23rd Midnight, page 23
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
Dr. Greene said, “Lieutenant Brady lauded you and Rich to the press. I hope you can give that to yourself.”
I shrugged. “Did I mention that Richie saved my life?”
“Yes. Tell me again.”
I did.
Dr. Greene said, “He’s another of a rare breed. It’s called self-sacrificing.”
We all did that every day. It was never just a job.
“Where are you, Lindsay?”
“I’m very tired, Doctor. But as I’ve said before, I work with great people. I work hard to get bad people off the streets. Murder is always on the table. Today, despite everything that happened, I’m feeling pretty good about cuffing that son of a bitch. That’s the truth.”
Dr. Greene smiled at me.
He said, “How would you feel about taking some time off?”
“That sounds like a good idea. One snag.”
“Which would be?”
“Joe has a job offer from the FBI. Full time. Right away.”
I told Dr. Greene that Joe hadn’t accepted the offer yet. He was still caring for Julie from after school until whenever I got home. We still had to discuss how to fill the “daddy gap” for Julie. I knew we wouldn’t be the only working parents with a nearly five-year-old, but I didn’t have a nine-to-five job and if Joe went back to the FBI, his day would have elastic hours, too. Even with Mrs. Rose as backstop, I didn’t know how we would manage it.
The last time I’d seen Dr. Greene, I’d asked if I was done with therapy when I could decipher the modern art paintings on his walls. It had been a joke, but I’d been itching to get out of this enforced psychotherapy. Now, I was glad for the therapy, but needed to go home. I looked at the set of three paintings and the white walls. They were all composed of lines and swirls and colors without names.
I said, “I can interpret the paintings all right, but I’ll save that for another time. Our hour is up, Doc. See you next week?”
“Yes, of course. And call anytime if you need to talk.”
He offered me the Chronicle and I was glad to have it. I thanked the doctor and headed home.
CHAPTER 103
THE WEEK AFTER Cindy was released from the hospital, twenty-three days after her launch event at Book Passage, Claire, Yuki, and I had a conference call with Rich from Yuki’s office.
Yuki asked, “Okay for us to come over?”
Rich said, “She’s still, you know, fragile. She would like to see you guys, but no dancing.”
Claire said, “If no dancing, what then?”
“You know. Girl talk. Say she’s looking good. And no spicy food, either.”
I said, “Flowers okay?”
“Pastel colors should be okay.”
I laughed at his joke and said, “We’ll be careful.”
We’d stopped at Lucky to buy flowers, soup, and ice cream, piled into Claire’s Escalade, and drove to Kirkham Street. During the drive, we all got quiet. I was thinking about Richie’s dumpster dive and Cindy’s survival about a minute short of death.
Claire said, “I know we’re scared, but she made it, girlfriends. Our mission is to get her to smile.”
Rich and Cindy live in this small three-room apartment, a cute place that’s, as the saying goes, as snug as a bug in a rug.
Claire parked her boat. Yuki rang the bell, jogging in place as we waited at the doorstep. Claire and I laughed at her, but we were as eager to see Cindy as she was. Rich opened the door and the three of us greeted him with hugs.
“Come on in, Murder Club ladies. What can I get you?”
Yuki, Claire, and I edged past Richie and found our dear friend in PJs, lying on the sofa under a pale blue blanket. Yuki called over her shoulder, “We’re good, Richie. Oh. Could you put this in the freezer and this in a pot. And these in a vase.”
Richie took our shopping bags, and we each leaned in and gave Cindy gentle hugs. Then Rich was back. He moved over a couple of chairs as we told our friend how good it was to see her.
Cindy beamed and waggled her fingers at me which I translated as a request for another hug. I got down on my knees so she didn’t have to move or strain vocal cords injured by Blackout’s hands. She whispered in my ear, “Tell me everything.”
“We will.”
Yuki went into the kitchen, heated up the chicken soup, and poured out five mugs. Rich sat down at the table with his mug o’ magic healing soup, our bright red roses, and a big bowl of corn chips that he passed around.
