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

“No, Cindy, to accuse of us of planting the story. To tell us he didn’t kill Misty. He came with his alibi. Ironclad. How’d you get the details on Misty’s murder?”

“I can’t, you know, reveal my sources.”

“Well, the killer’s signature is now out there for a sicko to copy. Enough warning to a perp to make him run. It doesn’t help the good guys, Cindy. Please don’t say ‘I was doing my job.’”

“My story was truthful, and good. Burke came in. That’s a big deal, right? And the public has been warned that a vicious killer is roaming around. That could save a life. People start locking their car doors. Anyway, I was doing what I’m paid to do, what I’m good at, and you know I can never win these arguments with you, Linds, so let’s just call it a draw. Okay?”

I drank down half a stein of beer in one draught.

Cindy said, “I also dug around a little about Wendy Franks.”

Lorraine brought our dinners, told Cindy she liked her new haircut, and asked if we wanted anything else. Cindy asked for more bread.

Yuki said, “Cindy?”

“What?”

“Please don’t make us beg.”

“All right, girlfriends. Wendy had a boat. A Sea Ray. Harbor master says she took it out on Monday night. She had a male passenger, but he didn’t see him.”

Yuki said, “I don’t like what I’m thinking.”

I finished my beer.

Cindy said, “I’ll say it. Wendy and an unknown male — possibly Burke — could have dumped Lorrie Burke into the drink.”

“You’re not going to put this out?” I said to Cindy.

“Hell, no. It cannot be corroborated. But I like it as a theory.”

I tried to eat but kept seeing the last minutes of Misty’s life over and over again. It was a cheaply produced horror movie with bad actors and an unsatisfying ending.

Lorraine came over with a basket of bread for Cindy and a cordless phone for Yuki.

“It’s your husband,” said Lorraine.

Yuki thanked her and took the phone.

“Hi, baby,” she said. “Oh. No. Yes, she’s right here.”

She passed the phone across the table to me. Brady’s gravelly southern-inflected voice was loud and clear.

“Brady, I had to shut off my phone while I ate —”

“Boxer. Another body turned up in McLaren, around John F. Shelley Drive. Unidentified.”

I delivered the news to my friends, leaving out any details that Cindy could exploit. We paid, hugged, and left, splitting up on the street in different directions. It was the shortest, most fraught, and laughter-free Women’s Murder Club meeting on record.

I called Joe to tell him my schedule had changed, got into my car, and headed out to meet Brady.

CHAPTER 46

BRADY WAS WAITING for me in front of the Hall, looking impatient, jouncing his keys in his hand.

He barely waited for me to set my brakes before opening the passenger side door of his Tacoma for me.

I said, “Is it Tara?”

He said, “Give me a sec. Strap in.”

I braced as he stepped on the gas, and went code 3 with all lights flashing, sirens wailing. He took us by a now familiar route to McLaren Park and pulled up within a half mile of Burke’s gabled house.

When he turned off the engine he said, “A hand sticking out of the ground alerted a couple of joggers. That’s all I know.”

Had to be Tara. She hadn’t been in touch with Kathleen, who called me three times a day. She hadn’t called her best friend. Hadn’t asked Lucas for an infusion of cash. Her car hadn’t been seen. She hadn’t used her phone. Tara had disappeared.

Was she a captive? A fugitive? A corpse? I knew in my gut it was the latter. We pulled up to a herd of police vehicles at the verge of the park. Brady shut off the car and we both took deep breaths before extricating ourselves from seat belts and door locks. Brady checked in with the uniforms and CSIs standing by their vehicles at the curb.

McLaren was wooded at that point in its terrain, but I could see four bright halogen lights up-lighting the trees a good trek away.

Hallows came toward us, stoop-shouldered, grave, saying to Brady, “This guy is crazy, lieutenant. We need horse patrols and cars in this park until he’s caught.”

I clamped down on my frustration, then asked Hallows, “What do we know about the victim?”

Hallows looked at me, the disappointment on my face. “Sorry, Boxer. It’s not Tara.”

Sunset had faded and night had come on.

Hallows, with his monster tactical flashlight, led the way along a trail, and ten minutes later we reached the scene. CSU had set up an evidence tent a dozen feet from a body-sized mound of dirt half obscured by shrubbery. Items had been placed on a table for photographs, later to be bagged, tagged, and transported to the lab. I saw an inexpensive pearl necklace that had been found in the grave. There were sneakers of unknown color and brand. The victim was wearing the rest of her clothes and removal would be the ME’s job.

Culver was overseeing CSIs who carefully shoveled dirt from the grave onto a tarp to be screened later.

“Dale, did you find her ID?”

“Nope. But look, we could still find her handbag in here.”

I stayed long enough to see the remains lifted out of the two-foot-deep grave and laid carefully on a sheet. The victim’s clothes were unremarkable: jeans, a V-neck pullover, a blue windbreaker.

“Was her throat cut?” I asked Culver.

“Can’t tell and I don’t want to poke around there. The ME will tell us —”

“Look at her fingernails,” I said.

“We’re going to screen everything that comes out of this hole.”

I said, “Okay, Dale. I think my job here is done.”

I found Brady out on the street. He said. “I’m going to stick around. We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Have a uniform give you a lift.”

I got my stuff out of Brady’s car and asked an officer for a ride back