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

said, “Charles Clapper, former director of our Forensics unit, needs no introduction. Most of you have hung on to his shirttails as he ran a crime scene, questioned him on the witness stand, relied on him for his wisdom when a crime was so unbearably awful you didn’t know whether to puke or bawl your eyes out.

“Starting tomorrow morning, Charlie is going to take over as chief of police and move into the fancy office on the fifth floor. You all are stuck with me heading up Homicide.

“Charlie, please take it from here.”

There was applause and shouts of “Way to go, Charlie!” and a minute later Clapper had a drink in his hand. As always, Clapper was perfectly dressed, his hair cut and combed, a mirror shine on his shoes. He stood with one hand in his pocket as he said, “Thanks, everyone, for that very kind welcome to a job none of you want or would take on pain of death.”

When the laughter died down, Charlie went on.

“As Lieutenant Brady said, I’ve known some of you for more than fifteen years, and I’m glad that I had that much time to learn the SFPD and be of help to putting the wicked behind bars.

“Now I’ve got a different job and the number one task the mayor has given me is to rebuild the Southern Station. Most of you have lived through the corruption of our good name. Our Robbery and Narcotic departments are thin. I have some major recruiting to do.

“I’m a perfectionist. I do things by the book. That’s how I pulled CSU back from the brink and why I was drafted for this job. Here’s what it means to you. The by-the-book rules are in effect; color within the lines, button every last button, stay in your own lane. Keep thorough notes, keep your phones and radios on, and keep your eyes and ears open. Stay in touch with dispatch or your CO. I love you all, but effective immediately, love’s got nothing to do with it.

“I have to be the enforcer.”

Chapter 7

As the party was breaking up, I checked in with Lieutenant Tom Murry, head of Missing Persons.

Tom sounded hoarse and worn-out as he told me that now that his search had passed the twenty-four-hour mark, he was expanding his canvass.

“Tara Burke and her kiddo are still missing. We’re following every dumb-ass lead. The hounds alerted on a dead cat, but that was all. We’re running plates around the Burke house and Lucas is cooperating, has offered other places we can look. We’ll be at this all night.”

I commiserated. Asked if he wanted any help.

“Yes.”

I called Joe to remind him that I was having dinner with the girls tonight, then I researched Lucas Burke. My search was limited to the internet and our police files, but there was some new background from a bio he’d given in a speech I found online.

I learned that Lucas’s mother and sister had died when Lucas was in grad school, but his father, Evan Burke, was still alive and had not remarried. Lucas taught at Sunset Park Prep, a private girls’ school in the Sunset District. Three years ago, Burke divorced his wife of ten years and married Tara Wyatt. Lorrie was Burke’s only child.

I highlighted names and places, saved the research into a file, and went to go find Brady.

Brady wasn’t in his office. It was second nature to head up to the fifth floor. I asked squad assistant, Brenda Fregosi, to let Rich know I’d be back in a few.

I found Clapper in his new office, an office I’d been in so many times I was on first-name terms with the dust bunnies under the sofa.

I said, “Gotta minute, chief?”

Clapper waved me in.

Piles of papers covered his desk. There were cardboard bankers’ boxes stacked along the window wall, labeled by date in marker pen, lids taped in place.

Those would be Clapper’s papers, yet to be filed.

Charlie looked harried, a change from his usual benign countenance. But I got it. The man was organized. His job in Forensics had been a perfect match for his personality type.

Brady had been overwhelmed and not organized by nature.

It would take Clapper a few days to see the desktop and get his files up to speed.

I pulled out a side chair and sat down.

I briefed him on my last case in two sentences and we commiserated in one. Then, I said, “Chief, a woman came to Cindy Thomas’s office yesterday claiming that her daughter and sixteen-month-old grandchild were missing. She believes that her son-in-law is violent and could have killed them.”

“Thomas called you?”

“Yep. I spoke with the complainant and I spoke with the officer in charge, Lieutenant Tom Murry, and he hasn’t turned up anything yet. Hounds are out. Drones, too. Canvass of the neighborhood and school where the husband works. Now, over twenty-four hours have passed.”

Clapper sat back in the desk chair. He said, “I’m aware, Boxer. And know Lieutenant Murry to be thorough. What are you asking?”

“I want to bring in the husband for questioning. See if I detect a falsehood, and maybe I can break him—”

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.

When I got back to the bullpen, Brenda had a message for me. She said softly, “That lady over at your desk is looking for you. Name is—”

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

“Bingo,” said Brenda. She made a little circle with her index finger next to