have a note. You promising to marry her. She was expecting to see you the same day we released you.”

  “I didn’t make a plan to see her.”

  “She was disappointed, heartsick, worried about you. She wanted to comfort you.”

  “Stop. Please, stop. What you’re doing is criminal.”

  “She died a horrible death,” I said.

  “I loved Misty. Someone is killing people I love! Don’t you see that? I wish I were dead, too.”

  Brady didn’t care what Burke said. “Just the facts, man. Tara’s mother calls Sergeant Boxer a half dozen times a day. She hasn’t heard from Tara. Where is she? You went to Carmel while your baby was dead and your wife was missing? What kind of husband does that? I need your check-in times. Will anyone at the resort remember you? Where did y’all eat? I need all your credit card receipts. All of them. We need a cheek swab. Why? Because you want to get off the suspect list. Yours is the only name on it.

  “Open your wallet and take out any receipts or reservation confirmations,” Brady continued. “Give me your phone now. Don’t give me reasons to arrest you for murder.”

  Burke said, “Alex paid for the hotel. I paid for the gas. We split the meals.”

  He laid out his cards, handed his phone to Brady. Brady opened the phone’s photo folder and held it so I could see it, too. He scrolled, stopping at the pictures of Tara, Tara and Lorrie, both together with Burke.

  “And the folder where you hide photos of Misty?” I asked.

  He showed us that, too.

  Brady said, “I’m keeping all of this for now.” He pushed a pad and pen over to Burke. “Write down your movements since Thursday afternoon. That’s what we call a statement.”

  Burke snorted in disbelief.

  “Don’t try to leave the room, Mr. Burke. I have officers outside the door who will take you down and then we’ll arrest you. Boxer, I need you.”

  I got up and followed him out of the room.

  Chapter 42

  Lieutenant Jackson Brady and I entered the small observation room situated between the interview rooms and with windows on each.

  Clapper, Yuki, and Homicide inspectors Michaels and Wang had been watching the interrogations of both Burke and Conroy.

  I edged over to Yuki and asked her, “Thoughts?”

  “Conroy is smooth,” she said. “Unruffled by the interrogation and she gave similar or identical answers to the questions you and Brady asked Burke within a normal margin for error.”

  I nodded and stood with her and watched as Conroy responded to Chi’s questions in an even tone of voice. The word “buttery” came to mind.

  As a detective, Chi is like ground-penetrating radar. He can see things that the rest of us miss, while Cappy has a knack for blending in with his surroundings. Like a snow fox. Or a water snake. His pointed questions sound innocuous and the subjects answer willingly. He has a gift.

  Chi asked, “What was your room number?”

  “Three seventeen. No. Three nineteen.” Same as what Burke had told us.

  “Who paid?”

  “I did. Lucas needed a break.”

  Cappy said, “Not best of circumstances for a holiday, though, was it?”

  “No,” said Conroy, getting out her phone to show pictures of Burke with Conroy. Beachy pictures. Selfies by the pool. Views of the ocean. Burke wasn’t smiling in any of them. “Luke was grief-stricken about LuLu.”

  “LuLu?”

  “Lorrie’s nickname.”

  I stood at Brady’s shoulder as he texted Chi, telling him to keep going and when he ran out of questions to hand Conroy off to ADA Castellano.

  Chi asked Conroy, “What did Lucas tell you about Tara?”

  Conroy said with some feeling that Burke was still convinced that Tara was alive. “He told me that Tara was either guilt-ridden and in hiding or with some guy.”

  I was no longer convinced we would find Tara Wyatt Burke alive.

  “I’m going in,” I said to Brady.

  He nodded and I knocked on the door, then opened it.

  “Chi, Cappy, Ms. Conroy. I have a couple of questions.”

  Chi and Cappy invited me in.

  I turned to Conroy. “These are a little personal, but they won’t go beyond this room,” I lied.

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  “Was Lucas ever abusive during your marriage?”

  “You mean did he beat me?”

  “Anything that comes to you when I say ‘abusive.’”

  “Huh. Well. To be honest. He had a temper. That’s why I divorced him three years ago. But I swear—do you have a Bible? Okay, well, on my word—the worst he’d do was, he would yell. Grab my arm once in a while, twist it. He could say mean things. He scared me. We were both pretty young when we married. I didn’t understand it. My father was a gentle soul. Luke was rough. But he never broke a bone or threatened me with a weapon, if that’s where you’re going. He was from a neighborhood where there was fighting. Now, he says please and thank you and never lifts a hand in anger. He’s matured.”

  I thought otherwise, but said, “Did you ever meet Tara?”

  “No. But I sent them a wedding present and a baby present, too. And no, I never met LuLu, either.”

  “What did you get for Lorrie?”

  “A bouncer. From their wish list online.”

  “And, normally, how often are you in contact with your ex-husband?”