“Music?” he asked.
“Got something reggae?”
He shook his head as if we were all crazy, but he dialed up Spotify on Cindy’s laptop and—suddenly we were at our booth at Susie’s. No beer, no margaritas, no pulled pork, but we were together and that was a blessing.
Claire fluffed up Cindy’s pillow and Yuki leaned in to say, “Here’s the scoop. Blackout aka Bryan Catton was arraigned on Monday, charged with seven murders and the abduction of you, Girl Reporter, attempted murder on you and Lindsay, plus a charge of aggravated assault for good measure.”
Cindy whispered, “When’s his trial?”
Yuki said, “It’s in the works. Len will want to be lead prosecutor. I’ll be second chair.”
Cindy smiled and made a V for victory sign with her fingers. Then she asked, “Catton on suicide watch?”
Richie said, “You bet.”
Cindy reached for a pad and pen on the coffee table, wrote in big letters: HEADLINE NEWS. ME = STAR WITNESS.
“For sure,” said Yuki, fist-bumping her.
I dished up the ice cream, everyone’s individual favorite flavor, and when the music came to an end, we unanimously agreed that for now, it was time to hug Cindy goodbye. As we were leaving, Cindy waved me over again.
I bent to hear her.
“You and Richie saved my life.”
“He saved mine, too.”
“Will you be my maid of honor?”
“Aww Cindy. You know I will.”
“Shhhh,” she said. “He doesn’t know.”
I buttoned down a smile and said, “I promise. It’s off the record.” I hugged her again, kissed her cheek, and as we’d come in, we swept out of the apartment, got into the big black Escalade SUV. Claire let me drive. Yuki stretched out in the back seat and we headed back to the Hall.
Speaking for myself, I was elated.
CHAPTER 104
ALVAREZ, CONKLIN, AND I were at our desks that morning talking over coffee about last night’s spring training game. We were in agreement that the Giants had been cheated of a win by a bad call that video replay should have overturned. Rich was vehement.
He was saying, “It was clear from that second angle that the kid leaned over and prevented Wade from making the catch. Bang. Fan interference. You saw it, right, Alvarez? Pure and simple, we was robbed.”
Alvarez said, “So kick it to Robbery.”
I laughed. We didn’t have a Robbery division anymore. But Central Station had one.
I said, “Central would love complaints from sixty thousand PO’d fans.”
Rich said, “It would please me, no end.”
We were all emotionally tapped out and had been hoping for a win. Blackout was in jail awaiting trial and forcibly retired from the snuff video business, but he’d left dread behind. I couldn’t open an email without fear that a murder-in-progress as seen through the sick eyes of the killer could jump out of the screen.
I cut the thought off at the knees and replaced it with the advice from Dr. Greene. Take some time off. I planned to put it to Brady this afternoon.
And then, there he was, coming down the aisle toward us. He stopped just short of our pod and I shrank back a little bit. It was involuntary. I just didn’t want another case. Not yet.
Brady looked at me and said, “Sergeant, got a moment for me?”
I sighed. “Sure, Lieu.”
“In my office,” he said.
Reluctantly, I got out of my chair and followed him back down the aisle. He held his door for me and I took a seat, put my feet up on the side of his desk.
He settled into his chair and fixed me with his sharp blue eyes. “Got any big plans?” he asked.
“No, and I’m liking that.”
“We need to go out to San Quentin.”
“Why, Brady? What for?”
“Trust me now,” he said. “Thank me later.”
As my more spiritual sister, Cat, likes to say, “Let it go.” So I tried that and found my morning thoughts were still circling. Things to do, things not to do, and a premonition of something behind the curtain about to jump out and yell, “Gotcha.”
I went back to the pod, shut down my computer, told my partners to hold the fort.
“Wassup, Lindsay?”
I shrugged, grabbed my phone, and took the fire stairs with Brady down to Bryant Street, where his favorite SUV was waiting. He signed the log and we both got into the vehicle. I buckled up. Brady started the engine, then, turned to me and said, “You’re going to be glad you did this, Boxer. For years.”
