“It’s okay, Misty. He’s okay.”
“I’m worried,” she said. “Whoever killed Lorrie and took Tara could have hurt him, too.”
“When was the last time you and Luke were . . . alone?”
“Sunday night. For a couple of hours.”
“Where’d you go?”
“My car.”
The beverages came. Misty poured her tea.
“He should have called me,” she said. “Look.” Misty turned on her phone, started scrolling through her pictures, found the one she was looking for, and held up the phone for me to see.
It was a selfie with cars whizzing past in the background, Misty and Lucas grinning in the foreground.
“Can I see?” I said.
She handed me the phone and I looked at the time stamp on the photo. It was dated Sunday at 8:13 p.m. I scrolled through the picture file, saw other pictures of Misty with her friends, and a few where she was with Burke, her face lit with love-light.
I sugared my coffee, took a sip, commiserated with Misty about how much she missed Lucas, and then edged in some questions about Tara, asking Misty how well she knew her, if she had any theories about her disappearance or on Lorrie’s death.
Her answers were long, discursive, and thoughtful. I couldn’t have been more interested.
In sum, Tara was only two or three years older than Misty; they’d even overlapped at Sunset Park Prep for one year. She thought Tara was bratty and not very smart, but sexy and attractive to men.
I said, “I heard that she might have a boyfriend. A boyfriend would be a good suspect.”
“If Tara had a boyfriend everyone at Sunset Park Prep would know it,” Misty scoffed. “And Luke would have been justified in getting a divorce.”
Misty leaned across the table and told me just above a whisper that Luke complained about Tara, said that she was whiny and cold. Misty said she wouldn’t be totally surprised if Tara had killed the baby just to hurt Lucas and then taken off, never to be seen again.
I asked for and paid the check, gave Misty my card, and told her to call me anytime. “I’m here for you,” I said.
She stood up to give me a hug.
“I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”
I stood with her in the aisle at the front of the diner as other customers brushed past us.
“Misty, what do you think you should do?” I asked her.
“I should break up with him, right?”
“If I was your friend or family member, I would say so.”
She nodded, hugged me again, hard, and I hugged her back.
I was only fifteen minutes from home, and as I drove, I thought about Misty with Lucas Burke, sneaking time with him in her car, the rest of the time on the sidelines.
My own theory of the crime was starting to gel.
Chapter 35
It was the first calm moment of the day.
I sat at the kitchen counter while Joe loaded the dishwasher and filled me in on the domestic tranquility on Lake Street.
Julie was across the hall with Mrs. Rose, who was showing her how to make cookies. Martha was sleeping on the rug in our bedroom, one of her favorite places. As he talked, Joe brought me a slab of lasagna and a glass of Chianti and sat down at the counter beside me.
This was as good as life got.
I kicked off my shoes and asked my sweet husband to brainstorm with me about heinous bloody murder.
With his decades of experience in America’s Secret Service, he was an excellent brainstormer, and he didn’t have to be sworn to secrecy. He also enjoyed it.
He poured himself a glass of wine and we clinked glasses, said “Cheers” in unison, and I started talking.
I recapped for Joe how Lucas Burke had resisted our search warrants, had sped away, and was currently missing. That DA Parisi was in an uproar, that Chief Clapper was facing media coverage and increasing the pressure on Lieutenant Brady, which didn’t solve anything.
I went over discovery of the body of Wendy Franks, who was found murdered in McLaren Park, and how she was briefly misidentified as Tara Burke.
“Possibly Franks’s death is unrelated. But my gut says otherwise.”
“Hmmm. Tell me more.”
I dug into the lasagna, which was hot and tasty. Joe made the best lasagna in the world, and I told him so.
“Good. Thanks. So keep talking, Blondie. You have about ten minutes before this place fills up with Julie, Mrs. Rose, and a pan of cookies.”
“A timeline is forming in my mind.”
“Go.”
“On Sunday night, before we’ve even heard of Lucas Burke, he nips out, and according to Misty has a ‘date’ with her in her car—then, fresh from his teenage rendezvous, he goes home. Tara lights into him the minute he walks in. The fight picks up again in the morning.”
Joe nodded and I went on.
“Burke leaves the house at seven thirty, we have that on video. He arrives at Sunset Park Prep on time. That’s been verified. Tara leaves soon after Burke with the baby and an overnight bag. Also on video.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Don’t know. No sign of her car or of her. When she walked out the door, her attitude tells me she’s defiant. Either she’s getting back at her cheating dog of a husband—‘You’re not the boss of me.’ Or meeting her rumored but not verified boyfriend. Or she’s taking the baby and running away from home. Or she’s doing all three. Giving her husband the finger and running away from home with her boyfriend. Any which way, she hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“Got it,” said Joe. “I’m with you so far.”
“Okay,” I said. “So continuing the timeline. Same day, Tara’s mother, Kathleen Wyatt, breaks the glass on the fire alarm. She posts bloody murder on Cindy’s blog, calls Lucas Burke a killer, and storms Cindy’s office. Cindy gets me involved, and on Tuesday afternoon, I talk
