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

My hand was shaking as I took a picture with my phone and walked around the car to show it to Brady.

A CSI said, “’Scuse us, lieutenant. We’re going to wrap the car with the body inside. Take it all back to the lab.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” said Brady. “Good catch, Boxer. I say we leave this to Hallows and his crew. We’ll go wake up Burke and take him in. Time and tide wait for no man.”

“What was that?”

“Chaucer. I took English lit, too. It means ‘Let’s git.’”

CHAPTER 51

I TROTTED BEHIND BRADY up the stairs to his vehicle in the parking area. He opened the door, grabbed the mic, and requested backup to Burke’s address.

“Three patrol cars. Code two,” he said.

Urgent, no lights or sirens.

Within minutes we’d parked on Persia Avenue, three hundred yards from Burke’s front door. The house was dark. The silver Audi was in the driveway and Reg Covington, SWAT commander, had blocked the driveway with his armored car. Two unmarked cars were parked at the curb, and cops wearing Kevlar jackets quietly disembarked and crept toward the house.

Brady and I exited the Tacoma and with our BearCat backup only yards away and two teams surrounding the house, we moved in on 79 Dublin Street. Covington’s team of six used the hood, roof, and doors of the BearCat as shields and gun rests. We were covered.

Brady unlatched Lucas Burke’s picket gate and we approached the dark blue front door with its fist-shaped brass knocker. I stood to the side. Brady stepped in, knocked and announced, then I got out of his way as he lifted his leg and kicked in the door.

No alarms or lights came on, either inside or outside the house. Covington and two of his team rushed in, yelling.

“SFPD! Speak out!”

No one did. The advance team cleared the downstairs rooms and thundered up the stairs to the bedrooms.

I heard Covington shout, “Hands up! Face the wall!”

Burke’s voice. “What now? This is harassment.”

Brady and I bounded up the staircase and found Lucas Burke standing beside the bed in a T-shirt and boxers. He showed us that his hands were empty and Brady turned him 180 and told him to put his hands on the wall. One after the other, Brady jerked Burke’s arms around to his back and cuffed him, then spun him back around to face us.

I said, “Lucas, I’m sorry to tell you that we’ve recovered Tara’s car from the ocean. Her body was inside. You’re under arrest for suspicion in the murders of Tara Burke and Lorrie Burke.”

He howled, “Noooooooooo!”

I read him his rights; to remain silent. Anything he said could be used against him. Right to a lawyer and the state would provide an attorney if he couldn’t afford one.

“Do you understand your rights?”

He glared at me.

“I haven’t killed anyone.”

“Boxer, do it again, louder,” said Brady.

I shouted what I’d just said, one sentence at a time, asking him after each, “Do you understand?”

Burke hissed, “Yes, yes, yes, I understand.”

“Let’s go,” said Brady, pushing Burke to and through the bedroom doorway. Covington’s team followed Brady, and Burke and I brought up the rear, helping Brady stuff the accused into the back seat of our unmarked.

Burke would be charged with reasonable suspicion of homicide. Although we hadn’t caught him in the act, had no witness or physical evidence of any kind, by his own admission, Burke had fought with his wife the morning she disappeared. It would be harder or even impossible, with what we had, to prove that he’d killed Misty Fogarty, Wendy Franks, and Susan Wenthauser. So the DA would go with our strongest cases, and if we found further evidence we would charge him for those crimes, too.

But, what we had was compelling.

One, Tara strapped into the passenger seat of her car, her throat slashed; and, two, the dead baby, evidence of manual asphyxiation, her diaper bag stuffed under the same back seat, infant car seat unbuckled. Burke had seen them last. There had been a history of spousal abuse. He had been having an affair. Three strikes.

A good prosecutor would be able to convince a jury that Lucas Burke was a wolf dressed in a high school teacher’s tweeds. An impartial jury would buy it.

That’s what I believed.

CHAPTER 52

IT WAS FRIDAY MORNING, ten past nine.

Brady, Yuki, and I were with DA Len Parisi in his office with Lucas Burke and Newton Gardner, his publicity-grabbing hard-ass criminal defense attorney.

I was rested and focused and eager to hear what Lucas Burke would say about the recovery of his dead wife.

Lucas Burke was in jailhouse orange with flip-flops and a two-day beard. He looked bad, smelled bad, and I was guessing he hadn’t slept since we booked him two days ago. Whatever thoughts had kept him awake were surely compounded by the awful accommodations offered in our sixth-floor jail. It was dirty, bright lights were on all night, and the other guests were generally foulmouthed, pissed off, and bordering on violence.

For his own safety, Burke had likely slept while leaning against the wall of his cell.

I almost felt sorry for him.

But now he had first-class representation in Newt Gardner and was paying a thousand bucks an hour for the privilege. I’d never met Gardner before, but I’d seen him in front of the courthouse and on late-night news standing with A-list clients, mesmerizing the press with his wit and showmanship and obvious ambition for an ever bigger stage.

As morning rush traffic whooshed past the windows two stories above Bryant Street, Len Parisi sat at his super-sized desk. Above him loomed the red pit bull face of his wall clock. The rest of us, including Burke and his attorney had pulled up chairs around the desk.

Gardner was wearing a smart gray suit, starched white shirt, and classic black oxfords buffed to a high shine. His head was shaven,