21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(69)
“And why was that?”
“Because we had a new body.”
Yuki said, “Please tell the court about that.”
“Sure,” Conklin said. “It was a Sunday, and at Chief Clapper’s request we were working through the weekend. Tara Burke’s car and body rose up in the ocean around China Beach, and we were all over that.”
“Was the weedy vacant lot eventually searched?”
“Yes. Not until a couple of months later, but the murder weapon was waiting for us, four feet deep in weeds about an arm’s length from the base of the tree.”
Yuki showed him an array of photos taken during the search of the field: ten men in white hazmat suits, and last, the photo of a gloved hand holding up a razor.
Yuki asked, “Is this the murder weapon?”
“Yes, a hundred percent.”
Yuki looked at the faces of the jury. She had every bit of their attention. The picture of the razor was entered into evidence and then shown to the jury. Yuki also entered Rich Conklin’s report on the meetings with Lucas Burke and his ex-wife.
She thanked Rich and told Gardener that the witness was his. Yuki would bet her IRA that Gardner wasn’t going to ask Conklin how the razor could be linked to his client.
Lucas Burke was innocent until proven guilty.
Yuki had every intention of doing just that.
CHAPTER 91
OUR MEAL AT LAGO was wrapping up.
The dessert plates had been cleared and our waiter brought Berney the check.
I said, “Let us expense this, Berney.”
He declined the offer and read the tab carefully, almost as if he was decoding a message. For all I knew, he may have been.
His plan, as I understood it, was to leave Burke’s capture to Alvarez and me. He’d help us transport the SOB to San Francisco for questioning. After thanking us for our assistance, he’d fly Burke to Quantico, all softened up and ready to admit to innumerable crimes he was suspected of committing.
Alvarez looked very comfortable on her old turf. I was uneasy. The plan was mostly “make it up as you go.” Alvarez and I didn’t have much history together, and Berney and I had none.
I wished he’d said there were a few dozen undercover FBI agents disguised as porters and housekeepers ready to grab the presumed killer, chopper him back to the Hall, and leave him with us for a few night interrogations that would result either in a bulletproof confession or believable deniability.
Berney glanced at his phone while reaching for his wallet. The mild, satisfied look on his face was gone.
Joe asked what was wrong and Berney said, “My signal from Burke’s GPS is down.”
So, Berney was in the dark with the rest of us.
Was Burke’s signal down temporarily?
Or had he deliberately pulled off the road, turned off the engine, and let his GPS signal go dark.
He could be right here.
Right now.
Berney said, “You all have my number. Emergency calls only. Thanks.”
He put a stack of bills on top of the check, and as quickly as he’d arrived he was gone.
Joe said, “I should be going. Got a message for the Bugster?”
A Neil Diamond classic was playing, “Cracklin’ Rosie.” I walked Joe to the escalator, and asked him to bring Julie a few bars of the song if he could sing it.
“I can sing it, Blondie, but I’m not sure how to explain, ‘Cracklin’ Rose, you’re a store-bought woman.’”
I laughed. “Can you hum it?”
“May-bee. How do you feel?”
“Mixed. I want to get Burke, badly. Berney has said, ‘Be very careful,’ but I’m not really getting the plan.”
“You’ve got this, Linds. You backed Burke down on Mount Tam, and Berney respects that. Alvarez is a great asset. Berney will have eyes on you. And bringing down bad guys is what you do. Get Burke in your sights, throw him down. Call Berney to help you get Burke to Clapper. That’s the plan.”
Hunh. I didn’t love it.
Joe asked, “Where’s your piece?”
I patted my handbag.
He kissed me, told me he loved me and to call him when I could. He waved as he went down the escalator. I think he was singing along with Neil Diamond.
CHAPTER 92
ALVAREZ AND I WERE in our fancy duds and had loaded guns in our handbags.
It was still early in the evening so Alvarez took me for a tour of the Bellagio’s cavernous main room.
We started with a peek in at the baccarat table in an alcove off the casino. It was quieter by far than the dinging, ringing of the slots and the ten-decibel excitement of the players popping the lids off their everyday lives to sounds of Sinatra’s greatest hits.
Alvarez explained to me how baccarat was played as we strolled through the marble-floored playground with its convex glass ceiling over the huge ground floor, the conservatory, the lobby with forty tons of Chihuly’s glass flowers clustered at the ceiling dome. We window-shopped the high-end boutiques; Dior, Prada, Chanel, where Alvarez was connected enough to get big discounts on last season’s evening clothes.
That was very cool.
But I never stopped thinking about Evan Burke.
At nine, we stood around the baccarat table with our backs to the wall and watched Berney clean up. Either he was in his wheelhouse or the dealer was in his pocket because all eyes were on Berney. The other players were in jackets, but Berney was wearing his pink sweater. If Burke was looking for Berney, he really couldn’t miss him. When the spectators were two or three deep behind the players, I signaled to Alvarez that I was going to step outside the room and have a look around.