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“Little birds. This place is full of them. I could work my connections,” he said, “but right now, I don’t know if she’s still breathing.”
“We’ll get back to you,” said Brady.
“Don’t take too long,” Burke taunted.
Brady called for the guards and we walked away from the cage to the clanking sounds of cuffs and shackles behind us. I was beyond apprehensive. Could we get Burke out of prison for a meal? Would he take us to Cindy?
An image of Cindy came to me. Like many of Burke’s victims, she was lying fully dressed in a shallow grave.
CHAPTER 70
BRADY AND I had a meeting in a hallway beyond Burke’s hearing and agreed we needed proof of life before we could even try to negotiate a deal. We went back to Burke and Brady gave him the conditions. “Proof of life and you get a great meal.”
Burke said, “I know what Cindy’s wearing. Baby-blue sweatshirt.”
That detail had never been broadcast on the news. I knew it. Brady knew it.
Brady said, “I’ll give you some further incentive. Takeout from a five-star steak house, direct to the Q. What do you want to see on your tray?”
Burke replied as if he was speaking to a waiter.
“Steak, bleu. Potatoes au gratin. Field greens. Hot rolls. A bottle of a French cabernet. Chocolate for dessert. Chef’s choice.”
Brady and I took the ferry to Larkspur and from there, drove to Mario’s Steakhouse. We ordered lunch for ourselves and takeout for Burke. When we returned to the prison, Burkewas back in the cage, cuffed and shackled and looking pleased to see us. Guard Tim Mitchell set up Burke’s tray, tucked the napkin into the neckline of his blue shirt and said, “Bon appetit.”
“Merci.” Burke sipped from his cup. “Hey, what’s this?”
Brady said, “I tried. Wine is not permitted. That’s Coke, the real thing. I hear it’s your beverage of choice.”
“There is no substitute for a good cab,” he said.
“Try the steak,” I said.
The steak had been pre-sliced and the utensils were plastic. That was as far as we could go. Burke talked about his kills while consuming his meal. He was particularly proud of a woman and her teenaged daughter he’d killed in a parking lot and had buried together in the same grave.
“They looked like angels,” he said. “I posed them so that she had her arms around her child. Very satisfying. You won’t find that story in Cindy’s version of my life, you know.”
He was spooning up chocolate mousse while telling us about some of the famous prisoners still incarcerated at San Quentin.
“They won’t let me talk with them, of course. But I know about them and I’ve added up all their kills. Who do you think has the most notches in his belt?”
He looked up and gave us a sicko wink.
“That’s right. It’s me,” he said, delighted with himself.
He was an entertaining speaker but I wasn’t amused. I was barely able to keep my fury in check while sitting across from him.
Burke was saying about Cindy, “I picked the right writer, for sure. But I didn’t tell her everything.”
Brady said, “Who’d you leave out?”
Burke laughed and said, “You’re going to have to wait. If I get my computer back, I’ll be finishing my book by the end of the year. Let the victims’ families try to sue me for the profits. There will be plenty to go around.”
With cuffs jangling, Burke put his tray on the floor and called for the guard standing outside the cage.
“You can take me back now, Mitchell. We’re done here. Lindsay, if you ever see Cindy, tell her I said hi.”
Mitchell lifted Burke out of his chair by his armpits.
