Triple Homicide: Thrillers

by James Patterson; Maxine Paetro

  Joan Murphy returned to the room in flowing garments, looking like an entirely different woman. She was relaxed. Beaming. Confident.

  “Richard,” she said. “You’ll have dinner with us, right?”

  “I wish I could, Joan. Maybe another time. But before I leave, I need a few moments with Marjorie.”

  CHAPTER 15

  JOAN BROUGHT CONKLIN to the kitchen, where he met with Marjorie Bright, a wiry, blue-eyed woman who was about sixty years old. She was dressed casually in dark pants and an untucked white shirt.

  She dried her hands on a dish towel and checked on the contents of the oven. After Joan had left the room, she and Conklin sat down at the kitchen table.

  Conklin asked some preliminary questions. How long had she worked for the Murphys? What did she think of them? Had she ever witnessed any arguments between the two of them?

  Miss Bright told Conklin that she had worked for Miss Joan for thirteen years. She lived in a private suite on the third floor. She seemed happy with her job in the Murphys’ home.

  When Conklin asked if the couple fought, she shrugged and said, “I guess there’s been some shouting over the last five years, but there’s never been any violence. They have separate suites connected by a hallway on the second floor. Their lives are separate, mostly, but sometimes they’ll entertain at home, vacation, and attend functions together. They live well in this house, and I do think they are in love.”

  Conklin asked, “Do you recall if Mr. Murphy was home on Sunday?”

  “Yes, he was here. I’m off on Sundays, but my rooms overlook the front of the property and his car never moved. I saw him and Joan eating breakfast together on the patio on Sunday morning. Later that afternoon, Mr. Robert called up and asked if I could help him rehearse his lines. He’s very talented, you know.”

  “Could you estimate the time that Mrs. Murphy left the house on Sunday?”

  “No. Like I said, it was my day off, so I wasn’t looking at the clock. Besides, she doesn’t like to drive. She usually uses a car service, so I couldn’t guess a time for you, since her car never left the driveway.”

  The housekeeper got the name and number of the service, and after Conklin thanked her, he returned to the sprawling drawing room and told the Murphys he’d be in touch as soon as his team had any kind of big break or lead in the case.

  Once he got in the car, he called Cindy and talked to her as he drove home. They clicked off when Rich was on Kirkham with his apartment building in sight, and that’s when his phone rang with another call.

  It was Sackowitz.

  “We’ve got an ID on our John Doe,” Sac said. “His name’s Samuel J. Alton and he’s from San Bernardino. He’s the senior VP in claims for Avantra Insurance. He’s married, has three kids under twelve, and is a regular at the Warwick Hotel. On the first Sunday of every month, he comes to town for a Monday morning meeting at Avantra’s main office on Beale Street.”

  “Interesting,” said Conklin. “What are you thinking? Was Alton Joan’s boyfriend? An attacker? A random hookup?”

  “I’m going with boyfriend. We were able to get a look into the Warwick computer systems, and it turns out that Joan Murphy has a monthly reservation at the Warwick. And it’s always on a Sunday night. The first Sunday in the month, in fact.”

  Conklin said, “I’ve got to agree with you then. Sounds like these two were having an ongoing affair. Yet Joan’s husband tells me there’s no chance in hell that his wife is stepping out on him. ‘We have a full and trusting relationship,’ he told me. And that’s a direct quote.”

  “Gee,” said Sac. “Could the husband be telling you a lie?”

  Conklin laughed.

  Sac said, “I’m going to drive to San Berdoo. I’ll notify Mrs. Alton that her husband was shot to death in the arms of another woman. Then, I’m gonna go home and get drunk because that’s going to be one hell of a conversation. You want to mention Samuel Alton’s name to Joan Murphy? See what happens?”

  “Oh, yeah, I do. The woman tells a fantastic story. Can’t wait to hear what she comes up with this time.”

  CHAPTER 16

  CINDY WAS AT Lindsay and Joe’s apartment Tuesday morning, drying Martha after their walk had gotten drowned out by an unexpected drenching rain.

