Triple Homicide: Thrillers

by James Patterson; Maxine Paetro

  She set out toward the pool house. It was a darling cottage with French doors that faced the pool.

  Cindy reflected on what she knew about Joan. Joan had always been rich. She had owned this magnificent house before she met and married Robert Murphy, who, after all, might actually love her. And maybe she loves him, too. But anyone could make a case that something had gone horribly wrong in their marriage. That something may have caused two people to die.

  Who’d done what to whom and why?

  If the answer to those questions didn’t make a good story, Cindy didn’t know what would.

  She was about to check on the pool house when a door on the side of the house opened and a man came striding toward her. He was wearing his glasses on a cord around his neck, and they bounced against his bare chest with every step he took. He wore cargo shorts, but he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  And he was carrying a rifle.

  A rifle that was pointed directly at Cindy’s chest.

  He barked, “What do you want?”

  She put up her hands with her palms facing out and said, “Hold on, okay? I’m with the Chronicle. Joan knows me. I’m just gathering some background material on a story about the murder. Look. I have identification.”

  The guy looked crazy. She had opened her bag and started searching for her press pass when she heard the crack of a gunshot. Pieces of marble flew from the last stone steps in the pathway, and then with another crack, a sphere exploded at the top of a post.

  Fear spiked through Cindy. She knew that words weren’t going to help with this guy. He wasn’t hearing her. He didn’t care that she was unarmed and no threat to him. Keeping an eye on the bare-chested gunman, Cindy backed away, careful not to lose her footing on the steps below her.

  But then he raised his gun and fired twice more.

  Holy shit. This could not be happening. He was going to kill her, or at least give it his very best try.

  Cindy knew from her experiences shooting a gun that it’s a lot harder to hit a moving target than it seems on TV or in the movies. But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t get shot.

  As she ducked into a crouch and kept backing down the steps, her ankle turned—hard. She reached for something, anything, but she lost her balance. She made a last wild grab for another stone post, but it was too late.

  Gravity was winning. She fell backward and wasn’t able to break her fall with her hands. Her head slammed against a step and her body kept rolling down, hitting stone tread after tread.

  And as she completely lost consciousness before she stopped rolling on the ground, the shadow of the crazy man loomed over her.

  CHAPTER 24

  WHEN CLAIRE ANSWERED the phone early that morning at the morgue, she immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. She asked, “Where are you, Joan?”

  “About three minutes from your office, depending on the rush hour traffic. I stayed at the Intercontinental for a night. I just needed to be alone with my thoughts. Claire, I have an idea. Actually, can we talk about this in person? I’d like to invite you to breakfast at my house.”

  Claire genuinely liked Joan and loved to hear her laugh. She was curious about how her recovery was progressing. Not only that, but Joan was offering Claire an oceanside meal prepared by a gourmet chef plus a round-trip ride in the Bentley—and well, who could turn that down?

  A few minutes later, Joan picked Claire up. As she drove them along Fell Street, she told Claire that she loved Robert.

  Claire couldn’t help thinking that there was going to be a but somewhere in Joan’s story.

  “I was smitten at first sight,” said Joan. “He was bartending at the Redwood Room on Geary when I came in with a girlfriend from the library board. We were organizing a literary lecture series for kids. When Robert asked me to pick my poison, I told him to surprise me.

  “He made me a drink, Claire, and called it a Robertini.” Joan laughed and took a turn onto Stanyan Street. “I still don’t know what was in it. It was layered in many colors and smelled like a garden in the rain. That’s what it tasted like, too, but it had a secret punch at the end.”

  Claire was enjoying the romantic meet-cute story, but she was still waiting for the but.

  “We started dating. He was very demonstrative and funny. He could do impressions, you know. His George W. Bush was hilarious, and his impression of me—my God.” Joan laughed long and hard. “Maybe he’ll do it for you. You won’t believe how spot-on it is.

  “But most important, I could tell Robbie anything and everything. I felt completely comfortable around him. I told him about my first marriage to Jared, and how the man I loved had turned out to be gay. That’s when Robert said, ‘I got news for you, Joanie. I play for that team, too.’”

  Claire exhaled. So that was the but. She said, “And the two of you decided to get married anyway?”

  “It worked for Judy Garland.” Joan laughed. “Look, I love Robbie. He is handsome, don’t you think?”

  “Very.”

  “He’s very talented, too. He can sing and dance. And he can act like that guy on NCIS. Mark Harmon.”

  “Impressive,” said Claire.

  Joan nodded and pulled the large silver Bentley up to the gates to her home. She held the remote out the window with her good arm, pressed the button on it, and the gates swung in. She drove up to the beautiful house and parked next to a Mercedes sedan.

