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

the subject was Tara or some other pretty young woman.

“Last night? Did you approach her?”

Line went dead. More calls came in and piled up. It got to be that within a couple of seconds I could tell if the caller was having a good time at our expense or sincerely thought they knew where to find Tara Burke. But none of the many calls I took in the next half hour gave me any real hope at all.

Brady stopped by my desk on his return from his meeting with Clapper.

He said, “Hallows found nothing in Burke’s house that indicates a violent death. Or the cleanup of any kind of crime. Or even the thought of a crime. He allows as smothering a baby might leave no trace. So. Square one by process of elimination. And that means weekends and holidays are canceled.”

I just hate square one. I also hate coloring within the lines, staying in my lane, and doing it by the book.

Risking the wrath of Clapper, I called Claire.

Chapter 33

Claire answered her phone, “Washburn. What do you need?”

The snappish greeting told me to get right to the point.

“I’d like to see you about Wendy Franks.”

“No good, Linds. Her parents are coming in to identify her. Any minute.”

“Ah. Whatever you can tell me on the phone. I just need the basics.”

“Well, first of all, it’s a damned shame.”

“Right. More, please.”

“Okay. Unofficially. Healthy white female, killed by a deep knife slash across her throat by a common hunting knife approximately twenty-four hours before she was found. So there’s your cause, time, and manner of death.

“It appears that the killer took her from behind and cut left to right.”

I said, “Like, she was sitting, and the killer puts a hand on her shoulder and draws the blade across with the other hand?”

“Could be. He used considerable force. She’d pretty much bled out before the douchebag who did it dumped her.”

“So, you’re thinking she was killed somewhere else, then dumped. Possibly the grave was pre-dug. Which would make this premeditated.”

“That’s for you and the DA to decide. So, here’s the final flourish. The knife work I call serial killer gibberish. He made those cuts in her breasts while she was still alive, but probably unconscious. No defensive wounds on her arms, no bruising, no blood or tissue under her nails. Wendy never saw it coming.”

“Sick, sick, sick,” I said. “A fetish thing?”

Cappy walked by, overheard me. Gave me a look, patted my shoulder. I nodded to him, then, stared down at my desk.

Claire was saying, “Maybe, but I’m thinking he didn’t kill her for sexual pleasure.”

“Because?”

“She wasn’t raped. Still she was naked. I’m swabbing her neck, shoulders, face. See if that wretch left any DNA on her. Her blood’s on the way to the lab,” Claire said. “Where should I send the results and the autopsy report?”

“Send it to Captain Brevoort, Marin County PD.”

I thanked her and let her go back to her work. It was only three in the afternoon. I walked to the washroom, splashed my face with cold water, and stared at my reflection. I looked bad but I felt worse. I wanted to work this case, find Wendy Franks’s killer and put him where he could never hurt anyone again. There was no proof, but I also felt sure there was a connection between Wendy Franks and Lucas Burke.

I knew what I had to do.

I wanted to talk with Misty Fogarty, the girl with the long braid and blue-painted fingernails who had come to Burke’s office doorway while I was interviewing him on Tuesday afternoon.

I called Cindy and sweetly asked for Misty’s phone number.

“Why?” she said.

“If I tell you, you’ll have to tell Richie, so just give me the number, hmmm, girl reporter? If it pans out, if I can tell you—”

“If, if, if. I’ve heard this before. I must really love you.”

She read out Misty’s number and blew me a kiss. After we hung up, I duly dialed it.

Misty answered with a cheerful “This is Mis-teeee.”

Luckily for me, the current headlines had zero impact on her yackety-yak personality, the kind detectives just love. She talked about herself and volunteered to meet me at a diner called the Comfy Corner at four.

An hour from now.

I called Joe and we exchanged brief news bulletins. Then I left a message for Brady. “Following up on a lead.” I threw on my jacket, waved good-bye to all the deskbound cops and Brenda, and then I left the building.

Chapter 34

I found Misty Fogarty waiting for me in a booth at the front of the diner.

“Hiiii, Sergeant Boxer.”

I slid into the banquette across from the eighteen-year-old high school student. She was pretty, a natural blonde, wearing the same blue-and-white school uniform I’d seen her wear three days ago. Her phone was on the table, faceup.

“Misty. Nice of you to make time for me. I wonder if you can help me out. I’m trying to find Tara Burke.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to tell me how Luke is doing. He hasn’t been at school for two whole days.”

“We were holding him as a material witness but—”

“What’s that?”

“It’s someone who may have direct knowledge of a crime.”

“Like a suspect?”

“No, no. More like he was the last one to see Tara and Lorrie, so we were keeping him safe and hoping he would have some ideas for us,” I soft-pedaled.

“But he’s not in jail, anymore?”

“He was released around lunchtime yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Misty. She was visibly shaken. “He must be disoriented after being in jail, right? He’s very sensitive. But I guess . . . I guess you know that.”

The waiter came by. Misty ordered green tea. I ordered coffee. Gave myself a little reminder. Make her your friend. Let her talk.

“You’re close to Luke, huh?” I said.

She nodded, wiped a tear away with a blue-tipped finger.

“He’s wonderful. The best.”

“In what way?”

“The way he looks at me. Talks to me.”

She shook her head and I felt a real meltdown coming.

Misty said, “I know he’s married.