21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(6)

Brady had been overwhelmed and not organized by nature.

It would take Clapper a few days to see the desktop and get his files up to speed.

I pulled out a side chair and sat down.

I briefed him on my last case in two sentences and we commiserated in one. Then, I said, “Chief, a woman came to Cindy Thomas’s office yesterday claiming that her daughter and sixteen-month-old grandchild were missing. She believes that her son-in-law is violent and could had have killed them.”

“Thomas called you?”

“Yep. I spoke with the complainant and I spoke with the officer in charge, Lieutenant Tom Murry, and he hasn’t turned up anything yet. Hounds are out. Drones, too. Canvass of the neighborhood and school where the husband works. Now, over twenty-four hours have passed.”

Clapper sat back in the desk chair. He said, “I’m aware, Boxer. And know Lieutenant Murry to be thorough. What are you asking?”

“I want to bring in the husband for questioning. See if I detect a falsehood, and maybe I can break him —”

Clapper cut me short.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this isn’t your case.”

“Uh.”

“Murry interviewed the husband?”

“Yes, but he didn’t get anything from him.”

“Boxer, it’s Murry’s case. He’s working it. What did I say earlier today?”

“Many things.”

“I said stay in your lane. If your board is empty, it won’t be for long. Don’t call me, Boxer. Have Brady call me. That’s the chain of command.”

I was insulted and hurt. I felt my cheeks heat up as I stood from the chair and went to the door. Clapper didn’t look up, didn’t say good-bye or thanks or see ya around.

Without seeing her, I said, “Kathleen Wyatt.”

“Bingo,” said Brenda. She made a little circle with her index finger next to her temple, universal sign for crazy.

I clenched my fists and headed toward my desk.





CHAPTER 8





CLEARLY, KATHLEEN WYATT was in yesterday’s clothes.

My guess was that she’d been driving around the city looking for her daughter and granddaughter since then. She seemed out of it, but I put it down to stress and exhaustion.

I took her to the break room, got her coffee and a leftover donut, waited for her outside the ladies’ room.

Given the Clapper rules, I told her that Lieutenant Murry was working the case full-bore. I quoted the record: that at ten after eleven Monday morning, Lucas called his wife from his cell phone and she answered. Their call lasted just under three minutes. Then I moved on to reassurances: that most likely Tara wasn’t ready to be found, and she would be in touch. And then I heard myself say that I would drive out to Sunset Park Prep and talk to Lucas personally to assure myself that he hadn’t hurt anyone.

She gave me a disbelieving look.

“Kathleen. Either trust me or leave me out of this.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Good. Go home and get some sleep.”

I walked Kathleen down to the street, watched as she drove off in her ancient Fiat. Then I went to the day lot across Bryant and got my car out of stir. I’d thought that I had a decision to make, but I’d already made it. Something was drawing me to this case. I can’t explain it, but I felt attached and that maybe I could bring Tara and Lorrie Burke home safely.

It was half past two. School was still in session.

I called dispatch, told them I had to take a half day lost time, texted Rich that the less he knew the better and I’d call him later. Then I called Cindy.

“This is so off the record, it’s in a different time zone,” I said to her.

“What’ve you got?”

“I’m taking a flier. Gonna talk to the husband. Don’t tell Richie. I’m disobeying the new chief.”

“Love you, Linds.”

Sunset Park Prep was located on Thirty-Seventh Avenue and Rivera Street, and this was where Lucas taught English to eleventh-and twelfth-grade girls. I knew of the school, which was reputed to offer a college-level experience in a day-school environment.

I parked the car on Sunset Boulevard, clipped my badge to the inside pocket of my jacket, and tucked my gun into the back waistband of my chinos.

I looked up Lucas Burke’s class schedule again — and, yes, from three to four he had an office hour in the Academic Building.

Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried.

I put my phone in my breast pocket and got out of my car.

Ready or not, Lucas Burke. Here I come.





CHAPTER 9





I WAS DEFYING a direct order, but I felt justified.

In three out of four cases of familial homicide, the husband was the killer. Dozens of cases came to me; bludgeoned wives and smothered children, buried in shallow graves or put through wood chippers, entire families shot and tucked into their beds, the husband displaying grief, begging the real killer to come forward or leaving the country. Often they remarried in under a year.

I hadn’t given up on Tara and Lorrie Burke after less than a day and a half. This was still a presumed missing persons case, even if the chance of finding the two alive was heading toward zero. I needed to get a take on Lucas Burke, the man at the center of it.