21st Birthday by Patterson, James (mystery books to read txt) 📗

flashed its lights at the reporters blocking the way, and pulled up to the curb bordering the park. Crime Lab Director Hallows and CSI Culver got out of the van as ADA Yuki Castellano’s Toyota pulled up behind us.

“Record time,” I said to Brady.

Yuki passed papers through the driver’s side window to my CO, who was also her husband. Brady unfolded the warrant.

“Judge Hoffman signed here, here, and here,” Yuki said, then she summarized. We had twenty-four hours to go through Burke’s house. We could open closed closets, cabinets, drawers and doors. Could confiscate electronic devices and weapons. Without knocking out walls or otherwise damaging property, CSU could test for anything that might indicate evidence of crime.

Brady and I got out of the car. He put an arm around Yuki, squeezed her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. Then he crossed the street to speak with Hallows. Yuki and I leaned against the Chevy while I phoned Conklin, who was at the top of the street, our outer perimeter.

I watched him duck under the tape and hold it up for Inspector Sonia Alvarez. Conklin introduced Alvarez to Yuki, and from the way she walked, talked, and handled herself, I thought Alvarez seemed all right. A straight shooter.

Brady joined us to say, “Hallows and Culver are ready for the walk-through. Any questions?” he asked Alvarez.

“No, sir. I’ve done this before.”

Brady sent Conklin and Alvarez to cover the rear door of the small two-story house. I peered through the front window and saw no sign that anyone was home. But to be on the safe side, Brady pulled his gun.

He said, “Are we feeling lucky?”

“Very.”

I stepped forward, knocked on the dark blue front door, and announced. When no one answered, I did it again. This time, I heard footsteps and the sound of the chain lock coming off the door, its brass knocker shaped like a fist. The door swung open. And there he was in the doorway, Lucas Burke.

“What do you want?”

Brady said, “We have warrants to search your house, Mr. Burke. This could take a long time, probably overnight. Is there somewhere you can stay? Or I can have an officer drive you to a hotel.”

“The hell you will. Do you understand? My baby girl is dead. I have to make arrangements. I’m in mourning. And look at this mob outside. Reporters, for God’s sake. My neighbors are seeing this. You’re ruining my life!”

Brady said, “We’re very sorry, but we need to go through your house. For your sake as well as ours, you shouldn’t be here.”

Burke slammed the door in our faces, but just before Brady kicked it in, it opened again without the chain. Burke brushed past us, strode angrily to his vehicle. He revved his engine, honked his horn at the press, and when he had an opening, he hit the gas and his car shot up the street like it was a lit fuse.

CHAPTER 28

BRADY HOLSTERED HIS GUN and deployed us from the entranceway; Conklin, Alvarez, and Hallows headed up the stairs while Brady, CSI Culver, and I clung to the ground-floor perimeter.

The living room was small and tidy but not obsessively so, with an ExerSaucer visible in the center. A slate blue corduroy three-seater couch, with matching chairs, was angled toward the fireplace and the TV mounted above it and there were framed family photos on the mantel. To the left, Lorrie was pictured with a stuffed animal, with Lucas and Tara to the right in a traditional just-married pose.

I turned away from the photos and looked for signs of violence, but saw none. No holes in the walls, no blood spatter on the ceiling, no bloody smears on the edge of the coffee table, no wet spots on the carpet. The fireplace tool caddy looked full. The bookshelves didn’t swing open to reveal a hidden room.

I took notes. Culver documented the living room with his Nikon, then stood in the doorway to the den as Brady and I went inside.

“This is depressing,” he said.

“How so?”

“I’m seeing phantoms, Boxer. Burke getting dressed for work. Tara making breakfast. Not speaking.”

“And Lorrie?”

“I just see her beached.”

Me, too.

We took opposite sides of the room, and did a search for weapons or incriminating messages, like a note from Burke’s girlfriend saying, “It’s now or never.” Or from Tara. “It’s over, you jerk. Drop dead.” Found zip. The desk drawers and file cabinets held graded classwork and warranties for household maintenance. Insurance policies. I took a look: Whole life, quarter of a million each on Tara and on Lucas Burke. No policy on the baby. If Tara was dead, Burke was in the chips unless he killed her. I confiscated the policies.

“No laptop,” said Brady. “He stashed it somewhere. Work? In his car?”

“I say it’s with Burke. Let’s see the kitchen,” I said. “Knives live there.”

Along the way, I stopped to talk to Culver, who was crouched half in, half out of the hall closet.

“Lookit this,” he said, smiling brightly. “We’ve got video.”

“Show me.”

I saw what looked like a DVR for an old security system.

Culver said, “Just the one camera over the front door. Low-tech, motion activated, and it was running.”

“Good catch.”

Culver reversed the recording so I could see what he’d already watched.

He narrated.

“So here’s Burke on Monday morning. He leaves the house alone at seven forty a.m. The camera is not positioned to show me Burke’s expression, but he’s in a hurry, carrying a computer bag. Car keys in his hand.”

As Culver talked, I watched Burke come out of the house alone, not locking the door, carrying only a laptop bag. He got into his silver Audi and zoomed out of the frame.

Culver said, “And here comes Tara.”

He forwarded the video. The time stamp read 8:12. Tara was wearing a denim dress, low heels, bouncing the baby against her right hip, her handbag in her left hand. As Tara’s friend Johanna had said, the