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

“Yes. So here’s what he says, and I quote: ‘I’m a master killer and in over twenty years, this is the first time I’ve been caught. That was half due to frustration, and half due to, I’m tired of doing all this work and getting zero credit. That, Cindy, is where you come in.’ Then, he says, ‘Keep this key. If you want a story with headlines from here to eternity, pay me a visit at Sunrise Medical Center, Las Vegas. ICU. You look good in baby blue.’”

Rich said, “Cindy. He’s a subhuman liar.”

“I’ll call him up,” she said. “Take it from there.”

She kissed me on the cheek, Conklin on the mouth, grabbed her bags, and split.

“The boss is right that we should go with her,” I said.

I signaled to Sydney.

“You know, Rich, Evan claimed to me that he’d been sleeping with Tara for years. That Lorrie was his child.”

“What? That’s crazy. Is that true? Did you believe him?”

“I didn’t believe a damned thing he said, but he got to me. What if some of that is true? Now, I’m having a sick feeling that he is going to confess to killing Lorrie, Tara, and Misty. And that would mean…Oh, my God.”

“If true, that means Luke was wrongly convicted. That he killed himself because his father trapped him and there was no way out.”

Chapter 117

The ICU doctor’s name tag read “R. Warren, M.D.”

He was grizzled, harried, and gruff, telling Cindy that his patient was adamant about seeing her and he was going to permit this because he didn’t want Evan Burke to stroke out.

Dr. Warren went on.

“You’re not a relative. You’re not even a friend. But this patient is restricted in unusual ways, and if spending five minutes with you makes him feel better, I just have to allow it.”

Cindy said, “Five minutes? I just flew here from San Francisco.”

“I might be talked into six, but that’s it.”

“Okay. Okay, doctor. Thank you.”

She could see Evan Burke in the hospital bed, cuffed to the rails, IV dripping fluids into his arm, a nurse changing his bandages.

The nurse tapped his hand and Burke opened his eyes and turned his head. Cindy felt a shock, like she’d been struck by lightning. She mouthed “Cindy” and pointed to herself.

Burke held up a finger to indicate one minute. When the fresh bandage was in place and the nurse had refastened his robe, she stepped outside and said, “He’s been waiting for you for two days.”

“Are those handcuffs secure?”

“Yes, and those two policemen over there will be watching you. Don’t sit close enough to him for him to…I’m not sure.”

“Grab me, I guess.”

“Just be careful, dear. I’ll tap on the glass when your time is up.”

The nurse exited and Cindy went in, took the chair, and sat back, out of reach.

“Mr. Burke. How are you feeling?”

“We don’t have time for chitchat.”

She said, “Would you mind if I record our conversation? That will save time.”

“Go right ahead.”

Cindy took out her phone, tapped the mic app, and held it in her lap.

“There’s a lot to say, so I’m going to talk fast.”

Cindy nodded.

“I’ve followed your coverage of this recent activity in San Francisco—Kathleen’s hysteria, Luke’s running away, Tara’s car—all of it, and without going overboard. You’re going to be famous one day.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m going to help you. Or else I’m just messing with you. I’m capable of both.”

Cindy wondered if he was for real or completely insane. Was he just mouthing off? Or was he giving her the story of her dreams? Could this even work? Whatever kind of spotlight Burke wanted, the Chronicle wasn’t going to go for it, but before she made the decision for Tyler and the board, she could play along.

“What is it you want to tell me?”

“I’m one of the greatest serial killers of this century and no one knows it.”

Determined to keep him talking, Cindy tried not to show any emotion. Not to move her chair back. Not to even comment.

Burke said, “Try to imagine all of the words you’ve written in your career, but instead of them going out into the world, you’ve kept them all to yourself. Where’s the fun in that?”

“And so now you want…”

“The spotlight, of course. I want to see my name in your paper. I want an agent. I want Al Pacino to play me in the movie. I want it all.

“I have a place in Lonelyville, out near Red Rock Canyon. I gave the nurse a map and permission for you to go into my place and take out my personal stuff. You only have twenty-four hours to do this.

“The shack is sold,” said Burke. “I need to pay my lame lawyer. The new owners are taking possession in the morning. So if you want this story, you’d better get ready to load up your car. Any questions?”

“What’s the nurse’s name?”

“That’s Nancy.”

“How do I get this information?” she asked.

“Do you have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Cindy reached into the top of her shirt and pulled out a red waxed string lanyard with the key knotted into the loop.

“Good.”

There was a tap on the glass.

Cindy turned, nodded, turned back to Burke.

“You’re going to want a letter I’ve left for you in case somehow I check out of here before I speak to you. Get your letter and tell Nancy I need my catheter. Nice meeting you. And be sure to look under the bed.”

He closed his eyes. Nancy signaled for her to come outside.

“You have a letter for me?” Cindy asked.

Nancy opened a drawer, hunted around, said, “Oh, dear.”

There was a newspaper on the side chair near the desk. It was the Chronicle. Cindy picked it up, turned it over, and read the headline on the front page.

Her headline.

CONVICTED KILLER LUCAS BURKE COMMITS SUICIDE

Cindy said, “Did Mr. Burke see this paper?”

“Oh, yes. He saw the story on the news and sent down for it.”

“How did he react?”

“He seemed mad, then he laughed and said something like, “What a jerk.” Then he complained that the handcuffs were