21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(14)

There was so much ambient sound coming from the lot — talking, shouting, sirens — I didn’t hear the impact of her fist connecting with Burke’s nose. But I saw it.

Burke cupped his face with his hands and screamed “Get away from me, you maniac! ” even as Kathleen pulled her fist back, teeing up to punch him again.

I yelled, “Hey, hey,” got between them, and at the same time a pair of uniforms pulled Kathleen away. This time it took both strong cops to hold her.

I said to the closest officer, “Drive Ms. Wyatt to her home and sit on her until further notice.”





CHAPTER 19





THE TWO UNIFORMS muscled Kathleen Wyatt toward the rear seat of a cruiser, but she was manic, struggling and even biting, until the larger of the two cops said firmly, “Ms. Wyatt. Stop this crap right now or I’m going to cuff you. You’re not going to like that.”

Those were the magic words. Kathleen sagged and allowed herself to be folded into the back of the car.

Lucas Burke, the “injured party,” was pacing, head down, blowing his nose onto the asphalt, blood and tears dripping onto his shirt. I put my hand on his shoulder so that he would look at me.

I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Burke. The victim is a child who matches Lorrie’s description.”

He groaned and covered his face with both hands.

“This can’t be true,” he said. He sobbed that he didn’t believe it, that Tara would never let anything happen to Lorrie.

“There’s nothing you can do here, Lucas. Come with me. I can answer some of your questions and you can help us, too.” I looked at him appraisingly. “Is your nose broken? Do you want to go to the emergency room?”

“No. No.”

I suggested taking his car back to the Hall. I would drive. He would sit in the passenger seat.

But again, my brilliant plan fell apart.

The show was over. The tourists were getting into their vehicles. A cop was directing them out of the lot onto Bowley Street, but a traffic jam had formed both inside the lot and beyond, where vehicles had slowed to get a look.

Part of the logjam was caused by a sound truck marked “WKOR.” Not even two hours had passed since we got the call. Topside, I saw the press leaving their cars and trucks double-parked and at odd angles, making the road impassable as they stampeded toward the crime-scene tape.

I recognized several of the reporters; they were the A team. The standout of course was Cindy Thomas, tape recorder in her hand, pointing it at Lucas Burke.

It was up to me whether to let the reporters surround Lucas. I let them.

Burke bit.

He stepped up to the barrier tape separating the parking lot from the road.

“I haven’t seen her,” Lucas was saying to Cindy and the mob in general, “but I’ve been told that my baby girl is dead. Tell my wife — she has to come home.”

It was too much for him. He turned, searched for me among the reporters, and together we pushed our way out to the road.

“Keys?”

He handed them over and got into the passenger seat. If Burke was innocent, if he had truly believed that Lorrie was fine and that he would see her and Tara again soon, he was shocked and horrified and deep in some hell seeing images too awful to bear.

But if he’d actually killed his child, killed her, then he was an extraordinary actor. Which some killers are. I needed time with him to figure out which one he was. I needed time to chip away at his story, nail down a timeline. I would need Conklin to befriend him, coax out Lucas’s story if I felt my own rage taking over.

I was outside the driver’s side of Burke’s Audi, on the phone with Conklin, when Lieutenant Brady walked to the tape and addressed the press.

“A child was found dead in the water at six fifteen this morning. Y’all have heard this before. We have no comment on ongoing investigations. Chief Clapper will call a press conference when he has something to tell y’all. Please help us by moving your vehicles out of the road. That’s it. Thank you.”

Brady ducked under the tape and cleared the lane. We took off toward the Hall.

There was no police radio in the car to distract from the sound of Lucas Burke crying.

God help me, I felt sorry for him.





CHAPTER 20





TWO HOURS AFTER LEAVING Baker Beach, Cindy and art director Jonathan Samuels met with publisher and editor in chief Henry Tyler in his office.

Samuels was a good videographer for a print guy. He had shot and cut the chaotic parking lot melee with Cindy’s stand-up Lucas Burke interview into a neat three-minute spot that could be picked up by the media with credit to the Chronicle.

Tyler sat behind his desk facing the laptop. Samuels stood behind him, leaning in to bring up the light, push in on Burke or on Cindy at Tyler’s direction.

The video would shortly be on the air. Maybe there’d be a miracle. Maybe Tara Burke would see it and step forward.

Cindy sat in the side chair across from them, her elbows on Henry’s desk, her chin in her hands. She was aggrieved about the baby, but glad that she and Samuels had scooped other media. She didn’t need to see the video again. She could picture it, knew it by heart.

The video began with their arrival at Baker Beach.

The camera was focused on a couple dozen members of the press charging across the road to the parking lot on the bluff overlooking the crime scene.