Prove it.
CHAPTER 105
BRADY AND I were escorted by guards to a big concrete room with a cage at the center and a man in the cage. There were two doors, each one twenty feet away from the cage, one to the left, one to the right. The room was not the attorney-client one Burke had earned by his six murder confessions and cold-case assistance but served as a pass-through. As we sat in folding chairs looking at the killer inside the cage, a number of guards came through one door and left by the other.
Brady had spoken with Warden Hauser early this morning and told me the plan during our drive. I knew what to do, what to say, but I didn’t know what to expect. Now, looking at Evan Burke, his face four feet away from mine, he raised hackles I didn’t know that I had.
Burke’s shaved head had grown in since I’d seen him last week. His face was stubbly and his fingernails were rough. But he was jocular in that know-it-all way he has, even with a stack of life sentences against him and no possibility of parole.
Today he wore an orange jumpsuit and shiny metal accessories: cuffs, chains, and shackles. We’d exchanged greetings and now that we’d had a chance to sniff each other out, Burke said, “How’s Cindy? I hear some criminal roughed her up?”
“She’s doing fine,” said Brady. “The criminal’s name is Bryan Catton.”
“Oh?”
Brady said, “He claims to know you.”
“Me? How?” said Burke.
“You don’t know his name?”
“How’m I supposed to know him? You know more about me than just about anyone. I don’t have friends. I moved around a lot … Now I’m in solitary.”
Brady said, “Boxer?”
I said, “Okay, Evan. Catton came to visit you every few months, posing as your attorney. He wore minimal disguise, signed the log Brian Catalina—an alias varying his first name plus your ‘Ghost of Catalina’ nickname. Here’s a copy of the sign-in sheet.”
Brady produced pages folded lengthwise from his briefcase and passed them to me. I flattened them and held them up one at a time against the wire cage.
Burke said, “You’re saying he came here? I don’t see a Bryan Catton. Len Woods, an ad man. Wyatt West. Some kind of a producer. Oh. Okay, that one is Brian Catalina. Oh. I think he was interested in the book I did with Cindy than anything to do with my appeal.” Burke was getting impatient. “What the hell is this about? I hate cops. If you’re still here in three minutes, I’m calling the guards.”
I said, “Three minutes is all it’s going to take, Evan.”
“Call me Mr. Burke.”
“Okay, Mr. Burke. Bryan Catton came to see you multiple times. But you know that, right?”
“So the fuck what? Guy comes here, spends five minutes with me, makes his pitch that I’m not even listening to, and then he’s escorted out.”
I said, “We have a few other papers to show you.”
Brady reached into his briefcase again and brought out a manuscript box and a brown eight by eleven envelope.
Brady asked Burke, “Interested? Or should we call the guard?”
“You son-of-a-bitch.”
I glowered at Burke as I’d been told to do.
“What’s with you, Lindsay?” Burke said.
“You give me the creeps. That’s all.”
“So who invited you?” Burke said.
I said, “I’ll tell you what’s in the box. It’s a first draft of a manuscript called The Last Face You’ll See: The Life of Evan Burke.”
“Let me see that,” Burke said.
“The writers are you and Bryan Catton,” I said. “But wait, the best is yet to come.”
Brady opened the brown envelope, took out the papers and handed them to me, saying, “Sergeant, why don’t you read this one?”
“Your handwriting,” I said to Burke. “See?” I flashed it so he could see the letter and then I read:
“‘Hey, Bryan, my daughter-in-law was about twenty, and my granddaughter was a toddler. One was a brunette and the other a strawberry blonde. I think females like that would be suitable targets. Get me?’”
Burke became livid. His face turned red and his eyes bulged and he tried to stand, but with the handcuffs, the chain between them to the shackles around his feet, he only managed a crouch.
“What do you think you’re doing, Brady? You trying to accuse me of something? I’ve been tried, convicted, sentenced, and locked in this cinderblock hole. You’re accusing me of murder?”
