23rd Midnight, page 2
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
Cindy stuffed the book into her handbag and stared out at the view blowing by without actually seeing anything. She hadn’t slept a full night since meeting Burke and her waking thoughts were consumed with bloody murder and the pantheon of Burke’s so-called peers; Bundy, Gacy, Dahmer, BTK with a little Son of Sam thrown in. Burke liked the comparisons because by his calculations he stood above them with a gold medal hanging from a ribbon around his neck.
But one unexpected and redeeming feature had come of this total immersion in all things Burke. Cindy had a platform and a bullhorn, and if You Never Knew Me became the success her friends and supporters believed it would be, she might actually save lives.
The driver said over his shoulder, “We’re here, Miss.”
As the car came to a stop, Cindy reapplied her lipstick, ran her fingers through her cloud of blond curls, then got out of the car without waiting for the driver to open her door.
The driver worked for her publisher, had been vetted, validated, and approved. He had expressed no interest in her whatsoever.
But Cindy Thomas no longer trusted men she didn’t know.
CHAPTER 2
THE DOOR TO Book Passage swung open before Cindy touched the handle.
She heard Richie call out, “She’s here.”
Richard Conklin, Cindy’s good-looking, good-tempered fiancé, a homicide inspector with the SFPD. He greeted her with a hug and a kiss. Then he held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“You okay, hon?”
“How do I look?”
“Like a TV personality. Prime time.”
“Hunh. So you like me in red?”
He grinned and said, “Wear this more often.”
She laughed, “Okay,” as Rich released her and Elaine Petrocelli, owner of Book Passage, came toward them. Elaine shook Cindy’s hand with both of hers, saying, “Cindy, so good to finally meet you. Tell me what I can get for you.”
“I’m just happy to be here,” Cindy said and found that, in that moment, she felt it.
Elaine frequently hosted book events and was a friend to authors. Cindy understood that giving a talk at one of Elaine’s gatherings was good for her in all ways. Get out of your shell, Cindy. Now, she told herself.
Cindy tried to take a panoramic look around, but it was impossible to see the whole store from the doorway. It was designed in a maze of long bookshelves and the aisles were jammed bumper-to-bumper with a crowd of shoppers and browsers. The ceilings were high and the tall plate glass windows on the long side of the store let in the afternoon light.
Elaine escorted Cindy to a rear corner of the store where rows of folding chairs had been set up at the foot of the podium. Behind and to the left of the podium was an easel displaying her book cover, a black-and-white shot of a Burke crime scene in downtown San Francisco, enlarged and printed on foam board. And to the right, a table piled high with fresh new books with her name as lead author.
Across that corner of the room, standing by the wall of windows, were Cindy’s best friends: Lindsay Boxer, Yuki Castellano, and Claire Washburn, all members in good standing of the Women’s Murder Club. All three crime-solving experts in their own realms—Claire as the city’s chief medical examiner, Yuki as a top prosecutor, and Lindsay as a homicide detective who partnered with Cindy’s boyfriend, Rich—were laughing and talking together and hadn’t seen her come into the store.
Cindy turned back to Elaine, who was saying, “I was only going to read a chapter, Cindy, but I couldn’t sleep. I finished the whole book by three a.m. My God. What a story.”
Tears came into Cindy’s eyes brought on by equal parts of humility, gratitude, and a feeling like freedom. That Evan Burke was losing his grip on her just a little. In fact, she never had to talk to or see him again.
Chairs filled and the room hushed as Elaine tapped the podium’s microphone, saying, “Everyone, please welcome Cindy Thomas and prepare to be blown away.”
Cindy took her place at the mic. Richie sat in the front row with Yuki, while Lindsay and Claire sat behind them. Cindy smiled as Lindsay gave her a thumbs-up and grinned, then kept it going, nodding to strangers who’d come to hear about her book.
Cindy said, “Hello, hello, can you hear me?” into the mic and when the people in the back said she was coming across loud and clear, Cindy, uplifted by the strong sound of her amplified voice, launched into her speech.
