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

Captain Geoffrey Brevoort to let him know that we were in his territory.

“Captain. We have to question a suspect on other homicides. As soon as we have him, we’ll bring you into the loop.”

We exited the highway at 445B, passing the Commodore Dock and a small marina on our right-hand side. About a dozen houseboats were tied up to finger slips and a couple of seaplanes bobbing gently on the water. I didn’t see a cabin cruiser, but I made a mental note. Maybe he’s on it.

For the next several miles, we drove through the pretty, upscale towns of Mill Valley. Our wheels hugged the road as it curved upward, taking us away from genteel civilization toward the deep woods of Mount Tamalpais.

At one point I called Brady and we pulled up on the verge of the paved road, the police van sliding in behind us. We climbed out and leaned against our cars, examined the maps on our phones, and reviewed again the unlit twisting roads and trails that curled around rocky outcroppings and doubled back under the shadow of Mount Tam.

Brady had a collection of drone shots of a cabin presumed to belong to Burke/Winslow. It sat alone in a clearing the size of my fingertip, and in the darkness we would have good cover. There were no other cabins within a quarter mile of Burke’s. We surely would surprise him, and he would agree to come back with us to the Hall. Please, God, without bloodshed. And since I was reaching out to God, I put in another request.

That Evan Burke would say, “You got me. I did it all.”

Brady asked us to run mic checks again. Afterward, we all tightened our vest straps and got back into our vehicles, the van right behind us. As the road climbed, it narrowed, changed from macadam to rutted clay. Tree roots encroached on the dirt roads. It quickly became clear that the van would be unable to negotiate the tree-bound trails. Brady found a better road for the van, but it was a good five minutes from the Burke cabin.

It was the best we could do.

Conklin took a narrow trail on our right, keeping only the parking lights on. Unmarked vehicles were not meant for off-road travel, but surprisingly our tires made good contact with the ruts we were riding. There was one moment of unplanned confusion when our downlights showed our trail diverging into two.

I grabbed the mic and talked to Brady and we decided that Conklin and I would take the right fork; the van would still be within jogging distance of the cabin.

Even with low visibility and little knowledge of the terrain, our plan looked good. We kept driving, startling flapping, scurrying, and leaping creatures as we drove. Conklin made a turn onto a driveway of sorts and we parked there.

We radioed the van, and while waiting for confirmation that they were in place, Conklin and I sized up Burke/Winslow’s house and grounds.

Chapter 64

The cabin was centered in a weedy clearing encircled by a half dozen trees of various types and heights. A toolshed stood off to one side.

Small, approximately four hundred square feet, the cabin was too makeshift to be a prefab “tiny house” but could have been built from scratch in a few days by a reasonably handy worker or two.

That might explain why there was no record of this house in the tax rolls, no transfer of title. One day this area had been a clearing, part of state protected lands, a few days later a small corner had been confiscated, unnoticed.

I hoped to see a car with a license plate, but there was none such. But I did see the blue light of a screen, and firelight flickering through the windows.

Someone was home.

I radioed Brady, summarized what we knew and that we were about to make our approach.

I said to Conklin, “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

We drew our guns and proceeded toward the front door, but when we were twenty feet from the porch, floodlights snapped on and blazed from under the eaves.

The light was blinding. I could no longer see the cabin.

A man’s voice rang out. “Drop your weapons. Now.”

He stepped out onto his porch, a silhouette, but I saw the AK in his hands. A light pull on the trigger and he could cut me and Conklin down.

This was on me. All of it was on me. My idea. I was the senior officer on scene. I had no time flat to figure out how to get us out.

The voice called out, again. “Trespassers. Toss your guns toward me.”

“Can’t do that,” I said. “We’re SFPD. I’m holstering my weapon and backing away.”

The speaker said, “Police? Why didn’t you say so? Show me your hands. Believe me,” said the man standing behind the floodlights. “I’m not kidding around.”

Chapter 65

I holstered my gun.

I showed the SOB on the porch my hands and Conklin did the same. In the process, I thumbed my mic into the open position so that Brady could hear us.

“We’re not going to shoot,” I called out to the man with the assault rifle. “You’re in no danger. We came here to talk. How about you cut the lights so we can do that?”

He stepped inside his cabin, and pulled a plug or threw a switch. All but one of the security lights went out. We were twenty yards away from the porch, close enough to recognize the man from the photo Berney had passed on to Joe. His gun was still aimed at us.

“Talk fast,” he said.

I identified myself and asked him to do the same.

“Winslow,” he said. “Jake. You’re here about my son?”

“Right,” I said.

My heart pounded right about where Burke was aiming his weapon.

He said, “Then this is what you need to know. You won’t prove a thing against Lucas. He’s a strategic genius with a gift for the dramatic. He has no conscience. None at all. But I’ll tell you this—he did it. He killed his