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“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 calledThe 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 theother 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 haveto 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.”
