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Joe told me that Julie was starting to get homesick—for Martha. I got a laugh out of that and told Joe to tell Julie that Martha had put on a couple of pounds since Mrs. Rose was pretty much cooking for her all day long.
Joe swore to tell her.
Then, he asked, “What news on Blackout?”
“Same and worse,” I told him, then, filled him in on the latest video by Blackout.
“He shot the new victim in Las Vegas, where, by the way, Cindy was continuing her book tour. She’s okay, thank God.Glowing a little, to tell the truth. But this killing in Vegas isn’t a coincidence. You’re a psychology pro. Cindy is doing another book signing next week in Scottsdale. Why is she doing this? Is she sticking her tongue out at Blackout?”
“I’m not a real shrink, you know.”
“What’s she doing, Joe?”
“Ahh, wild guess. She’s restoring her self-esteem. That year with Burke would have depressed anyone. I think despite the murders, she’s getting back up on the horse.”
I was quiet, thinking about that, Cindy getting her courage on. And I thought about the dark street all around my empty apartment. I wished that Joe was here in his big chair wearing his blue striped pajamas, that Julie was in her big-girl bed with Martha, and that Team Blackout held the key to his identity.
That’s when a thought I’d been hiding from myself jumped out and said “Boo.”
Blackout was making plans for Phoenix.
An incoming call beeped. It was Brady.
I thanked my husband for his input, told him I loved him, and missed him. We exchanged I love yous and after confirmation of flight details tomorrow, I switched over to my incoming call.
Brady’s sober voice was in my ear. Tomorrow, Monday morning, we’d be surrounded by razor wire and tiers of concrete cells meeting with a convicted killer imprisoned for six life sentences, a man who hates me for what I’d done to put him there.
CHAPTER 49
BRADY AND I were in the maximum-security wing of San Quentin State Prison. We sat together outside a wire mesh cell the size of a shower stall. Inside the cell was the notorious Ghost of Catalina, Evan Burke, who claimed to hold the record for most kills of anyone in the last hundred years. That was his ego speaking. I could name two other psycho-killers, Pedro Lopez and Harold Shipman, who topped his number, but Brady and I hadn’t arranged this meeting to debunk Burke’s tally. We’d come prepared to deal for information: a lead, a hint, a clue that would throw light on Blackout’s ID and with extreme luck, his contact information.
Burke sat in a metal chair bolted to the floor of his cage. His hands were cuffed and he’d lost a few pounds since I’d seen him last. His hair was now shoulder-length, the salt outweighed the pepper, he had a two-day beard and the lenses in his glasses had an amber tint used principally to block blue rays from the computer screen Burke had been granted as one of his prisonprivileges. Burke smiled when he saw us take seats across from him, outside the wire-mesh walls.
Cocking his head he asked me, “Do I know you?”
It was a put-down. I’d arrested him and testified against him. If not for me, Burke would be haunting dark places from California to Nevada and adding to his body count.
Burke knew me but he didn’t know Brady.
I introduced them, and Brady said to Burke, “Have you heard you have a copycat?”
“Really? You see, chief, I don’t watch the news. I like reality shows.The Bachelor.The Real Housewives of Orange County.”
He grinned. He had that serial-killer charm. That psychopathy.
I said, “Do you know Ralph Hammer?”
“Nope. Cool name, though.”
“A week and a half ago, he was in the driver seat of his parked car when he was garroted from behind. Then he was shot through the back of his head.”
Burke mused, “I don’t like the garrote much. I like a straight-edge razor. Well, you know that, don’t you, Sergeant Boxer? Your girlfriend, Cindy, right? She did an in-depth study of my MO. How is she, by the way? She doesn’t call. Doesn’t write.”
Brady removed an envelope from his breast pocket, opened it and one by one pressed a few 4″ × 6″ photos against the wire cage wall. Burke leaned closer and asked, “Got any more?”
“Tell me what you think of these,” Brady said. “I might leave them for you.”
“Is that supposed to be Tara and Lorrie on the beach?”
