21st Birthday by James Patterson (e book reader android .TXT) 📕

the breezeway that connected the Hall to the medical examiner’s office.

Hitting speed dial, I left a message for Claire, saying, “I’m on my way.”

Chapter 37

Jonny Samuels said, “He’s changed in the space of a week, you notice?”

Cindy had just wrapped her interview with Chief Charles Clapper outside the Hall of Justice. The building was gray granite and a pretty good backdrop in the morning light.

Clapper had said to her and the camera, “We’re still looking for Tara Burke. The San Francisco Chronicle is running her photo on their website and in the print edition. Our tip lines are open. If you’ve seen Tara or think you know where she could be…Look. This is a twenty-year-old woman. She doesn’t have much money on her, if any. Her young daughter has been murdered.

“We need the eyes of the people of this city to help us find her. Ms. Thomas will give you the numbers to call. Thank you.”

Clapper thanked Cindy, and Samuels turned away and walked up the steps to the Hall of Justice.

Cindy was going over her notes, figuring out her lede, and Samuels was looking at the raw video he’d shot when Cindy looked up and shouted, “Oh, my God!”

Six or seven cruisers parked outside the building were suddenly backing out, tires squealing, and heading up Bryant. Sirens blasted.

“Quick,” she said. “I saw Richie in one of those cars. We’ve gotta move.”

“Give me the keys,” he said.

She handed them over. They ran a long block to where they’d parked on Bryant at Sixth. Samuels opened the door for Cindy, then got behind the wheel. Cindy buckled up and grabbed the dash as the car lurched out onto Bryant, then went flat-out as Samuels headed north. They drafted behind the police cars for as long as they could see and hear them, and by then Cindy had picked up a few words through the static on the scanner.

The words were “Sunset Park Prep.” Lucas Burke taught English Lit there. Cindy picked up code 10-10 for “ME needed,” but nothing for “shooter at large” or “ambulance needed” or “officers in need of assistance.”

By the time Cindy and Samuels reached the school, cops had taped off the parking lot and were redirecting pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Samuels pulled into a metered parking spot outside the school and grabbed his camera. Cindy fed the meter and the two of them approached the parking lot on foot.

A girl in her school uniform walked past where Cindy stood with Samuels, her head was down as she spoke into her phone, saying “I can’t believe it. This can’t be true.”

She was in obvious emotional distress. Other kids were running out of the main building, hugging, crying.

Cindy reached out a hand and touched the girl’s shoulder.

“Pardon me. Can you tell me what happened?”

The student said into the phone, “Hold a second.” Then she turned back to Cindy and said, “Someone was killed. I heard she was found in her car and that there was a lot of blood.”

The student’s eyes were huge with shock.

“I’m Cindy Thomas. What’s your name?” Cindy asked her.

“Tina. Tina Hosier.”

“Tina, this is Jonathan Samuels. We work for the Chronicle. Can we talk to you?”

“Can you give me a ride home? My car’s in the parking lot.”

“Sure can.”

Cindy would have helped this distressed teen for any reason, and at this moment, she thought she had a better chance of learning something from this student than from law enforcement.

Tina spoke into her phone. “Nana. I’ve got a ride. I’ll see you in ten minutes. Love you, too.”

Chapter 38

“Sergeant Boxer,” I said, announcing myself to the ME’s new receptionist. “Dr. Washburn is expecting me.”

“Just a moment, please.”

I stared hard at the bodybuilder behind the desk as he made the call and kept staring until he said, “Go right in.”

I thanked him, waited for the buzzer, then pulled the door open and kept going down the hallway to the autopsy suite.

Bunny was waiting for me, blocking the entrance with her size 4 body.

“Here ya go, sergeant.”

She held up a green surgical gown. I slid my arms obediently through the sleeves. She went behind me and tied the strings back and front. Next, she handed me matching booties and a cap, and when I was appropriately garbed, Bunny said, “Okay. You’re good.”

She held open the swinging door and I stepped into the chilly tiled autopsy room. Claire stood behind the draped body on the table and said, “I haven’t started. She just got here.”

I said, “I have to see her.”

Bunny gently folded down the sheet, exposing the girl’s face, neck, and upper chest. Her eyes were half open. Lipstick smeared her lips. I groaned involuntarily. Misty Fogarty, the girl I had met for tea at four o’clock yesterday afternoon, had been effervescent and then emotional. It pained me to see her dead.

The murder weapon had opened a gaping wound, cutting through the arteries and musculature of her neck. There had been a lot of blood. Whatever hadn’t sprayed and pumped out to cover the interior of her car had stained her hair and chest.

Claire watched to make sure I was steady.

I said, “Give it to me, doctor.”

She said, “Okay, sergeant. Okay. Based only on first look, unofficially, mics off, the slime who killed this young lady has the same signature as the one who killed Wendy Franks. First, we have the slashed throat from left to right. Same blade or type of blade. And the killer made some slits in her breasts, like with Ms. Franks. Serial killer gibberish. Or so it appears pending verification. As with the previous victim, that’s your cause and manner of death. I estimate she died last night between eight and ten p.m. According to the head of school, the car was in the school parking lot overnight and Misty’s body was discovered by security this morning.”

I said, “I was with her yesterday for an hour, from four o’clock. She was asking me what to do.”

“About?”

“Lucas Burke. Remember Cindy telling us they