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

Clapper cut me short.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this isn’t your case.”

“Uh.”

“Murry interviewed the husband?”

“Yes, but he didn’t get anything from him.”

“Boxer, it’s Murry’s case. He’s working it. What did I say earlier today?”

“Many things.”

“I said stay in your lane. If your board is empty, it won’t be for long. Don’t call me, Boxer. Have Brady call me. That’s the chain of command.”

I was insulted and hurt. I felt my cheeks heat up as I stood from the chair and went to the door. Clapper didn’t look up, didn’t say good-bye or thanks or see ya around.

Without seeing her, I said, “Kathleen Wyatt.”

“Bingo,” said Brenda. She made a little circle with her index finger next to her temple, universal sign for crazy.

I clenched my fists and headed toward my desk.

CHAPTER 8

CLEARLY, KATHLEEN WYATT was in yesterday’s clothes.

My guess was that she’d been driving around the city looking for her daughter and granddaughter since then. She seemed out of it, but I put it down to stress and exhaustion.

I took her to the break room, got her coffee and a leftover donut, waited for her outside the ladies’ room.

Given the Clapper rules, I told her that Lieutenant Murry was working the case full-bore. I quoted the record: that at ten after eleven Monday morning, Lucas called his wife from his cell phone and she answered. Their call lasted just under three minutes. Then I moved on to reassurances: that most likely Tara wasn’t ready to be found, and she would be in touch. And then I heard myself say that I would drive out to Sunset Park Prep and talk to Lucas personally to assure myself that he hadn’t hurt anyone.

She gave me a disbelieving look.

“Kathleen. Either trust me or leave me out of this.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Good. Go home and get some sleep.”

I walked Kathleen down to the street, watched as she drove off in her ancient Fiat. Then I went to the day lot across Bryant and got my car out of stir. I’d thought that I had a decision to make, but I’d already made it. Something was drawing me to this case. I can’t explain it, but I felt attached and that maybe I could bring Tara and Lorrie Burke home safely.

It was half past two. School was still in session.

I called dispatch, told them I had to take a half day lost time, texted Rich that the less he knew the better and I’d call him later. Then I called Cindy.

“This is so off the record, it’s in a different time zone,” I said to her.

“What’ve you got?”

“I’m taking a flier. Gonna talk to the husband. Don’t tell Richie. I’m disobeying the new chief.”

“Love you, Linds.”

Sunset Park Prep was located on Thirty-Seventh Avenue and Rivera Street, and this was where Lucas taught English to eleventh- and twelfth-grade girls. I knew of the school, which was reputed to offer a college-level experience in a day-school environment.

I parked the car on Sunset Boulevard, clipped my badge to the inside pocket of my jacket, and tucked my gun into the back waistband of my chinos.

I looked up Lucas Burke’s class schedule again — and, yes, from three to four he had an office hour in the Academic Building.

Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried.

I put my phone in my breast pocket and got out of my car.

Ready or not, Lucas Burke. Here I come.

CHAPTER 9

I WAS DEFYING a direct order, but I felt justified.

In three out of four cases of familial homicide, the husband was the killer. Dozens of cases came to me; bludgeoned wives and smothered children, buried in shallow graves or put through wood chippers, entire families shot and tucked into their beds, the husband displaying grief, begging the real killer to come forward or leaving the country. Often they remarried in under a year.

I hadn’t given up on Tara and Lorrie Burke after less than a day and a half. This was still a presumed missing persons case, even if the chance of finding the two alive was heading toward zero. I needed to get a take on Lucas Burke, the man at the center of it.

I parked in the lot at Sunset Park Prep. The ten-acre campus had grounds like clipped green velvet. The main building was imposing, built of white stone in the early twentieth century. Athletic fields and smaller buildings stretched out beyond it.

I’d just flashed my badge at the visitors’ check-in when the bell rang and students exited classrooms, chattering as they walked the broad corridor to their next class.

I stopped a group of young ladies and asked where I could find Mr. Lucas Burke’s office.

One said, “You just passed it.”

I reversed course, saw “Mr. Burke” on a nameplate to the left of an office door. I knocked and heard “Come innnn.”

Burke looked up when I entered his office.

He was a good-looking fortyish man sitting behind a desk heaped with neat stacks of paper. His hair was a thick and wavy auburn, and he wore tortoiseshell glasses, a blazer over a blue shirt, a rep tie, and a wedding band on his ring finger.

I showed him the badge clipped to my inside jacket pocket and introduced myself. We shook hands and he offered me a chair. I took it and started talking.

“You know that Kathleen Wyatt filed a report against you,” I said, in a neutral tone. I didn’t want to anger or alarm him. I wanted to come off as a friendly neighborhood cop, checking out a complaint.

Burke took off his glasses, swiped his face with his hand, and sighed at the same time. “Sergeant, you’ve met Kathleen?”

“Yes. She’s distraught. Very.”

“I’ve already made a statement to Missing Persons about this,” said Burke. He picked up a business card from his desk and read