21st Birthday by Patterson, James (ebook reader screen .TXT) 📕

behind me. Then, my gorgeous husband got into bed beside me.

“Are you taking care, Blondie?”

He was worried about my recurring condition. Pernicious anemia can be fatal and had given us a bad scare. More than once.

“I’m emotionally exhausted,” I said, “but not physically.”

He looked at me dubiously.

“How are you?” I asked him.

“All paperworked out,” he said.

“Awwww. Tell me all about it before I fall asleep with a spoon in my hand.”

My cell phone rang out from the living room. I knew it was on the table next to Joe’s chair. I tried to sit up.

Joe said, “Nope. No way. You’re off duty.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is still a day away.”

Right he was.

I rolled over and wrapped myself around my husband. He shifted me until my robe was on the floor. I put my arms around his neck and I looked up at his face, taking my time. He kissed me, taking his time.

His hands moved over me, stirring me up.

I said, “Mmmmm.”

He took that as a yes.

I sighed happily and let him have his way with me.

CHAPTER 49

MY EYES OPENED Sunday morning to the sound of my phone ringing in the living room.

The bedside clock read just after 5 a.m. This time, I had to pick up the call. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Joe, and found my phone in the dark. I looked at the caller ID.

Brady.

He said, “Sorry to wake you, Boxer, but I think you’d want to know.”

“What? What’s happening?”

“A red car, looks like a Volvo, was spotted a hundred yards out in the low tide off China Beach.”

I knew the place, a large public parking area, five minutes off the tony Sea Cliff neighborhood and just south of Baker Beach. A curved tree-lined road led to the beach. The waters here could be brutal. When the storms whip up the surf, this was one of the most dangerous beaches in California. The tide gave no warning, no second chances as water poured in under the bridge, shifting dramatically with unpredictable undercurrents and deadly riptides. Daredevil swimmers had died at China Beach, a half dozen this year alone.

I said, “Brady, you’re thinking it’s Tara’s car?”

“Could be. I can just make out the roof. I’m on the lot overlooking the beach right now. Coast guards brought in a couple of small track cranes and tow trucks. Motor boats. CSU has a flatbed truck and — Uh-oh. The car slipped the cable. This is one tough whale to beach. They’ve been at it for hours.

“Could be lost sleep for nothing. But I think you’ll want to see this.”

I shook Joe awake very gently and told him I had to go, that I would call him later.

“What time is it?”

“Just past five.”

“Be careful.”

“I will be.”

I kissed his face all over, picked up my shoes from under the chair, and tripped over Martha as I dashed for the door.

“Sorry, Boo. Good girl.”

I geared up in the living room and, out on the street, found my car and unlocked it without setting off the alarm. The engine started up easily and I drove up Lake Street to China Beach, arriving in about eight minutes. I took the access road to the overlook and parked next to Brady’s Tacoma and a coast guard van. He was standing at the edge of the lot looking at the police activity underway in the wild dark sea through his binoculars.

A stiff salty breeze whipped my hair as I walked up behind him and shouted “Hello!”

He said, “Look out there,” and handed me his glasses.

The first light of dawn lit the scene as the vehicle in question surfaced and bobbed in the tide. A crane was lifting the front end, and two tow trucks had hooks into the undercarriage, ratcheting in cable, balancing the vehicle still in the surf. And now the red car was inching up the beach, getting dragged up and out of an ocean that was reluctant to give it up.

I saw CSIs taking a tarp out of their van.

“They’re going to wrap up the car?” I asked.

“Let’s move,” said my lieutenant.

CHAPTER 50

BRADY OFFERED A MUSCULAR ARM to help me down the stairs, and our timing was such that by the time we reached the beach, our badges in hand, the car was on four wheels.

We identified ourselves to the coast guard officer, then ducked the tape and walked up on the red Volvo as water and fish and sand poured through the underside and out the open windows. Something pale caught my eye. An arm followed the flow of water and flopped out of the passenger-side window. It was a woman’s arm, abraded and bloated from soaking in seawater and mauled by sea animals.

As we circled the car, I braced myself for the sight of the dead woman’s ruined face. She had been in the passenger seat when the car was driven into the ocean. She was still seated with the shoulder harness firmly locking her in place. Her head was flopped to the side and the gash across her throat was swollen nearly shut, no longer a clean cut. There was a large, flat stone on the accelerator that had caused the car to take flight. I was sure this was Tara Burke, but I couldn’t make a positive ID by looking at her. Still, I recognized the denim dress Tara had been wearing, the outfit that had been captured on video when she’d left her house with Lorrie on Monday morning. She wouldn’t have fingerprints any longer, but presumably dental work, if she’d had any, could identify her.

Brady called my attention to the pink diaper bag jammed under the back seat, where there was also an unbuckled infant car seat. As I studied the woman, I noticed something inked onto the inside of her wrist: a small heart-shaped tattoo that confirmed her