  Martha shook herself off, causing Cindy to shriek, “No!”

  Martha, excited by her friend’s response, put her paws on Cindy’s shoulders and licked her face.

  Cindy couldn’t help laughing. Martha was showing good progress with her injury if she was already this mobile. That made Cindy pretty proud to have helped out her friend in need.

  “What now, Miss Martha?” she lovingly asked the dog. “Are both of us going to have to get into a hot shower? Hmmmm? You know I have to wear these clothes to work.”

  Martha woofed. Cindy laughed again and said, “Copy that, Big Girl. Breakfast is coming right up.”

  Cindy was dumping dog food into a bowl when, of course, the phone rang. It was just like the other morning, only this time it really was Lindsay.

  “Are you checking up on me?” Cindy teased.

  “Of course not. Well, maybe I am, but just a little. Put Martha on the phone for me.”

  “Sure thing. Here ya go.”

  Cindy put the receiver near Martha’s face as the dog gobbled down her beef stew with supplements. She could hear Lindsay talking to her dog, who stopped eating long enough to lick the phone. Cindy cracked up.

  “I’m totally grossed out,” she said to Lindsay. “By the way, it’s not just raining here, it’s a certified downpour. Your dog is wet. The phone is wet. I’m wet. And I’m about to rifle through your closet so I don’t have to go to work in an outfit that’s completely soaked.”

  Lindsay told her, “Go ahead. Be my guest. And take a selfie so I can see how my size ten clothing fits your itty-bitty size-four bod.”

  “Great idea. So, how’s the vacation going?”

  Lindsay’s voice was as light as fluffy clouds in a blue sky. She told Cindy about their lovely room, the pleasure of “waking up with Joe and not having one damned thing to do. I’m eating actual meals at real tables.”

  Cindy laughed. “That’s amazing. Take a selfie of that.”

  Lindsay asked if she was missing anything back home, and Cindy had the Joan Murphy story racked up and ready to roll. But at the last second, she held it back. Lindsay was with her hubby, and their baby was with Lindsay’s sister. For the first time in a while, her friends were enjoying a nice hotel and room service. Lindsay deserved a clean break while she was on vacation.

  “As far as I can tell, life goes on without you, Linds.”

  Lindsay laughed. Then she promptly told her to shut up and informed her friend that she was going back to bed.

  They exchanged love-yous and hung up, and then Cindy picked up where she left off with her chores. It was funny how, even though she had known Martha forever, she felt her feelings toward the fluffy dog had deepened while taking care of her. This doggy was changing from just a typical cute dog to a close friend.

  Cindy had been fighting Richie on the subject of having kids for a couple of years now. She wasn’t ready for them. Yet he’d been ready since before he’d even met Cindy. At one point, the two of them had actually broken up over this very issue. Thank God they had been able to get past their differences and get back together.

  Even though Cindy hadn’t changed her position.

  Still, being responsible for this old dog made Cindy think she might have some tiny maternal instinct inside her after all.

  She threw the wet towels into the wash, left her shoes in the bathtub, and found a pair of Lindsay’s sneakers in her closet. They were big, but they almost fit her. Then she dried her hair, and when her blond curls had sprung back into shape, she located a trench coat with a belt in the back of Lindsay’s closet. She tried it on and decided it would work well enough.

  Before she left the apartment, she called the girls and put them on a conference ca
ll.

  “Lunch, anyone?”

  Claire and Yuki were both in.

  CHAPTER 17

  CLAIRE STRIPPED OFF her gown, mask, and gloves. She told her crew that she was going out for a quick lunch and that she would be back in an hour.

  MacBain’s, the bar and grill down the street from the Hall, was named for a heroic captain of the SFPD who was now deceased. His daughter, Sydney, owned the local watering hole. It specialized in a five-dollar burger-and-fries lunch and was generally packed from twelve noon to midnight with Hall of Justice workers.

  Claire, Lindsay, and Yuki were card-carrying customers.