CHAPTER 3
GRIPPING THE EDGES of the podium, making eye contact with her audience, Cindy began, “Writing this book has been the most harrowing experience of my life.
“I wasn’t expecting Evan Burke’s proposal,” she said, “but I was prepared. I had already been writing about the Lucas Burke case for the Chronicle. When the body of his infant daughter—Evan Burke’s granddaughter—washed up on Baker Beach, I was there. I interviewed a schoolgirl who days later was murdered in her car. Many months after that, I was present when the police discovered the murder weapon.
“I didn’t know then who was committing these crimes, but I was reporting on them. Later, Evan Burke was shot by police and arrested in Las Vegas. We knew he was the killer. At his invitation, I flew there to meet him, hoping he’d tell me something no one else knew, details that we could publish in the Chronicle. I was looking for a quote, but Burke proposed something else. And he gave me this.”
Cindy tugged on a red cord she wore around her neck, tucked inside her blouse, and after pulling it free, she held up a key looped into the end.
“Burke lived in a shack in the desert outside Las Vegas, about four hundred square feet all told. He kept a trunk under his bed and this is the key to that trunk. Two dear friends who are with the SFPD were with me when we unlocked the trunk, but I was not prepared for what we found.
“Burke had been documenting his kills from his first, over thirty years before. He’d filled several scrapbooks with souvenirs and photos. He had drawn maps to where he’d hidden his victims’ remains. And along with the scrapbooks, he had a dozen journals detailing his kills. Often he described the women he was about to kill, what they said, how they died, and bits of poetry along with his victims’ last words.”
Cindy paused, put her hand on the book and looked out at the silent audience. Many in the group looked frightened, as if Evan Burke might just stand up and replace her at the microphone.
She said, “Evan Burke will die in prison. His career as a killer is over. But, along with his trophies and voluminous notes, Evan Burke gave me, gave all of us, a priceless gift.
“Ninety-five percent of Burke’s victims didn’t know him, received no warning, and didn’t survive their first encounter. His gift is one our parents gave us as children and is reiterated, no, proven in this book.
“It’s simply this: Beware of strangers.
“Take that to heart. It comes from one of the most successful serial killers in America.
“Are there any questions?”
CHAPTER 4
APPLAUSE ROLLED FROM the front to the back of the store. Some people stood to reinforce their approval and appreciation and at the same time, a forest of hands shot up. Cindy smiled and, stepping on her own ovation, called out, “The woman in blue on the aisle. What would you like to know?”
“Hi, Cindy. How did the work process go? Were you in the same room with Burke during the interviews or sitting outside his cell?”
“We were in an attorney-client room about as big as a small walk-in closet. It was barred. Burke was shackled and there were guards only feet away. What was I thinking? Silence of the Lambs.”
As she took questions, Cindy quickly realized that a quarter of the mostly female audience wanted to know about her work process, from what time of day she wrote to whether Burke reviewed the work as she went along.
“When I wasn’t physically writing, I was organizing sections of the book in my head. When I slept, I dreamed about the book, the stories, what Burke had done to his victims.”
The remainder of those who questioned her wanted to know more about Evan Burke. Several people asked about the contents of Burke’s trunk of souvenirs, what the scrapbooks looked like, and could she compare his first and last entries. Had he become more efficient? How had he evaded the police for so long?
Good questions, all, and Cindy deftly pointed them to find the answers in her new book, even as they began to drive Cindy back into that dark cave where horror lived in her mind.
A well-dressed woman who appeared to be in her fifties spoke up without raising her hand, saying, “I don’t think I could be tricked by a man like Burke.”
There were some hoots, uneasy laughter, more questions and Cindy fielded them. Yes, Burke has seen the book. Yes, he liked it. Yes, I feel more vulnerable now that I’ve spent so much time with him in person and with his things. I am different than I was pre-Burke. I’m more aware of the people around me. That’s a good thing.
