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

them out of the lot onto Bowley Street, but a traffic jam had formed both inside the lot and beyond, where vehicles had slowed to get a look.

Part of the logjam was caused by a sound truck marked “WKOR.” Not even two hours had passed since we got the call. Topside, I saw the press leaving their cars and trucks double-parked and at odd angles, making the road impassable as they stampeded toward the crime-scene tape.

I recognized several of the reporters; they were the A team. The standout of course was Cindy Thomas, tape recorder in her hand, pointing it at Lucas Burke.

It was up to me whether to let the reporters surround Lucas. I let them.

Burke bit.

He stepped up to the barrier tape separating the parking lot from the road.

“I haven’t seen her,” Lucas was saying to Cindy and the mob in general, “but I’ve been told that my baby girl is dead. Tell my wife—she has to come home.”

It was too much for him. He turned, searched for me among the reporters, and together we pushed our way out to the road.

“Keys?”

He handed them over and got into the passenger seat. If Burke was innocent, if he had truly believed that Lorrie was fine and that he would see her and Tara again soon, he was shocked and horrified and deep in some hell seeing images too awful to bear.

But if he’d actually killed his child, killed her, then he was an extraordinary actor. Which some killers are. I needed time with him to figure out which one he was. I needed time to chip away at his story, nail down a timeline. I would need Conklin to befriend him, coax out Lucas’s story if I felt my own rage taking over.

I was outside the driver’s side of Burke’s Audi, on the phone with Conklin, when Lieutenant Brady walked to the tape and addressed the press.

“A child was found dead in the water at six fifteen this morning. Y’all have heard this before. We have no comment on ongoing investigations. Chief Clapper will call a press conference when he has something to tell y’all. Please help us by moving your vehicles out of the road. That’s it. Thank you.”

Brady ducked under the tape and cleared the lane. We took off toward the Hall.

There was no police radio in the car to distract from the sound of Lucas Burke crying.

God help me, I felt sorry for him.

Chapter 20

Two hours after leaving Baker Beach, Cindy and art director Jonathan Samuels met with publisher and editor in chief Henry Tyler in his office.

Samuels was a good videographer for a print guy. He had shot and cut the chaotic parking lot melee with Cindy’s stand-up Lucas Burke interview into a neat three-minute spot that could be picked up by the media with credit to the Chronicle.

Tyler sat behind his desk facing the laptop. Samuels stood behind him, leaning in to bring up the light, push in on Burke or on Cindy at Tyler’s direction.

The video would shortly be on the air. Maybe there’d be a miracle. Maybe Tara Burke would see it and step forward.

Cindy sat in the side chair across from them, her elbows on Henry’s desk, her chin in her hands. She was aggrieved about the baby, but glad that she and Samuels had scooped other media. She didn’t need to see the video again. She could picture it, knew it by heart.

The video began with their arrival at Baker Beach.

The camera was focused on a couple dozen members of the press charging across the road to the parking lot on the bluff overlooking the crime scene.

Cindy had fast-walked beside Samuels, recording her voice-over. “We’ve just learned that the body of a small child washed up on Baker Beach about an hour ago. Sources tell the Chronicle that it is suspected to be that of Lorrie Burke, age one year and four months, last seen alive with her twenty-year-old mother, Tara Burke, forty-eight hours ago.

“I believe the man just beyond the police tape wearing the herringbone jacket is Lucas Burke, Lorrie’s father,” Cindy said.

The crush of media bumped into Samuels, repeatedly jostling the camera lens. When it steadied, the angle was on Cindy’s profile as she called out to Lucas Burke, who was visibly injured. Broken nose?

“Mr. Burke, Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Has the identity of the child—”

“I haven’t seen her,” Lucas replied.

Samuels had zoomed in on Burke, capturing the bloodied nose, the cheeks slick with tears. And he got the background sounds: police ordering the gathering crowd to stand clear of the tape; competing car horns; the squawking of seabirds protesting the intrusion. Sirens wailing as more law-enforcement vehicles streamed up the road, braked outside the tape, and were then admitted to the parking area.

Cindy heard Howard Bronfman from the Examiner shout, “Who found the child?”

“Someone taking a walk,” Burke said. “That’s all I know.”

The background sounds continued as Lieutenant Brady, the senior officer at the scene, appeared. Samuels had closed in on Brady. He’d been scowling, authoritative, but his slight southern drawl softened his speech. He gave the predictable “no comment at this time” statement, then told all bystanders to clear the road.

Samuels said to Tyler, “I was getting ready to shut down the camera, but Cindy saw Sergeant Boxer walk Burke to this car over here.” He pointed to the figures at the top right of the screen. “So, I got this closing shot.”

On the video, Burke got into the passenger side door of a late model Audi sedan. Boxer went around to the driver’s side, stood outside the door, speaking into her phone with her head down. She tipped her chin up in greeting to Cindy, then disappeared into the car, which headed north on Beach Road.

“Nice,” Tyler said.

He watched the last section of the video. Cindy stood in a secluded spot with the ocean and the silhouette of the bridge at her back. She brought the viewers up-to-date on the story as she knew