  Cindy didn’t work at the Hall but had her own card. It said Press on it, and Sydney MacBain was happy to have her business.

  At a quarter past noon, the line of customers was trailing out the door, of course. Claire joined it and was greeted moments later by Yuki. The two friends grabbed each other into a big hug.

  Yuki had just returned to the DA’s office after a year of doing pro bono defense work and was charged up to be putting bad guys away. She had just lost a case of national and global proportions, and was eager to put it behind her by diving into the next one. And Claire had no doubt that her friend would do a phenomenal job on it.

  Yuki said, “Tell me all about this woman who apparently came back from the dead in your morgue.”

  “I can only tell you because she’s alive,” said Claire. “And because Cindy isn’t here.”

  Yuki drew an X over the breast pocket of her suit jacket with a finger, swearing to keep the secret.

  So Claire told her. “The subject, who shall remain nameless, was found naked under the naked body of a man who was not her husband. He’d taken a few plugs to the back and one to the arm, and she had been shot a couple times, too. She appeared to be dead, but in fact was cataleptic.”

  “Is that like catatonic?”

  Claire laughed. “Not at all.”

  Just then, there was a tap on Claire’s shoulder.

  She turned and was standing face-to-face with Cindy Thomas, the crime reporter. Her springy blond hair bounced and shook as she said, “Don’t give me that off-the-record crap. I swear not to run anything until you say it’s okay. Okay?”

  Yuki said, “I feel like I’ve heard this pitch before.”

  The three friends threw their heads back as they laughed. Then the line moved forward and a table opened up inside. When they were settled at their table and had ordered their burgers and sparkling water, Claire told her friends the rest of the information that she knew about the case.

  “The unnamed female’s outfit was collected from the hotel room and is with my team, currently undergoing testing. It’s a two-piece Givenchy suit, a black button-down shirt, evening slacks, and high-heeled sandals. Also, she had very expensive undergarments. The kind that I can only afford in my dreams.”

  Cindy said to Claire, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  Then she turned to Yuki and said, “So, here’s the rest of it—as I was able to figure out.” She cracked a sly grin.

  “This naked man who was found lying on top of this unnamed female. Let’s call her, well, let’s call her, Joan—”

  Claire shook her head and sighed.

  The food arrived at the table, and after the ladies took a few bites, Cindy went on. “The naked man was shot dead and Joan was also hit by a couple of slugs. She appeared to be dead. Stone-cold dead. But she was not. And based on the very expensive undergarments and the nakedness, it seems like she went to the hotel with recreation in mind.”

  Yuki said, “So are there any other theories besides the obvious? Do we know for certain that she was having an affair with the John Doe?”

  Cindy said, “When I met her, she was just regaining consciousness. She told us that she had completely lost her memory.”

  “And it could be true,” Claire told her friends. “She was out of it for six hours, at least. The refrigeration saved her life, but that’s not to say she didn’t lose a few memories. She needs a neurological workup and I hope she gets one.”

  “Or she could be lying,” said Yuki. “You say she knew her name but not what happened to her in that hotel room? That’s pretty convenient, if you ask me.”

  Cindy put down her burger and pointed a French fry at her friend before she dipped it into a puddle of ketchup. “If you met her and talked with her, you’d believe her, Yuki.”

  “I’m a human lie detector,” Yuki said sweetly. “I’ll bet if I met her, I still wouldn’t believe her. I’m pretty sure she’s a very charming and skillful liar.”

  Claire sighed, looked down at her watch, and said, “I have time for a quick coffee if you do.”

  When she glanced back up at Cindy’s face, she could tell that her friend had disappeared down a road of deep thought.

  No doubt she was working on a story headlined “Dead Woman Walking.”

  CHAPTER 18

  RICH CONKLIN WAS at his desk in the squad room. He was doing a background check on the deceased, since he now had his name.

  Samuel J. Alton had a negligible record. Twenty years before, when he was seventeen, he had been busted for selling pot at a beach party in LA. He’d pled guilty to the misdemeanor, got six months’ probation, and paid a fine. It seemed he’d learned his lesson, though, because after that he hadn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket.