A few men, perhaps drawn to her speech, had found standing room behind the chairs. One of them raised his hand. He looked to be in his thirties, wore glasses, and was dressed in khakis and a black leather bomber jacket.
“I come in peace,” he joked.
“Hello and what’s your question?”
“Cindy. Your presentation sounds like good old-fashioned man-hating to me. How can you say that based on this one killer, women should be wary of men they don’t know? Some of the world’s best love stories have come from opportune first meetings like that.”
Some in the audience shouted the man down, saying that he didn’t get it. A few thought that he’d made a good point. The verbal scuffle heated up quickly. There was some loud over-talking and the group camaraderie was broken.
Expressionless, the man stood his ground. He shouted out to Cindy.
“Let me be clear. You say you deplore the killings and the killer. And yet, you were paid for writing this book—”
“I’m sorry, what’s your point?”
“Point is, you’ve hyped this guy and are taking money for doing that and so is Evan Burke. You’re rewarding an unrepentant killer.”
“You’re wrong,” Cindy said. “He’s not getting paid.”
The guy who’d taken her on was not backing down.
“That makes you a man-hater and a hypocrite.”
Rich, along with his SFPD partner, Lindsay Boxer, and an armed security guard, were moving in, separating the man from the seated audience. Elaine said, “Jesus,” and cut a straight path to the door.
The heckler called out as he strode toward the exit, “Good luck with your conscience, Cindy.”
Cindy was protected by friends in law enforcement. But she was shaken and knew she’d be asking herself some questions later tonight. Was that guy dangerous? Or was he just angry and rude? Was commerce a bad thing? How else to get the Evan Burke story to those who needed to read it?
A woman in the middle of a row of chairs close to the rear of the room called out, “Is that guy one of them, Cindy? A serial killer?”
She said, “We don’t know anything about him except that he was inappropriate. To restate my advice, if you’re dating, I suggest group outings for a while. And carry a key chain that has a hell of an alarm. By the way, I do believe in love at first sight, but love at third or sixth sight also has merit.
“Anyone else?”
Time passed without even tapping her on the shoulder, and an hour had gone by when Cindy, Rich, and the Women’s Murder Club left Book Passage. Yuki drove Lindsay and Claire. Cindy rode beside Rich in his ancient Bronco as they headed south to dinner in Sausalito.
“Did I handle that guy all right?”
“Sure did. Why? Are you worried?”
“Rich, did that guy wander into my talk by accident? Or do you think he planned to challenge me?”
“Don’t know,” said Richie. “But for sure, Cin, you handled him like a pro. You were polite. Had no apparent nervousness. He challenged you, and you challenged him back. But if you ever see him again, call the cops.”
Cindy moved closer to Rich, put her hand on his thigh.
She said, “I think it’s time to get a big dog and a small gun.”
“You’ve got me,” said Richie. “Big dog. Big gun.”
Cindy laughed, snuggled in. Rich took his right hand off the steering wheel and drew her close.
When she woke up, Rich was pulling up the emergency brakes and Lindsay was knocking on the passenger-side window saying, “Wake up, girlfriend. Time to eat.”
CHAPTER 5
THE BARNACLE WAS new to me, but the bar was standing room only and the restaurant was filling with Saturday diners. It was a homey, neighborhood tavern with the added attraction of outdoor dining and a front-row seat on the bay.
The sun hadn’t yet set, but my stomach was growling. We commandeered a picnic table on the second-floor deck and in the pale light of a dusky-pink sky, we longtime friends settled in and settled down.
I sat between Claire and Yuki and across from my partner, Rich Conklin, and my great friend, Cindy, who’d been grappling with PTSD since spending too much time with Evan Burke. She’d toughed it out, though, and we were all proud of her and her important book.
Our waitress appeared with menus, told us her name was Mandy. We ordered beer and oysters all around, and I said, “Yes, please,” to bread and butter. “Two baskets, okay?”
