21st Birthday, James Patterson [best mystery novels of all time TXT] 📗

Clapper in an uncharacteristically stern tone of voice.”

“What’re you going to do?” Joe asked.

“What would you do?”

“I asked first.”

I sighed as I dried and put away the last of the dishes. Then I said, “I’ll write up my interview notes, tell Clapper what I did, say ‘sorry,’ and make a case for him not to treat me like a rookie. I mean, come on. I ran Homicide not too long ago. I’ve closed more cases than…than anyone.”

“That I know, Blondie. I hope he’s secure enough in his new job to cut you some slack.”

“Cindy’s running photos of Tara and Lorrie Burke online tonight and in the morning print edition—”

“It’s already on the tube,” said Joe. “I had to change the channel so ‘big eyes’ didn’t see it.”

“Hunh. Well. Maybe Tara Burke will see it and step forward. That would be a happy conclusion, and would get me off the hook with Clapper. Oh, man, if only Tara phoned in. Or someone else with a tip leading to her and the baby. Or even a credible sighting, confirmation that they were still alive.”

Joe said, “Either way, I think you’re covered.”

I wasn’t so sure. I emptied the remains of the Chardonnay into my glass and drank it all down.

Chapter 14

I was at my desk by 7:30 a.m., the third time this week, and it was only Wednesday.

The message light on my phone console was blinking impatiently. Cindy had warned me that her story about the missing Burkes with the headlined reward was going to set our hotline on fire. But I had a hunch that this call was something different.

I picked up the receiver and stabbed the red button. As I’d thought, the message was from Charlie Clapper, chief of police.

“Boxer, it’s Clapper. Call me when you get this.”

Sometimes I just hate to be right.

Conklin wasn’t in yet because, unlike me, or any parent, he could still get seven hours of sleep. I looked around the squad room. Brady’s office was dark. Paul Chi came in, threw his coat over his chair, and waved hello as he passed my desk on his way to the break room.

I followed Chi and stood by as he filled the coffeepot.

He asked, “How ya’ doing, Boxer?”

“Five on a scale of ten.”

“Sometimes I wish for a five,” he said. “I’m getting arthritis in my right shoulder.”

“Sorry, Paul.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I need to take some Advil, which I’m gonna take with the coffee. What’s it going to take to get you up to a seven?”

“You’ve seen the news?” I said.

“Yeah. If Tara Burke has hit the road with her baby, I hope she’s in Canada.”

Someone on the night shift had stuck the morning paper on top of the microwave. I grabbed it and read the front page. Missing. REWARD FOR INFORMATION.

The subhead was 25k Reward for Information leading to return of Tara Wyatt Burke and her baby daughter.

I looked again at the photo but didn’t bother to read the article. I knew it by heart, both sides of the story. I poured myself a cup of hot java, took my mug back to my desk, and called Clapper.

“Chief, it’s Boxer.”

He didn’t bother to say hello.

He said, “I just got off the phone with Tom Murry. He says you interviewed Lucas Burke. I don’t see a report from you. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. Murry asked me to help.”

“That meant he was looking to you for support, not inviting you to take over his case.”

This was really killing me. I’ve had nothing but an excellent relationship with Clapper since my first days in Homicide. I knew him. I liked him. I admired him. Sometimes I thought of him as family.

“Charlie, I was wrong to do it. Sorry. But there’s a baby missing. A baby.”

“Stop right there, Boxer. You have probable cause?”

“No,” I admitted. “Charlie. I mean, chief. Why do you want to bust my chops—”

“We have eyes on Burke. I hope to God you didn’t crowd him into making a move we’re all going to regret.”

He hung up on me.

Conklin pulled out his chair and sat down across from me. “What the hell was that?”

“That was Clapper handing my ass to me. You’ve never heard me say this before, Rich, but I don’t know if I can work like this. I don’t know if I can stay in this job.”

Chapter 15

I reached for my coffee but hit the mug and knocked it over. A small lake of black coffee spread across my desk and cascaded onto Richie’s desk as well.

Chi dropped off a roll of paper towels, and Rich and I had the spill mostly contained when I heard my name.

It was Brady, and he was standing right there.

The look on his face was terrible; eyes scrunched up, mouth turned down. He looked like he was in pain. I didn’t need a hunch. It was obvious Clapper had called him and I was about to be disciplined. I was ready.

“I can’t believe I did this—” I sputtered.

Brady said, “A red-haired baby girl, tentatively identified as Lorrie Burke, has washed up on Baker Beach.”

My thoughts scrambled. I had thought I’d be prepared for this, but it was too much, too fast.

Brady continued, “Uniforms at the scene say the body is waterlogged. That’ll have to be confirmed. The ME has been called.”

My hands were shaking as I dropped coffee-drenched paper towels into the trash can.

I asked Brady, “So you’re thinking she’s been dead for a day or two?”

“I’m not calling it, but that’s prob’ly right.”

“Any sign of Tara?” Conklin asked.

“Not yet.”

“Clapper knows?” I said.

“I just told him.”

I said, “I spoke to Lucas Burke in his office yesterday. I’ve got notes and was just going to work up a report.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He seemed pissed off at Tara but not worried or too calm.”

Brady nodded, said, “Undercovers are watching Burke in case he runs. I’ll see you at Baker Beach.”

Brady took a call and turned away from us. He was walking back to his office when Conklin said, “Lindsay.