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

precision blade man. No hesitation marks, no wasted motion on the slash through the neck, and then while blood is spurting like a fire hose and draining the body, he makes these random gashes on the upper breasts.”

“What do you make of those marks? Don’t overthink,” Yuki said. “What comes to mind?”

Claire didn’t get to answer right away, however, since Lorraine came over and took our orders. We ordered two chopped salads, one fish taco entrée with beans, ham hocks on rice for Cindy, and chips for everyone.

When Lorraine moved on, Claire said, “What do I think? It’s some weird signature, though if we’re trying to connect the cases, there were no such marks on Lorrie’s body, and Wendy Franks was naked while Misty’s body was clothed. He’s way too good at this. It’s not sexual. This is a professional-grade killer who’s pleased with himself. He likes to butcher.”

Cindy came through the passageway and took the empty seat next to me. I wanted to interrogate her—what do you know that I don’t know?—but I didn’t have to. She got comfortable, greeted all of us with blown kisses and fist bumps, then held up her glass for Claire to fill ’er up.

After a couple of gulps, she said, “I’m devastated about Misty. I really liked her. My story this morning generated a lot of mail, but no one took credit, or coughed up a suspect, or called the dead girl a bitch. It was just people saying they’re mad and scared.”

“Forward the mail to me?” I said.

“Sure, but curb your expectations,” she said. “I posted about a hundred of them on my blog. I’ll send you the rest.”

“Thanks, and if you don’t know, your story brought Burke into our house.”

“What do you mean?”

“He drove in from Carmel with a death grip on your front page and came directly to the Hall.”

“He turned himself in? He confessed?”

“No, Cindy, to accuse us of planting the story. To tell us he didn’t kill Misty. He came with his alibi. Ironclad. How’d you get the details on Misty’s murder?”

“I can’t, you know, reveal my sources.”

“Well, the killer’s signature is now out there for a sicko to copy. Enough warning to a perp to make him run. It doesn’t help the good guys, Cindy. Please don’t say ‘I was doing my job.’”

“My story was truthful, and good. Burke came in. That’s a big deal, right? And the public has been warned that a vicious killer is roaming around. That could save a life. People start locking their car doors. Anyway, I was doing what I’m paid to do, what I’m good at, and you know I can never win these arguments with you, Linds, so let’s just call it a draw. Okay?”

I drank down half a stein of beer in one draught.

Cindy said, “I also dug around a little about Wendy Franks.”

Lorraine brought our dinners, told Cindy she liked her new haircut, and asked if we wanted anything else. Cindy asked for more bread.

Yuki said, “Cindy?”

“What?”

“Please don’t make us beg.”

“All right, girlfriends. Wendy had a boat. A Sea Ray. Harbor master says she took it out on Monday night. She had a male passenger, but he didn’t see him.”

Yuki said, “I don’t like what I’m thinking.”

I finished my beer.

Cindy said, “I’ll say it. Wendy and an unknown male—possibly Burke—could have dumped Lorrie Burke into the drink.”

“You’re not going to put this out?” I said to Cindy.

“Hell, no. It cannot be corroborated. But I like it as a theory.”

I tried to eat but kept seeing the last minutes of Misty’s life over and over again. It was a cheaply produced horror movie with bad actors and an unsatisfying ending.

Lorraine came over with a basket of bread for Cindy and a cordless phone for Yuki.

“It’s your husband,” said Lorraine.

Yuki thanked her and took the phone.

“Hi, baby,” she said. “Oh. No. Yes, she’s right here.”

She passed the phone across the table to me. Brady’s gravelly southern-inflected voice was loud and clear.

“Brady, I had to shut off my phone while I ate—”

“Boxer. Another body turned up in McLaren, around John F. Shelley Drive. Unidentified.”

I delivered the news to my friends, leaving out any details that Cindy could exploit. We paid, hugged, and left, splitting up on the street in different directions. It was the shortest, most fraught, and laughter-free Women’s Murder Club meeting on record.

I called Joe to tell him my schedule had changed, got into my car, and headed out to meet Brady.

Chapter 46

Brady was waiting for me in front of the Hall, looking impatient, jouncing his keys in his hand.

He barely waited for me to set my brakes before opening the passenger side door of his Tacoma for me.

I said, “Is it Tara?”

He said, “Give me a sec. Strap in.”

I braced as he stepped on the gas, and went code 3 with all lights flashing, sirens wailing. He took us by a now familiar route to McLaren Park and pulled up within a half mile of Burke’s gabled house.

When he turned off the engine he said, “A hand sticking out of the ground alerted a couple of joggers. That’s all I know.”

Had to be Tara. She hadn’t been in touch with Kathleen, who called me three times a day. She hadn’t called her best friend. Hadn’t asked Lucas for an infusion of cash. Her car hadn’t been seen. She hadn’t used her phone. Tara had disappeared.

Was she a captive? A fugitive? A corpse? I knew in my gut it was the latter. We pulled up to a herd of police vehicles at the verge of the park. Brady shut off the car and we both took deep breaths before extricating ourselves from seat belts and door locks. Brady checked in with the uniforms and CSIs standing by their vehicles at the curb.

McLaren was wooded at that point in its terrain, but I could see four bright halogen lights up-lighting the trees a good trek away.

Hallows came toward us, stoop-shouldered, grave, saying to Brady, “This guy is crazy,