“Beer first,” Cindy said to a round of laughter. “I earned it.”
Claire picked up where we’d left off at the bookstore.
“About that guy with the big mouth,” she said. “His problem with Cindy was that she was paid to write a book?”
Cindy said, “Elaine told me she’d seen him before but he’d never actually purchased a book.”
Yuki said, “I might have a picture of him … Hang on.”
“‘Good luck with your conscience,’” said Richie. “What a punk.”
“Agreed,” I said, “but punks have been known to be dangerous—and stupid.”
Yuki passed her phone to Cindy and said, “No, I don’t have a picture of him. But here you go, cutie. Look at you.”
“Oh,” said Cindy. “Better than I thought.”
Yuki said, “I’m calling it. That guy wanted Cindy’s attention.”
“He liked me?” Cindy asked.
“What else could it be?” said Yuki. “If I’d gotten a shot, we could run his mug through facial rec.”
“You gave him nothing,” I said to Cindy. “Whatever that jerk was doing.”
But the unknown punk stayed with us as the main subject of our conversation. He was wrong about Burke getting paid, but to Cindy’s point, was wariness a good enough tool for women who were too trusting?
Yuki sent pictures of Cindy to our phones while telling us that she had a trial starting on Monday.
“I see murder in the defendant’s future if he’s not locked up.”
Cindy said, “I’d like to come watch you, okay?”
“Good. Yeah. I’d like that.”
Rich and I were just recovering from a week of gang shootings and had little to show for it. Two dead kids and a dozen living teenage gangsters, who were also not talking. But at that rare moment on the deck overlooking the bay we were together and looking good. It was as though the roughness of the week had been washed away by the pale watery light.
I said, “Here’s to Cindy and this freaking gorgeous view.”
“To best friends,” said Cindy.
Glasses clinked and dinner arrived. The bass was perfectly seasoned and prepared and went down fast. We were summoning our waitress to ask about dessert when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I ignored it, of course. No phones at Women’s Murder Club meetings. My husband, Joe, was home with our little girl, Julie, and this wasn’t his ringtone. Still, my phone buzzed again. Then Yuki’s phone also went off. Simple math told me that Jackson Brady, Yuki’s husband and my CO, was calling. He was probably steamed that I hadn’t picked up.
Yuki and I both looked at our phones. She answered hers a split second before I did.
“She’s right here, hon,” she said into her phone. “Linds. Brady wants to talk to you.”
“Brady?” I said. “Who died?”
Rich’s phone rang. He stabbed a button and joined Brady’s conference call.
“We’re all here, Lieu. Give that to us again.”
Rich raised his hand for the check and Yuki said to Cindy, “I’ll drive you home. Don’t think twice about it.”
Yuki gave her credit card to the waitress, and I said, “Yuki, let me know what I owe you.”
I grabbed a hunk of bread, slugged down the last inch of my beer. I kissed cheeks, hugged Cindy again and tousled her hair. “Love you.”
“Me, too. I’m glad you were there,” she said.
I was sorry to leave my friends and wouldn’t do it but for a phone call that could only mean that someone had been murdered.
CHAPTER 6
RICH AND I left the restaurant, both of us feeling bad to leave Cindy on this of all evenings.
Rich said, “I’ll make it up to her.” He unlocked the Bronco. As we mounted up, he said, “And if this turns out to be an all-nighter, I’m going to challenge Brady to a friendly fight, and then I’m going to break his nose.”
I cracked up. Conklin is ten years younger than Brady, but Brady has massive guns. He stretches out his shirtsleeves just bending an elbow.
“I don’t want you to die, Richie.”
“You gotta believe in me, Lindsay. I’ve got quick hands. And I can dance.”
I cracked up again. I love Richie and after many years of sitting across from him at our facing desks, working innumerable homicides together, having the other’s back, always—Rich playing good cop to my badass, my preferred role—we were a good team. More than that, he’s the brother I never had. And a friend for life.
