21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(3)

“I’m a reporter, Kathleen. I need confirmation, you must know that. But, still, I feel sorry —”

“Don’t you dare tell me how sorry you are. Sorry won’t help my daughter. Sorry won’t help her baby girl.”

“Sit tight,” Cindy said. She reviewed her story about the shooting in the Tenderloin, changed a few words, and then rewrote the last-line “kicker.” She addressed an email to Tyler, attached her story, and pressed send.

Deadline met, Cindy turned back to Kathleen. “No promises. Let me see what I can do.”





CHAPTER 3





CINDY SPEED-DIALED the number, then drummed her fingers on her desk until Lindsay picked up.

“Boxer.”

“Linds, I need some advice. It’s important.”

“What’s wrong?”

“No, I’m fine. Can you give a couple of moments to a woman with a missing daughter and grandchild?”

“Me?”

“Thanks, Linds. I’m putting you on speaker. I’m here with Kathleen Wyatt. I’ll let her tell you why. Kathleen, this is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer of Homicide.”

Lindsay said, “Kathleen. What happened?”

“They’ve disappeared into a black hole.”

“Say again?”

Kathleen said, “My daughter, Tara, and her baby disappeared this morning and her husband has threatened to kill them.”

“You say they disappeared. Is there any indication that they were hurt?”

Kathleen paused before answering, “Tara has run away with the baby before.”

“From her husband?”

“Tara has told me I don’t know many times that he’s said that he hates her. He’s hit her, but not so it shows. He wishes Lorrie had never been born. And yes, I’ve called the police.”

Lindsay asked, “Had Tara taken out a restraining order on Lucas?”

“She wouldn’t do it. She’s only twenty. She’s too young. Too dumb. Too needy. She doesn’t work. She’s afraid of him, and also, oh, God help her, she loves him. At seventeen, she begged me to consent to their marriage, and God help me, I did.”

Horns honked over the phone line. Lindsay was in her car. She raised her voice over the clamor and asked Kathleen, “What was the police response?”

“Today? They say they talked to Lucas but he had an alibi. A girlfriend, probably. You should see him. Smooth as ice. He denies threatening her, them, of course. They have some units searching and they have dogs now in the vicinity of the house. And drones. And they say Tara will come home. And, Lindsay — if I may — I really think it may be too late.”

The words “too late” tailed up into a heart-wrenching howl. Kathleen was crying as if she were sure they were dead. As if she knew. The security guard reached for the door, but Cindy put up her hand and shook her head.

Lindsay said, finally, “Who was the officer who took your report?”

“Bernard. Officer Bernard.”

“Okay, Kathleen,” Lindsay said, “I’ll check with Officer Bernard. Give Cindy your number and I’ll get back to you. If a baby has been missing since eight this morning, that’s a police matter. Call the SFPD and ask for Tom Murry in Major Crimes. He’s the head of Missing Persons. Keep your phone charged.”

“I’ve met Lieutenant Murry,” Kathleen said. “He doesn’t take me seriously.”

“I’ll call him, too,” said Lindsay. “See how the investigation —” she broke off. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

Cindy said good-bye to Lindsay, watched Kathleen write down her phone number with a shaking hand, muttering, “You should help me, Cindy. Lorrie is dead. I feel it in my heart.”

Cindy said, “It’s almost dark. Go home and call the police, again. Did you call Tara’s friends? What about her neighbors? If you hear anything at all, let me know. Wait. Let me see that picture.”

Kathleen handed the picture of Tara and Lorrie to Cindy, who snapped it with her phone. She told Kathleen that she could run it with a request for information as to the pair’s whereabouts without mentioning Lucas Burke.

Tugging at her watch cap, Kathleen muttered a thank-you as Cindy walked her out to the elevator. Cindy walked back to her office, wondering why Kathleen Wyatt had come to her. Was she right about her son-in-law? Or was Kathleen Wyatt just paranoid?





CHAPTER 4





I’D BEEN AT MY DESK since seven Tuesday morning.

It was now eight thirty. I wanted to get some answers for Kathleen Wyatt before the nine a.m. all-hands meeting Lieutenant Jackson Brady had called. As the mother of a daughter myself, I felt an extra urgency.

My partner, Inspector Richard Conklin, and I sit at facing desks, at the front of the dull gray Homicide bullpen. He’d just arrived, but when Rich heard me talking to Lieutenant Murry over the phone, he went to the break room to get coffee.

Rich knew I was doing a favor for Cindy, his live-in love and my friend. When he got back to his desk, I thanked Murry, hung up, and Conklin pushed a fresh mug of mud over to my desk. It was black, three sugars, just how I like it.

“Boxer. What did Murry say?”

“He said that Lucas Burke is a bad dude, but he doesn’t think he’s a killer.”