21st Birthday Patterson, James (surface ebook reader txt) 📖

last seen alive with her twenty-year-old mother, Tara Burke, forty-eight hours ago.

“I believe the man just beyond the police tape wearing the herringbone jacket is Lucas Burke, Lorrie’s father,” Cindy said.

The crush of media bumped into Samuels, repeatedly jostling the camera lens. When it steadied, the angle was on Cindy’s profile as she called out to Lucas Burke, who was visibly injured. Broken nose?

“Mr. Burke, Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Has the identity of the child —”

“I haven’t seen her,” Lucas replied.

Samuels had zoomed in on Burke, capturing the bloodied nose, the cheeks slick with tears. And he got the background sounds: police ordering the gathering crowd to stand clear of the tape; competing car horns; the squawking of seabirds protesting the intrusion. Sirens wailing as more law-enforcement vehicles streamed up the road, braked outside the tape, and were then admitted to the parking area.

Cindy heard Howard Bronfman from the Examiner shout, “Who found the child?”

“Someone taking a walk,” Burke said. “That’s all I know.”

The background sounds continued as Lieutenant Brady, the senior officer at the scene, appeared. Samuels had closed in on Brady. He’d been scowling, authoritative, but his slight southern drawl softened his speech. He gave the predictable “no comment at this time” statement, then told all bystanders to clear the road.

Samuels said to Tyler, “I was getting ready to shut down the camera, but Cindy saw Sergeant Boxer walk Burke to this car over here.” He pointed to the figures at the top right of the screen. “So, I got this closing shot.”

On the video, Burke got into the passenger side door of a late model Audi sedan. Boxer went around to the driver’s side, stood outside the door, speaking into her phone with her head down. She tipped her chin up in greeting to Cindy, then disappeared into the car, which headed north on Beach Road.

“Nice,” Tyler said.

He watched the last section of the video. Cindy stood in a secluded spot with the ocean and the silhouette of the bridge at her back. She brought the viewers up to date on the story as she knew it, adding, “Tara Burke has not been seen or heard from since Monday morning when her husband left for work. If anyone has seen Tara Burke or knows of her whereabouts, please contact this paper and the SFPD hotline.

“All calls will be kept confidential.”

Phone numbers appeared on a black screen and then faded out.

Tyler said to Cindy and Samuels, “Well done, both of you. Cindy, write it up and we’ll get it on the front page. Samuels, I want to see two or three compelling images to accompany the story. I’ll choose one. Upload the video to our YouTube channel and have promo send it to the network affiliates.”

“Can and will do,” said Samuels. “Give me ten minutes.”

He left in a hurry.

“So what do you think happened?” Henry Tyler asked Cindy. “Did the mother do this? Or was it the father? Or some random maniac who didn’t even know them?”

Cindy had a strong feeling that the death of Lorrie Burke was going to be a big story, whoever had killed her. She remembered awful crimes that appeared to be like this one, unjustified killings of small children by one parent who’d snapped. Or worse, had made plans to kill the child or children because of mental illness, psychopathy, desire to send the child to God, where the precious one would be safe from earthly harm. Or just because being a parent was too damned much trouble.

“God willing,” she replied to Tyler, “whoever did this will be caught, tried, and locked up in a cell the size of walnut shell for life.”

CHAPTER 21

I HAVE A CLEAR VIEW from my desk of everything in the bullpen, including Brady’s office and the front entrance.

Brady and Clapper stood together just outside the doorway, speaking too softly for me to hear.

Something had happened. I was sure of it.

I heard Clapper say, “You’ll take care of it?”

After Brady nodded, the chief headed upstairs to what I still thought of as Jacobi’s office. Brady came through the gate, stopped at Brenda’s desk, picked up Wednesday-morning messages and mail, then came over to me.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

I nodded and directed his attention to the TV on the wall overhead. “You’re on the tube.”

Brady sat down in Conklin’s chair, swiveled it, and tilted it back so he could see the TV on the wall overhead. He punched up the sound, watched himself telling the media gaggle that he had no information for them at this time.

“I look awful,” he said.

He did. There were sweat stains under his arms, sleep in the corners of his eyes, and his hair was mussed, not throwing off its customary platinum sheen. But mostly, he looked depressed. Brady picked up the remote, muted the sound, and asked me where Conklin was.

“Burke had to clean himself up. Conklin’s getting him a clean T-shirt.”

Brady picked up Conklin’s desk phone and called Brenda.

“Brenda, when you see Conklin, call me,” Brady said.

To me he said, “Come on back to the executive suite.”

“Sure.”

I followed Brady along the center aisle of the empty bullpen to the lieutenant’s glass-walled bread box of an office at the bullpen’s rear corner with its dingy view of the elevated free-way. This office used to be mine, but I’d been glad to give it up and everything that came with it. I’ve never regretted that decision.

Brady opened a desk drawer and slid a pile of yellow legal pads off the desktop into the drawer. He inserted a flash drive into his computer, no doubt photos of the crime scene, then folded his hands on his desk.

What had I done now? We had Burke in custody. Claire was doing her workup on the victim. Parisi was getting warrants so we could search Burke’s house and car and grab his computer while we were at it. I’d started writing up our reports, and I’d