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

at the Hall, four of whom had told and then confirmed that Lucas Burke claimed that his father, Evan, had killed Tara and Lorrie Burke. Lucas implied that there was a strong likelihood that Evan had also killed Wendy Franks, Misty Fogarty, and Susan Wenthauser, and even Evan’s own wife and child. Lucas was telling everyone in the sixth-floor jail that his father was a serial killer, out to frame his son.

That was his story, Lucas Burke’s defense, but as far as Cindy had been told, he had no evidence to prove it.

That said, if true, this story of familial murder was stunning, a bombshell with staying power and ripe for movie interest. If true.

Lucas Burke’s claim had leaked like fuel from a broken gas line and caught fire. Cindy’s crime blog had been flooded with questions and accusations against Evan and against Luke. People had taken sides. Cindy had published a few logical and well-written posts from readers and with the disclaimer that posts from the readers did not represent the opinion of the Chronicle.

Cindy had done her own after-hours research, phoning friends who did administrative grunt work throughout the Hall, and she had learned something that she could possibly verify. That Evan Burke might be living in Sausalito in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais.

She hadn’t been able to confirm this location with anyone who would actually know. For instance, her lover, Rich Conklin, or close friends, Lindsay Boxer, Yuki Castellano, and Jackson Brady—but at least she had a lead. And she’d been working that lead all morning, driving from hill to dale around and up Mount Tam, knocking on doors, asking whomever answered if he, she, or they happened to know Evan Burke.

She had worn a dress. Yes, a dress. A somber print that hung below her knees and a navy blue blazer. In her opinion, she looked fetching, not slick.

But she’d gotten the door-to-door salesman treatment.

Once she said she worked for the San Francisco Chronicle, the door was slammed in her face.

This had been going on all day.

It was a terrible feeling. She knew that the old-timers around Mount Tam hated the “fake” press more than almost any other institution. This was disturbing, and at the same time motivating. She was sure she could get someone to talk to her, and she had good company in Samuels, who would back her up, physically, if needed.

Samuels was six two and 220 with a black belt in karate. He was an intimidating force, for sure.

But for now, Cindy let Samuels sleep.

She’d studied the map while at home, and as soon as she’d brought it to Richie, he’d started shaking his head no, saying, “You know I can’t help you with your story. But you are so nosy—”

“Inquisitive.”

“—and I know to lock my phone. Which I forgot to do.”

He went on to say, “If any of this Evan Burke story is true, you could be poking a serial killer, and if so, Cindy, you’re inviting very big trouble. You look like the kind of victim this killer likes best.”

“What kind is that?”

“Cute. Female. Small. With a nice-looking neck. Don’t quote me.”

“And what’s your type?”

“Same. Come here so I can bite you.”

Cindy was glad for Richie’s warning, and she wasn’t careless or stupid. If she could locate Evan Burke, she was sure he would talk to her.

*  *  *

Cindy was driving while casing the area. From the density of the woodland and the narrow bike trail to her right, she felt as if she was finally homing in on the location that she’d gathered from her quick peek at Richie’s phone. She signaled for a turn, pulled onto the verge off Morton Road, and took in her surroundings.

Cindy looked up the trail on her right, a wider rut than most of them. She put her Acura into third gear, and let the car do the work, the tires wobbling and righting themselves as the trail climbed. At one point, the road forked. Left or right? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

She took the right-hand road.

Samuels woke up.

“Where are we?”

“Damned if I know. This trail is unmarked.”

A half mile up, the road came to a clearing and in the center was a small, odd, asymmetrical house, without a window curtain or flowerpot or even a clothesline.

Her take? A man lived here alone.

Cindy braked, said to Samuels, “Please stay here, but keep your eyes on me. I’m not going in, but just in case.”

“I got you,” said Samuels. He rubbed his hands together, buzzed down the window.

Cindy got out of the car and crossed the dirt and gravel car park, then climbed the two narrow steps to the porch. She heard nothing. No dog. No music. No car or bike in the drive or around the house. She was pretty sure no one was home.

Still, she knocked and waited.

She knocked again, and called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

When her tapping went unanswered, she slipped her business card into the crack between the door and doorframe and hoped that whoever lived there would call her.

Back in her car, she drove down the rutted trail, taking the left-hand turn this time, and a few minutes later, arrived at a very different kind of woodland house.

Also hemmed in by forest trees, this house was cedar shingled and had a proper flower garden in front, a wheelbarrow planter, and a shiny late-model SUV in the driveway.

These homeowners were a definite possibility for an interview. They might want to help her.

Cindy heard jazz coming from inside the house. A red tabby cat sat on the back of a sofa watching her through the living room window.

A neat-looking woman with silver-blond hair came to the door and opened it.

She smiled. “Hello. May I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Cindy Thomas from the Chronicle. I’m writing a story about the killings in San Francisco and a resident of this community was one of the victims—”

The woman in the doorway said, “Fuck off” and slammed the door in Cindy’s face.

Cindy yelled, “Hey!”

Samuels was getting out of the car.