Джеймс Паттерсон - 21st Birthday

“She’s gone off her meds?”

“Yes. And in my opinion, that’s why she’s telling stories to her friends, spending like crazy, running away from home, and do you want to know what worries me?”

He was ranting, and I wasn’t going to stop him. I actually found him believable, but I wished I’d had this on tape.

“Tell me,” I said.

“What worries me is that Tara is unhinged, Kathleen is unhinged, and if this is genetic, I worry Lorrie will be, too. Okay? Give me your card and I’ll call you when I hear from my wife.”

CHAPTER 10

FIVE MINUTES LATER, I was back in my car and still deeply disturbed about the missing wife and child.

Kathleen Wyatt had gotten to me, and I believed in my heart that Tara and Lorrie were in danger. I couldn’t walk away, despite Clapper’s direct order, until they were safe.

Lucas Burke hadn’t raised my hackles. I didn’t feel that he had killed Tara and Lorrie, but he hadn’t seemed very worried, either. Where were they? Had Tara run off, as her husband insisted? Or had something happened to them, as Kathleen feared?

I thought about Tara and Lorrie Burke. I swear I heard them calling out to me. If they weren’t home by morning, I wanted to get this damned case from Missing Persons and work it. Get search warrants. Interview Burke’s coworkers, students, neighbors, and friends.

My tension turned physical. My neck and shoulders were cramping. It felt like the restraints Clapper had put on me were tightening.

I got back to the squad room at just after five and found a note from Conklin weighted down by my stapler.

I’m with the search team. Call you later. R .

I gulped Tylenol dry and called Richie. He picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“At my desk. How’s it going?”

“I’ve got that feeling like when you’ve put something down in your house and can’t find it. But you know it’s there. It’s gotta be there.”

We talked more. I told him about my interview with Burke, warming myself up for an unpleasant meeting with Clapper, and told Rich I’d report back. I took the stairs up to the fifth floor, headed for the corner office facing Bryant.

I knocked. And then, I wriggled the doorknob. Stupid. What if Clapper opened the door in my face and said, “What do you want, Boxer?” But his door was locked.

At around six p.m. I drove to the edge of the Financial District, parked on Jackson Street, and walked toward Susie’s Café, where I was looking forward to seeing my three best friends. Cindy had named our gang of four “the Women’s Murder Club” and it had stuck.

We’d claimed Susie’s Café as our clubhouse. Cindy, Claire, Yuki, and I loved the place for the “don’t worry, be happy” crowd at the bar, the steel band and occasional limbo contest, the tasty Caribbean food, and that everyone knew our names.

We try to meet here every couple of weeks for the laughter and camaraderie, and we also pool our mental resources and apply them to cases that refuse to crack.

Tonight, we were getting together because three weeks had passed since we’d last seen Claire.

A chill breeze blew down the empty street. I buttoned my jacket but I still felt cold.

Then I saw the lights coming from the café windows. If anything could warm me, it was Susie’s Café and a huddle with my best friends.

Maybe one of us would have a bright idea.

CHAPTER 11

AS I CLOSED IN ON Susie’s front door, a small crowd streamed out to the street. A gent held the door for me and, as always, the roar of laughter and the aroma of curry washed over me.

I stood for a moment inside the entrance, mapping out my path, then edged between the standing-room-only patrons banked at the bar and the clump of customers waiting for tables. I exchanged hellos with Susie and crossed to a corridor at the rear of the main room. This narrow passageway led past the kitchen, then emptied into the quieter, smaller, and cozier back room. No music, no bar back there, just Jamaican street art on the walls and a dozen tables and booths, including the one we thought of as ours.

Claire was at the far end of the banquette, the seat next to the window. Yuki sat across from her and both smiled hugely as I came up to the table. I slid in next to Claire and high-fived Yuki over the table.

“Cindy’s on the way,” she said.

I grabbed Claire’s hand.

She had been diagnosed with lung cancer and had undergone surgery that cost her half a lung. The surgery was successful, but there’d been no promises as to her life expectancy. That scared the hell out of me and everyone else who knew and loved Claire. Still on leave from her post as the city’s chief medical examiner, she was seeing her own doctor every three months for checkups until further notice.

Sitting next to her, I noticed how thin she’d become. She’d wanted to drop a couple of dress sizes for years, but cancer was no one’s idea of how to lose the weight.

Yuki had just come from her office at the DA and was wearing a sharp black jacket and pants, hair falling to just below her chin with a blond streak in front. She looked good, but sleep-deprived.

She leaned in and said, “Dr. Terk told Claire that she’s doing better than expected. That is to say, she’s doing great.”

Claire cracked a grin. “No secrets, right? I’m cleared to go back to work, although I had to swear on my daughter’s pet bunny I would not pull all-nighters.”

We all started laughing. Claire’s daughter Rosie’s rabbit was a big-eyed flop-eared thing named Hoppy who sleeps with Rosie on her pillow. Then Claire asked about the new commander of the Southern Station and the laughter stopped.

“Clapper’s kind of a brilliant choice, isn’t he?”

Yuki, who was married to Brady, said, “Hmmmm.”

Claire said, “Not so enthusiastic, Yuki-san. What is it?”

“Uh. Well, Brady is moody. Bad moody. Didn’t sleep last night. That’s odd for him. He likes Clapper a lot. It’s more like he’d almost decided he didn’t want the promotion to chief, but you know, he’s pissed that the mayor made the decision for him. Feels to him like a slight. Or a vote of no confidence.”

Before I could say that I’d already gotten a big fat demerit from Clapper, our favorite waitress, Lorraine, came to our table. Her red hair was pulled up in a knot; she had pencil and pad in hand.

She asked, “Is Cindy coming?”

Yuki said, “Any minute.”

On cue, Cindy blew into the back room.

She wore denim all the way and her curls were tight from the damp wind. Her big blue eyes were shining, and after she slid in next to Yuki, she said, “Sorry for making you wait. I was stuck behind an oil truck.”

Lorraine greeted her and recited the specials.

Claire asked for steak, black beans, and rice. Yuki ordered a crab salad, and Cindy said, “Conch, deep fried.”

“We’re out of conch,” said Lorraine.

“Chicken feet dredged in spicy flour.”

“So, by that you mean blackened snapper and fries.”

“Exactly!” said Cindy. “And a salad.”

“Me, too,” I said,

“Yuki. You need a margarita?”

“Just beer,” said our dear friend who had no tolerance for tequila at all.

“So that’s beer all around,” Lorraine said.

“Hear, hear,” I said.

Beer came. We lifted our frosty mugs and toasted as one.

“To Claire.”

“To us,” said Claire.

We clinked mugs.

Lorraine brought plates of food lined up and balanced on both of her forearms, and when dinner was on the table she asked if we needed anything else. We all said we were good. After taking long slugs of brew, Cindy leaned forward and said dramatically, “Well, girlfriends. I’ve got news.”