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

rubbing his skin off. I told him he wouldn’t be here much longer. Moving him out of the ICU and into a room later today.”

Nancy handed the envelope to Cindy.

“Here you are, dear. Go with God.”

Cindy thanked her and left the hospital. She had a lot to do and not much time.

Chapter 118

Rich and I were in the waiting room twenty yards away from the core of the ICU and out of sight.

When Cindy turned the corner, she looked pale. Stricken.

“How did it go? What did he say?”

“How did it go? It was Clarissa meets Hannibal Lecter. He was cold, friendly, abrupt, welcoming, all in about five minutes. I would say he’s as far away from human as you can be and still have a pulse. I know he has one because his heartbeat was on the monitor. And he knows about Luke. Listen, I might get sick.”

I pointed to the ladies’ room, but Cindy stayed with us.

Conklin said, “What did he want?”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

We piled into our rented Outback and Conklin took the wheel. Cindy sat in front with him and I stretched out in the back seat. I called Chief Belinky and gave him the bare facts, that we had a permission letter and a line drawing of the location of Burke’s house out near Red Rock Canyon.

“He’s still chained to his bed, chief, but due to be moved out of the ICU and into a room today. I guess he’s getting better. Talk to you soon.”

Judging from the distance on the hand-drawn map, Burke’s home was thirty miles from the Strip. Following Cindy’s directions, we stayed on Route 95, the highway that cut through housing developments, across smaller roads and plain flat desert dotted with scrub.

I wouldn’t have imagined Burke living this far from the coast. This far from anything.

Although I’d never been to a more desolate area, there was beauty here. Sunset. Mount Charleston in the distance backlit as the sky turned from blue to a vivid red and yellow and orange.

Rich pointed to an exit coming up at a left angle to the highway.

“That’s it,” Cindy said. “Good catch, Richie.”

He took a hard left and we traveled, I’d say a half a mile, following real estate company arrows, crossing other narrow turnoffs, until a grim little shack was dead ahead in our headlight beams.

Rich pulled up to a small home that looked like Burke’s place at Mount Tam. The structure was a hybrid of sorts; an old camper attached to a handmade wood-frame house. There was a red-and-white sign on a post at the end of the drive reading “Sold by Patricia McNamee Real Estate.” There were no lights on in the dwelling, no cars in the driveway, no traffic, only insect sounds as the sun melted in the distance.

I said, “Looks cozy.”

Cindy laughed nervously.

Rich said, “Cindy. Stay here until we come to get you. Lock the doors.”

My partner and I approached the house with flashlights and guns. We listened at the doorways and windows, pressed our ears to aluminum and wood siding.

It seemed that no one was home.

Chapter 119

It was great working with Richie again.

We didn’t have to speak as we circled the house, me to the left, Conklin to the right. We heard nothing, saw nothing through the windows, or in the yard and after checking the toolshed we executed the knock and announce protocol.

I knocked, called out, “Police! Open the door.”

No answer. The front door was locked and there was a real estate lock box just outside the doorjamb.

Conklin called out “Police!” once more and louder. When there was no answer, he kicked in the door, right off the hinges.

I stepped in and flipped on the lights, which illuminated the entire four-hundred-square-foot interior, all visible from the doorway.

The main room doubled as a bedroom/sitting room with a built-in bed and a bookcase with a foldout writing surface for a desk, cubbyholes above it for filing. The camper section contained both the kitchen and bathroom.

Conklin and I cleared the dwelling, including the two closets and the shower stall. When we were sure it was safe, Rich stood up the kicked-in front door and called out to Cindy.

We stood aside as she stepped over the threshold and began her exceedingly well-earned treasure hunt.

She said, “What I’m looking for is supposed to be under this bed.”

The twin-sized bed was made of a built-in rectangular frame tied into the floorboards. The mattress was centered on top, no room underneath for dust bunnies or anything else. Rich hefted the mattress out of the frame and leaned it against the wall. Inside the frame were two-by-four slats resting across the width of the bed, used to support the mattress. It took only a minute to lift them from the frame—and there it was.

A plain wooden chest, about the size of a child’s toy box.

“Go ahead,” I said to Cindy.

She stepped into the opening where the slats had been and tried opening the lid of the box. It was locked.

She said, “Oh. Right.”

Pulling out a red string lanyard from inside her shirt, I saw the key that had been taped under Burke’s signature. Cindy tried the key, and after a few wiggles, the lock clicked open.

Cindy lifted the lid and stared at the treasure inside. I saw three stacked leather-bound books with dates etched into the covers. I opened one and saw dated pages, covered in very small, very tight cursive writing.

Cindy pulled a large, bulging scrapbook from the bottom of the chest. When she flapped it open, we saw that it was filled with glued-down photos. All of the photos were of women, all smiling at the camera, all looking to be in their teens or early twenties, Burke’s cramped handwriting under each; for instance, Becky Weise, Catalina, 1998, tattoo around her ankle of birds and flowers. Roses are red. Summer is yellow. Neither of them last.

Each photo was annotated with dates, names, or “unknown,” plus maps to the places where Burke had