  “I’d say every few weeks. We email when there’s big news. Good news. Disappointments. But apart from these past two days, I last saw him in person at the funeral of a mutual friend, maybe two years ago.”

  I asked if we had her contact info and she said she’d given it to Sergeant Chi.

  I said, “Thanks for your time.”

  Cappy followed me out. “Take it for what it’s worth,” he said. “She said there weren’t no dirty dancing on their trip. Burke just talked, drank, cried, passed out.”

  Brady and Yuki were waiting for me in the hallway.

  The boss asked, “What did y’all think?”

  “She’s an innocent bystander,” I said.

  Yuki said, “I’m with Lindsay
. I’ll get their receipts checked out, but their stories were consistent enough. Then we’ll see if we’re arresting Burke—or kicking him.”

  Belief and doubt were still trading punches in my mind.

  We needed a confession. A witness. Tangible evidence.

  I stopped to get coffee, and once back at my desk I saw CSI director Hallows in Brady’s office. The two men were in deep conversation. When Brady saw me, he waved me in.

  He said, “Hallows has the surveillance footage from Sunset Park Prep’s parking lot from Fogarty’s murder. He thinks he’s got something.”

  Chapter 43

  Around midafternoon, our task force gathered at the far end of our floor in a vacant corner office that used to belong to Lieutenant Ted Swanson before he went to prison.

  Brady and I tacked pictures up on the cork board—Tara and Lucas Burke, plus morgue photos of Lorrie Burke, Wendy Franks, and Melissa Fogarty.

  Hallows set up his laptop on the table, the team assembled around, and Brady stood at the head.

  Brady said, “I don’t know if Lucas Burke is the doer, if he hired a hitter, is deeply unlucky, or if he’s so psychotic and freaking smart he leaves no trace.

  “But this much we do know.” Brady read from his phone. “From Captain Geoffrey Brevoort, Marin PD. Quote, ‘We’ve tossed Wendy Franks’s life. Such as it was. She was an isolate. A painter. Had two friends, neither of whom had ever heard of Lucas Burke. According to the friends, Wendy liked girls and was still getting over a breakup. She took her Sea Ray out in the harbor alone, and only saw her friends occasionally.’”

  I said, “Burke said he never heard of her either.”

  “Okay,” said Brady. “Pin a red flag on it, anyway. Conklin, you’re up.”

  Conklin checked his notes. “By the time Alvarez and I got to the scene, Fogarty’s body was in the ME van, but we spent hours with her SUV. She bled out in the driver’s seat. The only sign of a struggle was she’d kicked off her shoes and left some fingernail marks in the dash. Her handbag was in the passenger side foot well with her wallet intact, and the keys were in the ignition.”

  Alvarez stood up. “Misty’s phone was far back under the driver’s seat. I went through her messages from the last few days, and particularly from last night. Around seven. Melissa texts to a burner phone, ‘I have to see you.’ Gets a return text. ‘Be there at eight, don’t be late.’ Why was she texting Burke on a burner? To keep their plans a secret? Or was she being tricked by someone—not Burke—who lured her in?”

  Alvarez sat down.

  I said, “I viewed Fogarty’s body pre-autopsy. As Dr. Washburn said, her throat was slashed from behind, ear to ear. What puzzles me are the seemingly random gashes on her upper breasts, same as with Franks. I don’t see a pattern in these nonfatal wounds. It’s like he’s doodling, or drawing out the contact with the victim.”

  I picked up the pointer and aimed it at the morgue shots tacked on the board, running laser circles around the gashes; ten on Franks, seven on Fogarty.

  “Clue anyone?”

  “He’s trying to throw us off with bullshit,” said Cappy.

  “I’ll take another run through ViCAP.”

  Yuki stood up and said, “I got a warrant to go through Burke’s financials. This is a three-day job, but I sucked in some volunteers in my office with free eats. We processed the last three months of Burke’s credit-card statements, including his gas and supermarket cards, and found no red flags. He banks at SunTrust and B of A. No big transfers of money occurred, just car payments and mortgage and day-to-day expenses. He may have another bank or cash on hand, but his personal finances look clean.”

  Chi stood, shot his cuffs, lined up index cards on the table; his talking points. Then, he recapped the interview with Alex Conroy.

  “Conroy’s stated whereabouts have been confirmed with receipts and video and selfies and corroboration from two hotel desk managers. I sent photos. They verified that Conroy and Burke checked out per their statements. We can’t find any holes in her story. I’m not going to lie. If Burke’s a killer, he’s neat. Too neat. This worries the hell outta me.”

  Clapper walked in and said to Chi, “What in particular worries you?”

  “That Burke is either a high-genius psycho or that someone else, a different high-genius psycho, is manipulating this case.”

  “If you had to pick A or B?” said Clapper.

  “I’d flip a coin,” said Chi.

  Clapper sighed and leaned up against the wall.

  Brady said, “Boxer. Flip the coin.”

