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

Cindy waved him back and knocked on the door again.

Inside, the music was turned up loud. The cat continued to watch Cindy until she left the doorway, got into her car, and started the engine.

“Nasty,” said Samuels, when Cindy told him what had happened. “Want me to punch some holes in her tires?”

“Jonny, don’t you know that journalism is a glamour job?”

He laughed. “Absolutely. Where to, now?”

“Down the mountain, over the bridge, and back to work. We live to fight another day.”

Chapter 68

It was still the dark before dawn and Joe and I were in bed, awake, and talking.

He said, “No, yeah, wear it. I love the red.”

I had to laugh. I still looked hot in my red floor-length silk gown, even after my pregnancy. In the ten years since I’d bought that dress, I’d worn it maybe four times.

Today wasn’t going to be the fifth.

The individual known as Berney was in San Francisco. He had some information for Joe, but it had to be strictly confidential, untraceable. When they talked over the phone last night about where to meet, I’d been sitting next to Joe on the couch with my ear close enough to hear Berney’s voice.

I’d said, “I want to meet him.”

Joe shook his head no.

I’d nodded emphatically yes, and Joe said to the magician of the dark side, “Lindsay wants to meet you.”

To our surprise, Berney said, “I can come to your place.”

Joe said, “Excellent. Six thirty tomorrow morning?”

Now, Joe’s projection clock flashed five fifteen on the ceiling.

“Do you want to shower first, or me?”

“Me,” I said. “I’m quicker.”

After my shower, I opened Julie’s door and brought Martha into her room, to keep the elderly dog out of our way. Julie’s eyelids flew open.

She asked, “Did you have a bad dream?”

“No, I wanted to check on you, straighten your blankets. Go back to sleep,” I told her. “It’s very early.”

She yawned and then said, “Why are you up?”

“Daddy and I are having a meeting with an old friend. You and Martha go back to sleep.”

When Martha jumped into bed, Julie hugged our old dog. Conversation over.

I left her room quietly, put the coffee on, and found a bag of muffins in the freezer. I turned on the oven and the TV to hear what the morning anchors had to report, and of course the unsolved murders of Tara and Lorrie Burke, Misty, Wendy, and Susan, were still top of the news even now, a month later. There was a close-up of Brady and me talking to Cindy outside the Hall. Yuki was saying that Lucas Burke was going on trial for the murders of his wife and daughter. Pictures came on the screen of mother and child.

It was painful to see.

If only we were sure that we had the right guy.

Maybe Berney would give us something Yuki could use in the trial. Anything.

Joe emerged from the bathroom, freshly shaven, wearing a nearly identical outfit to mine, jeans and a white cotton shirt. He lined up the muffins on a cookie pan, and slid them into the preheated oven.

I’ve gotten over Joe being more domestic than I am. I’m glad he is. I’m glad about everything Joe.

I asked, “Is Berney his first name or last?”

“I don’t know if it even is his name. It’s what he goes by and it’s all I need to know.”

At precisely 6:30, the intercom buzzer sounded. Joe told his friend to take the elevator, and, a few minutes later, opened the door to the mystery spy, one-name Berney.

He looked nothing, but nothing, like what I was expecting.

Chapter 69

I guess I was expecting a scruffy World War II–type spy. Berney was five eight, mid-forties, with thinning blond hair, wire metal-rimmed glasses, khakis, and a pink sweater hiding the pudge around his midsection.

In short, he looked like a modern-day middle-aged Protestant minister.

When we were seated at the kitchen table, he said, “Lindsay. Don’t take this wrong, but since we’ve just met, I must advise you. I’m a terrible conversationalist. Can’t tell you where I work or live or what I do for fun. Nothing I tell you now can be tied back to me in any way. I won’t testify. I won’t talk to the DA. I don’t exist.”

“Got it,” I said. “And thanks for your help.”

“Joe,” said Berney. “Okay?”

“A-OK.”

“Good,” said Berney. “So.” He took a muffin but passed up the sugar and cream for his coffee.

“This is what you’d call a postcard from the field. Overheard by a friend of the company, Evan Burke told a friend of his that his rotten son, Lucas, put the cops on him for the recent murders. Then he says, ‘Luke’s smart. But not as smart as he thinks.’”

I said, “He said almost the same thing to me outside his cabin on Mount Tam. He said that Lucas killed his mother and sister and was psychotic. I gotta say, Evan was convincing.”

“Evan is convincing,” Berney said. “It’s one of the secrets of his success. And he was trained in special forces.”

I looked across the table at Joe. Special forces was big news.

“We’ve been watching him for decades,” Berney continued. “We call him the Ghost of Catalina, or Quicksilver, because he never slips up and he never gets caught. We’ve never had evidence we could link to him. Now all of a sudden, fresh bodies appear. Burke likes to mix it up. Sometimes a strangling. He’s used a gun. What is consistent is the absence of evidence. No sexual assault, no trace we can pin on him.”

I nodded, thinking about the morgue photos of Misty Fogarty.

“On those bodies you attribute to Evan. Were there ever any nonfatal wounds on the upper chest? Little gashes about the size of pocket change?”

“Nope. That’s new. He might’ve had a new idea. Seems possible. He has the blade in his hand.”

I thought back to what Claire had said after performing the autopsies on Wendy Franks and Misty Fogarty, terming this kind of knife work “serial killer gibberish.”

“What’s your theory on Lucas?”

Berney