Brady said, “This is one of many documents like this one,” he said, patting the large envelope. “They’re proof of conspiracy to commit murder.”
I said, “Here’s the note Catton wrote back to you, saying ‘Yeah, those seem like appropriate targets,’ and then a dark-haired woman and her redheaded baby washed up on Baker Beach. Look familiar?”
I held up a photo of Catherine Fleet, lying on a gurney with the baby on her chest, water dripping from her coat and the ME’s van as a backdrop. Then I whipped the photo away so that there wouldn’t be enough time for Burke to get much pleasure from it.
“And here’s the letter you wrote to Catton saying, ‘If we want a big boffo ending to the script, you need to take out the nutty blond reporter and the big pushy female homicide cop.’”
I put the letter down on my lap and said to Burke, “That would be Cindy Thomas and me.”
Burke said nothing but looked at me with his mouth hanging half open. We’d blindsided him, but the meeting wasn’t over yet.
I said, “You put hits out on me and my friends and I have to tell you, Bryan followed your directives and he had plans of his own. He’s been hospitalized and, I heard, is in excruciating pain. And he’s been indicted on seven charges of murder one and attempted murder on me and on Cindy.”
Burke shouted, “Are you threatening me, Sergeant? Because I’m fine. ‘When you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.’”
I kept going. “Mr. Catton’s video glasses were working perfectly and he filmed his kills. He’s already talking, Mr. Burke, and as for me, I’m waiting to see if the death penalty can be revived especially for the both of you.”
“Good luck with that. I wouldn’t bet against me, Sergeant.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all in here. Things you couldn’t possibly imagine.”
I snorted, “You’re pathetic,” and having had the last word, I stood up. Brady called the guards and they were showing us out when Burke called out, “Leave that manuscript.”
Brady shouted back, “Sorry, Evan. It’s evidence.”
Four guards walked past Burke’s cage holding overflowing cardboard cartons.
Burke yelled, “Hey! Where you going with my stuff?”
A feather mattress topper was bursting out of one box. Another held a terry-cloth robe, a TV, and a radio. I knew but Burke did not. All of the comfort items he’d negotiated for in exchange for his confession to innumerable murders and input on unsolved cases were now being removed. I heard Burke screaming “Nooooooo,” as we passed from the private room through the metal door and out to the public area and exit from the prison.
Back in the car again, I buzzed down my window so I could feel the breeze blowing in from the bay.
Brady said, “Well?”
I turned to look at him. He smiled and I smiled back.
“Thanks, Brady. That was a peak experience.”
He said, “For me, too. Talk to Joe and plan your vacation.”
I said, “Will do. How long can you get along without me?”
Seabirds circled. A ferry blew its horn. Sunlight capped the waves.
Brady said, “Take the time you need.”
I hugged him, and as he started the engine, I lowered the seat back and closed my eyes. Something Richie and I had said to each other many times came to me now unprompted.
I turned my head and said it to Brady.
“This is a good day to be a cop.”
Acknowledgments
Our thanks to the exceptional people who shared their time and expertise with us during the creation of this book: the real Rich Conklin, Assistant Chief, Bureau of Criminal Investigations, Stamford, Connecticut Police Department; Michael A. Cizmar, Special Agent FBI, retired, and former private military contractor in Afghanistan; Donald Blaufuss, former door gunner in Vietnam, 1966; Ann Payne and the pros at Superdroid, Inc.; and our first-class legal advisor, Steve Rabinowitz, Attorney-at-law, LLP, in New York.
As always, we’re grateful to our talented researcher, Ingrid Taylar, in San Francisco, and Mary Jordan, who keeps track of the parts and pieces and keeps the whole shebang together. And, many thanks to the talented Team Patterson at Little, Brown.
Why everyone loves James Patterson and the Women’s Murder Club
‘It’s no mystery why James Patterson is the world’s most popular thriller writer. Simply put: nobody does it better.’
