21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(88)

“What is it you want to tell me?”

“I’m one of the greatest serial killers of this century and no one knows it.”

Determined to keep him talking, Cindy tried not to show any emotion. Not to move her chair back. Not to even comment.

Burke said, “Try to imagine all of the words you’ve written in your career, but instead of them going out into the world, you’ve kept them all to yourself. Where’s the fun in that?”

“And so now you want …”

“The spotlight, of course. I want to see my name in your paper. I want an agent. I want Al Pacino to play me in the movie. I want it all.

“I have a place in Lonelyville, out near Red Rock Canyon. I gave the nurse a map and permission for you to go into my place and take out my personal stuff. You only have twenty-four hours to do this.

“The shack is sold,” said Burke. “I need to pay my lame lawyer. The new owners are taking possession in the morning. So if you want this story, you’d better get ready to load up your car. Any questions?”

“What’s the nurse’s name?”

“That’s Nancy.”

“How do I get this information?” she asked.

“Do you have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Cindy reached into the top of her shirt and pulled out a red waxed string lanyard with the key knotted into the loop.

“Good.”

There was a tap on the glass.

Cindy turned, nodded, turned back to Burke.

“You’re going to want a letter I’ve left for you in case somehow I check out of here before I speak to you. Get your letter and tell Nancy I need my catheter. Nice meeting you. And be sure to look under the bed.”

He closed his eyes. Nancy signaled for her to come outside.

“You have a letter for me?” Cindy asked.

Nancy opened a drawer, hunted around, said, “Oh, dear.”

There was a newspaper on the side chair near the desk. It was the Chronicle. Cindy picked it up, turned it over, and read the headline on the front page.

Her headline.

CONVICTED KILLER LUCAS BURKE COMMITS SUICIDE



Cindy said, “Did Mr. Burke see this paper?”

“Oh, yes. He saw the story on the news and sent down for it.”

“How did he react?”

“He seemed mad, then he laughed and said something like, “What a jerk.” Then he complained that the handcuffs were rubbing his skin off. I told him he wouldn’t be here much longer. Moving him out of the ICU and into a room later today.”

Nancy handed the envelope to Cindy.

“Here you are, dear. Go with God.”

Cindy thanked her and left the hospital. She had a lot to do and not much time.





CHAPTER 118





RICH AND I WERE in the waiting room twenty yards away from the core of the ICU and out of sight.

When Cindy turned the corner, she looked pale. Stricken.

“How did it go? What did he say?”

“How did it go? It was Clarissa meets Hannibal Lecter. He was cold, friendly, abrupt, welcoming, all in about five minutes. I would say he’s as far away from human as you can be and still have a pulse. I know he has one because his heartbeat was on the monitor. And he knows about Luke. Listen, I might get sick.”

I pointed to the ladies’ room, but Cindy stayed with us.

Conklin said, “What did he want?”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

We piled into our rented Outback and Conklin took the wheel. Cindy sat in front with him and I stretched out in the back seat. I called Chief Belinky and gave him the bare facts, that we had a permission letter and a line drawing of the location of Burke’s house out near Red Rock Canyon.

“He’s still chained to his bed, chief, but due to be moved out of the ICU and into a room today. I guess he’s getting better. Talk to you soon.”

Judging from the distance on the hand-drawn map, Burke’s home was thirty miles from the Strip. Following Cindy’s directions, we stayed on Route 95, the highway that cut through housing developments, across smaller roads and plain flat desert dotted with scrub.

I wouldn’t have imagined Burke living this far from the coast. This far from anything.

Although I’d never been to a more desolate area, there was beauty here. Sunset. Mount Charleston in the distance backlit as the sky turned from blue to a vivid red and yellow and orange.

Rich pointed to an exit coming up at a left angle to the highway.

“That’s it,” Cindy said. “Good catch, Richie.”

He took a hard left and we traveled, I’d say a half a mile, following real estate company arrows, crossing other narrow turnoffs, until a grim little shack was dead ahead in our headlight beams.

Rich pulled up to small home that looked like Burke’s place at Mount Tam. The structure was a hybrid of sorts; an old camper attached to a handmade wood-frame house. There was a red-and-white sign on a post at the end of the drive reading “Sold by Patricia McNamee Real Estate.” There were no lights on in the dwelling, no cars in the driveway, no traffic, only insect sounds as the sun melted in the distance.

I said, “Looks cozy.”

Cindy laughed nervously.