21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(50)
The bike had a head start and we pulled out, followed it at a distance of thirty yards. There were no other cars on the road. I looked in the rearview and saw our van behind us.
We were keeping up when the bike took a hard turn, uphill. It wasn’t going to Burke’s cabin, so where? I was on the comms with Brady when another motorcycle came down the mountain from a different mountain trail. One of these bikes was a decoy, the other could be Burke. The second bike was on Route 1 heading south toward the bridge. Conklin sped up and passed the bike and as we passed him, the biker made the motion of pulling the chain that blows a trucker’s horn.
His helmet and goggles covered most of his face, but not his mouth and I saw that he was grinning.
When the bike took Morton Road I knew that in fact our chain had been yanked. Brady made a U-turn back to where we’d come from. He must have used the force of his will to get that van up the mountain or maybe they pulled over and ran.
Brady’s voice came over the receiver.
“House is empty. I threw a rock through the window to see what would happen, but nothing did. No lights, horns, or explosives. I pushed in the door and had a look around. No one was home.
“The bastard’s playing with us.”
Didn’t surprise me. At all.
Brady went on. “Where’re you at?”
“Coming up on the marina, this side of the bridge,” I told Brady. “We’re going to stop there and look around.”
The harbor master was in his small multi-windowed office on the pier. He was a windblown but upbeat and talkative man in his sixties who introduced himself as Monty McAllister. Sure, he said, he knew Jake Winslow, said he did keep a boat at the marina, but no, he hadn’t seen him in weeks.
“No motorcycles came in tonight, nope. Not a one.”
Conklin asked to see Winslow’s boat. McAllister said, “Follow me.”
The boat, in good repair, was a Century Boats 30 Express named Lucky Strike. Definitely not occupied.
We went back to our car and reported in. Brady said, “Stay there. He could show up at any time.”
“Any time” came and went. The sun was rising in the east, lighting the upper architecture of the famous bridge. McAllister brought us mugs of coffee and we sat in the car until eight in the morning.
Brady called to ask, “Anything?”
“No, boss.”
“Me, neither. Burke didn’t go back to his house, either. Fucking guy is just fucking gone.”
CHAPTER 67
CINDY THOMAS WAS driving over the Golden Gate Bridge while Jonny Samuels dozed in the seat beside her.
They were on a field trip to Mount Tam with one objective: to interview Evan Burke or people who knew him, get a verifiable story, an unshakable quote, and if feasible, a good photo of Burke talking with her.
Cindy felt lucky to be the one reporter with an actual smoking-hot lead. She had reliable sources at the Hall, four of whom had told and then confirmed that Lucas Burke claimed that his father, Evan, had killed Tara and Lorrie Burke. Lucas implied that there was a strong likelihood that Evan had also killed Wendy Franks, Misty Fogarty, and Susan Wenthauser, and even Evan’s own wife and child. Lucas was telling everyone in the sixth-floor jail that his father was a serial killer, out to frame his son.
That was his story, Lucas Burke’s defense, but as far as Cindy had been told, he had no evidence to prove it.
That said, if true, this story of familial murder was stunning, a bombshell with staying power and ripe for movie interest. If true.
Lucas Burke’s claim had leaked like gasoline from a broken gas pump line and caught fire. Cindy’s crime blog had been flooded with questions and accusations against Evan and against Luke. People had taken sides. Cindy had published a few logical and well-written posts from readers and with the disclaimer that posts from the readers did not represent the opinion of the Chronicle.
Cindy had done her own after-hours research, phoning friends who did administrative grunt work throughout the Hall, and she had learned something that she could possibly verify. That Evan Burke might be living in Sausalito in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais.
She hadn’t been able to confirm this location with anyone who would actually know. For instance, her lover, Rich Conklin, or close friends, Lindsay Boxer, Yuki Castellano, and Jackson Brady — but at least she had a lead. And she’d been working that lead all morning, driving from hill to dale around and up Mount Tam, knocking on doors, asking whomever answered if he, she, or they happened to know Evan Burke.
But she’d gotten the door-to-door salesman treatment.
Once she said she worked for the San Francisco Chronicle, the door was slammed in her face.
This had been going on all day.
It was a terrible feeling. She knew that the old-timers around Mount Tam hated the “fake” press more than almost any other institution. This was disturbing, and at the same time motivating. She was sure she could get someone to talk to her, and she had good company in Samuels, who would back her up, physically, if needed.
Samuels was six two and 220 with a black belt in karate. He was an intimidating force, for sure.
But for now, Cindy let Samuels sleep.
She’d studied the map while at home, and as soon as she’d brought it to Richie, he’d started shaking his head no, saying, “You know I can’t help you with your story. But you are so nosy —”