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

so I took her credit card and ran it through my shredder.”

Burke did look annoyed. Highly. I could see his point. Then again, he was providing motive. He might be innocent or could be a killer. My instincts weren’t making a call.

He said, “Sergeant, I can tell you everything I know right now. I last saw Tara yesterday morning at about seven thirty when we had our fight. Shouting and name calling only. I walked out and was on time for my eight o’clock class. An hour or so later, Kathleen began calling my cell every ten minutes.

I was looking for tells as I sat across from him. He wasn’t sweating or avoiding my gaze. There was a framed photo on his desk. I moved it toward me. Tara and Lorrie at her first birthday, about four months ago. Visible on the inside of Tara’s wrist was a small heart-shaped tattoo lettered “LuLu.”

He said, “Help yourself. Anything else you need to know about my personal life?”

“You’re not my concern, Mr. Burke. There’s a statewide Amber Alert out for your daughter. Help us out, will you? You must have some thoughts about where Tara and Lorrie might be.”

Burke waved away the implied question.

He said, “You know Tara never even locked the doors on our house, right? And she’s done this before. This time, she emptied our safe, but she won’t get far on a few twenties. The baby’s diaper bag is gone. Here’s an idea. Why don’t I file charges against her? How about kidnapping, for starters?”

“Good idea. Come with me to the station,” I said. “You can make a statement, file your complaint. And we can have a longer talk. Mr. Burke, let’s get Tara and Lorrie home.”

He scoffed and then he laughed and said, “Tara’s just pissed off at me. She’s a doting mother. Nothing will happen to Lorrie.”

A young woman appeared in the doorway. She had a long blond braid and blue-painted fingernails that matched her school uniform.

“Mr. Burke, when should I come back?”

“Give me ten minutes, Misty.”

She said okay and left.

“Another thing,” Burke went on. “Sergeant, here’s something you should know. Tara’s doctor prescribed antidepressants. They’re still in the medicine chest and the bottle is full.”

“She’s gone off her meds?”

“Yes. And in my opinion, that’s why she’s telling stories to her friends, spending like crazy, running away from home, and do you want to know what worries me?”

He was ranting, and I wasn’t going to stop him. I actually found him believable, but I wished I’d had this on tape.

“Tell me,” I said.

“What worries me is that Tara is unhinged, Kathleen is unhinged, and if this is genetic, I worry Lorrie will be, too. Okay? Give me your card and I’ll call you when I hear from my wife.”

Chapter 10

Five minutes later, I was back in my car and still deeply disturbed about the missing wife and child.

Kathleen Wyatt had gotten to me, and I believed in my heart that Tara and Lorrie were in danger. I couldn’t walk away, despite Clapper’s direct order, until they were safe.

Lucas Burke hadn’t raised my hackles. I didn’t feel that he had killed Tara and Lorrie, but he hadn’t seemed very worried, either. Where were they? Had Tara run off, as her husband insisted? Or had something happened to them, as Kathleen feared?

I thought about Tara and Lorrie Burke. I swear I heard them calling out to me. If they weren’t home by morning, I wanted to get this damned case from Missing Persons and work it. Get search warrants. Interview Burke’s coworkers, students, neighbors, and friends.

My tension turned physical. My neck and shoulders were cramping. It felt like the restraints Clapper had put on me were tightening.

I got back to the squad room at just after five and found a note from Conklin weighted down by my stapler.

I’m with the search team. Call you later. R.

I gulped Tylenol dry and called Richie. He picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At my desk. How’s it going?”

“I’ve got that feeling like when you’ve put something down in your house and can’t find it. But you know it’s there. It’s gotta be there.”

We talked more. I told him about my interview with Burke, warming myself up for an unpleasant meeting with Clapper, and told Rich I’d report back. I took the stairs up to the fifth floor, headed for the corner office facing Bryant.

I knocked. And then, I wriggled the doorknob. Stupid. What if Clapper opened the door in my face and said, “What do you want, Boxer?” But his door was locked.

At around 6 p.m. I drove to the edge of the Financial District, parked on Jackson Street, and walked toward Susie’s Café, where I was looking forward to seeing my three best friends. Cindy had named our gang of four “the Women’s Murder Club” and it had stuck.

We’d claimed Susie’s Café as our clubhouse. Cindy, Claire, Yuki, and I loved the place for the “don’t worry, be happy” crowd at the bar, the steel band and occasional limbo contest, the tasty Caribbean food, and that everyone knew our names.

We try to meet here every couple of weeks for the laughter and camaraderie, and we also pool our mental resources and apply them to cases that refuse to crack.

Tonight, we were getting together because three weeks had passed since we’d last seen Claire.

A chill breeze blew down the empty street. I buttoned my jacket but I still felt cold.

Then I saw the lights coming from the café windows. If anything could warm me, it was Susie’s Café and a huddle with my best friends.

Maybe one of us would have a bright idea.

Chapter 11

As I closed in on Susie’s front door, a small crowd streamed out to the street. A gent held the door for me and, as always, the roar of laughter and the aroma of curry washed over me.

I stood for a moment inside the entrance, mapping out my path, then edged between the standing-room-only patrons banked at the