  But Sam Alton wasn’t exactly a model citizen, because once a month he came to town, stayed at the Warwick, and apparently spent time with a very wealthy woman who had a home in an exclusive part of town. That woman always booked a room for the two of them. She also happened to have a husband. And he’d had a wife and kids.

  Had last weekend’s tryst gotten Sam Alton killed?

  If so, by whom? How did the killer gain access to the room?

  And if his death wasn’t caused by a scorned spouse, what was the motive for the shooting?

  Conklin opened a file of photos. Dr. H. had taken some at the scene, while Claire had taken the others. In Claire’s pictures of the victim, he was resting on a metal table in her lab. She’d also included close-ups of the labels. Seeing Claire’s careful, meticulous work made Conklin smile. She was very good at her job.

  There was a second zip file containing photographs of Sam Alton’s clothing that had been stowed away at the hotel.

  The attached note from Dr. H. read:

  See Joan Murphy’s clothes as they were found in the room. No GSR on them. Same deal with John Doe’s apparel. The clothing was neatly folded on a chair, jacket hung in the closet. Also no GSR. The lab has it all now and is processing for trace. We’ll get who did this.

  Rich stared at the pictures for a while. What the neatly hung and folded clothing told him was that these two people knew each other well. He saw no violence, but he didn’t see any uncontrollable passion, either. It felt to him as though Joan and Samuel had been a couple for a while. He thought about the way Joan had stared at Alton’s dead body.

  What had she said? “I’ve never seen this man before.”

  And she had seemed indignant.

  Her voice had been hard. Cold. Had it been full of guilty knowledge? Had she set Alton up to be killed? Or had she suffered brain damage that had resulted in memory loss while she was in that cataleptic state? Did she truly not remember her lover?

  Conklin’s cell phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Robert Murphy.

  Rich answered the phone by simply saying his name, and Joan’s husband replied, “This is Robert Murphy. Have you heard from Joan?”

  “Not today. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s missing, Inspector. She slept in her bed last night, but both she and her car are gone now.”

  “Can you please give me the plate number?”

  Murphy recited the numbers.

  Conklin asked, “Is there a tracking device on her phone?”

  “You’ve got me there. I don’t have the slightest idea. Inspector, I’m worried about
her. Especially in light of recent events.”

  Rich said, “I’ll put out a lookout on her car and will let you know if I hear anything. If you hear from her in the meantime, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  Conklin hung up and then played the conversation back in his mind. Had Murphy been straight with him or was he acting? It seemed strange that he would be worried that Joan was missing for a few hours, even though he hadn’t been ruffled when she’d been missing for almost twenty-four hours.

  The alarm bells were going off in Conklin’s head. Something just didn’t add up.

  What had happened to Joan?

  Had she collapsed somewhere and gone into another cataleptic state? Had her husband killed her? Or perhaps she’d just gone somewhere to grieve for her dead lover because the memories from the shooting came back.

  Whatever the reason, Rich wasn’t going to chance it. He called Joan’s number and left a message. “Joan, it’s Rich Conklin,” he said. “Please call me. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  CHAPTER 19

  RICH WAS AT his desk when John Sackowitz dropped by and sat down in Lindsay’s chair. Sac was a big man and was wearing a gray jacket, jeans, white shirt, and a weird pink tie.

  Sac moved the desk lamp out of his way so he could look Conklin directly in the eye. Then he said, “Sam Alton’s betrayed widow, Rachel, is in shock. It’s nightmare city over at her house. God, I hate notifications. Did you get a chance to speak to Joan?”

  “She’s gone missing. That’s according to her husband anyway. I’m heading out to Seacliff to tour the house and grounds. I’ll call you later.”

  Sac stood up and said, “I’ve got some paperwork to do.” He lumbered over to his desk across the room and began typing up his report.

  Conklin turned off his desktop and waved good-bye to Sac.

  A few minutes later, he was in his car and driving out to Seacliff when Brady called.