  I folded my hands on the table and boiled down my impressions of Burke today; his appearance, attitude, fury over Fogarty’s death, and his willingness to cooperate.

  “He says he’s being framed. If he’s acting, he’s unbelievable. Outraged. Crying and spitting mad. And we don’t have one damned fingerprint. He’s not in custody, but Red Dog is sitting on him—”

  Yuki laughed and several people couldn’t help but join in. Parisi weighs three hundred pounds.

  But the laughter faded fast under Clapper’s cold eyes.

  I picked up where I’d left off.

  “Say Burke did it. What’s his motive? Why kill his own child? How does Wendy Franks fit in? Why bury people in his own backyard? Where’s Tara? Is she behind all of this? How? Why? When I flip the coin, it comes up tails. Burke’s being framed.”

  Clapper said, “My coin comes up tails, too. As my father used to say, ‘With one arse, you can’t be at two weddings.’ If Burke was in Carmel, he didn’t kill Fogarty. But I’m betting that Fogarty’s killer, that evil shit, is on video.

  “Hallows, over to you.”

  Chapter 44

  Brady cut the lights and closed the blinds.

  Gene Hallows said, “Here we go, pards, this is Sunset Park Prep’s parking lot last night before the incident.”

  As expected, the quality of the video was poor; it was grainy, badly lit, and due to the long, dark distance from the camera to the closest of the buildings, unfocused.

  Two cars were parked within the grid of painted yellow lines on the asphalt, the license plates barely legible. Chain-link fencing surrounded the lot. The school’s field house stood in the middle distance, one large tree just outside the fence on the lot’s east side.

  Hallows said, “I watched seven hours of this video on fast forward. The camera is mounted on a light pole with a ninety-degree angle centered on the footpath that leads from the south end of the lot to the field house. By four o’ clock, school had let out and apart from those two cars, the lot was deserted. No one got into or out of those cars. I made a clip that runs from just before Misty arrives four hours later, at five to eight, until ten minutes after.

  “You’ll note when Misty arrives, she had an electronic gizmo that opens the school lot’s gate.

  “I did find another camera aimed at the gate, but it’s broken and has been for a long time.

  “Now, all registered drivers at Sunset Park Prep have an electronic key to that gate behind the camera. Mostly, the key holders are teachers, but also some members of the senior class. Most people park as close as possible to the footpath entrance to the campus. The exception to that is Misty Fogarty. She parks barely within camera range on the east side, under this tree.”

  I said, “Misty wanted privacy. She planned to break up with Burke.”

  “Okay, so that was the plan, right?” said Hallows. “Okay, here she comes. She opens the gate, now she is inside and circling the lot, first going straight in the direction of the field house, turning, giving us a good look at her license plate. That is her car and her plate.”

  “Midnight blue Outback,” said Conklin. “I know this car inside and out.”

  “Okay, then,” said Hallows. “Here, Misty parks under the tree, turns off her lights, gets out of the car. Paces a little bit. Looks at her iPhone, and we know she sends a text at eight on the nose.”

  “We’re about to watch her final moments. That make
s me sick,” I said.

  “Take deep breaths,” said Brady.

  Hallows said, “Hold your horses, friends. It’s going to get worse. Here, Misty is looking toward the main gate. The person she’s waiting for is approaching on foot from that direction. There is no sign of a vehicle.”

  “Silver Audi would be nice,” said Cappy.

  Alvarez said, “Could he have jumped the fence?”

  Hallows said, “Some of you could get over it, some couldn’t.” He paused the video and pointed at the screen.

  “No car,” Hallows said. “But here’s the psycho killer. Looks to be a male dressed all in black, sports jacket over a black T-shirt and black jeans, black shoes. A knit cap covers his ears. He walks along the fence where we just about can see him, but no matter how I fiddled with the software, I cannot make out his face. He keeps his head down. He knows about the camera. Given the height of the chain-link fence, this guy is approximately five eleven. That’s all I can glean.”

  Hallows restarted the video. “The killer and Misty are having a discussion, looks like,” Hallows said, “but she doesn’t act like she wants anything to do with him.”

  “Know how it looks to me? She was waiting for someone else,” said Brady. “She was waiting for Burke.”

  I wrapped the table with my knuckles twice in agreement.

  Hallows said, “I just look at the tape.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Conklin.

  Next to Clapper, Hallows was the best CSI around. We were all eager to hear his take.

  Hallows said, “There’s Misty getting back into her car, turns on her lights, backs up, and turns the car so she’s facing the exit. Too bad the light nearly blinds the camera. Looks like she’d just put the car in gear when the back door opens and this character gets in. Just slides into the back seat and closes the door. He’s sitting behind her when he attacks. The evidence bears that out.

  “A few seconds pass,” said Hallows. “If I get to make up the script, she’s telling him to get out of the car. I see shadowy movement inside that I can’t make out. Looks like she’s pulling away from him, but she doesn’t get the door open.”