  “I got that for Robbie for our anniversary. The two of us have a good marriage.” Joan turned off the car and faced Claire. “That’s why I know that Robert didn’t try to kill me, Claire. He doesn’t want to be a widower. He’s pretty obsessed with his image, and that title would make him seem old. Besides, he and I have nothing but good times. We don’t fight. We have love and companionship. Honestly, that’s all we need.”

  “And Samuel Alton?”

  “Who? Say, is that coffee and something yummy I smell?”

  Claire opened her car door and Joan reached over to the glove box with her bandaged arm. She took out a pistol.

  Claire said, “Whoa. What’s that for?”

  Joan shrugged and said, “Someone tried to murder me, remember?” Then she grinned and started waving the gun like a rodeo clown as she took Claire around the side of the house and out to the patio.

  Once they sat down at the table, Marjorie came out and said, “Welcome, Dr. Washburn. Would you like a mimosa to start?”

  Claire said, “I’ll have orange juice without the champagne, please. I have to go back to work after breakfast.”

  Joan was standing at the edge of the patio, sighting various objects on the property over the top of her gun, from the statuary to specimen trees to the birds. Each time she aimed her gun at something, she said, “Pytoo, pytoo, pytoo.”

  Claire said, “Joan? Is that thing loaded?”

  Joan called back, “Of course it is. I’ve also got a license, if you’re wondering, and I’ve gone out to the range to practice. You can never be too careful when you were almost murdered.”

  “Come sit down and give me that thing. I’ll give it back after I leave, okay? It’s just for my own safety, get me?”

  “You’re silly,” Joan said, laughing, but she sat down and put the gun on the table. The muzzle was pointing in Claire’s direction. Claire gently spun the gun so it was pointing toward the horizon.

  She let out a small breath, but her heart kept beating wildly in her chest.

  Marjorie brought out the breakfast. It was a mushroom and fines herbes frittata that smelled delicious and was paired with a side of oven-fresh warm bread. Claire’s stomach rumbled, so she unfurled her napkin and placed it in her lap. She was just lifting her fork when she heard what sounded like a gunshot.

  “What’s that?” Claire asked.

  Two more shots were fired.

  “It’s coming from the pool house. Damn it to hell!”

  Then Joan grabbed the pistol and started to run.

  CHAPTER 25

  CLA
IRE STOOD UP fast. She knocked over a chair, hit the table with her hip, and scattered the contents of the dishes and the juice in the wineglasses. She started moving, doing her best to catch up to Joan. The woman was her age but slimmer, and even with her clipped wing, Joan was faster and more athletic than Claire.

  She called out to her, “Joan, wait up!”

  But Joan was not listening.

  Claire huffed behind her, crossing the lawn. She saw a cottage to her left, a swimming pool, and a set of meandering stone stairs. There was a man standing at the top of it with a rifle. He had the gun sight up to his eye as he pointed it down the steps.

  Joan yelled, “Peter! Peter, stop what you’re doing! Right now!”

  The man whom Joan called Peter was fit and bare-chested. A pair of glasses was hanging from the cord around his neck, and he was wearing a pair of khaki shorts. When he heard Joan calling him, he turned toward her, but only slightly. He hardly lowered the gun at all, maybe just a few degrees. And he certainly didn’t drop it.

  Joan was still holding her pistol. And she raised it and pointed it at Peter.

  It was a standoff. But how long would it last?

  Claire pictured the horrible scene that was about to happen in front of her.

  But then she had an idea, albeit untested. She called out, using the most authoritative voice she had.

  “Everyone freeze.”

  She heard a groaning noise coming from the edge of the steps, where Peter had pointed his rifle and had likely fired the three shots. It sounded almost human. Had he shot someone? Was that person lying down there?

  “Peter,” Joan called out from forty feet away. “You’d better put that gun down. I figured out what you did. I know that it was you all along. And if you drop that gun, we can talk about it.”

  Again, Peter lifted the gun sight to his eye. This time, he was aiming his rifle directly at Joan. But before he could squeeze off a shot, Joan fired.

  Not once, but three times.

  And the sound of the gun was not pytoo, pytoo, pytoo.

  It was BAM, BAM, BAM.

  The sound was deafening, and the aftershocks echoed off the exterior walls of the tiny cottage. Peter yelped, grabbed his gut, and went down to the ground. His body curled into a ball.

  At that moment, a man came galloping across the lawn from the direction of the main house.

  And he was screaming, “Peter, Peter! Oh, my God, Joan! You shot Peter!”

  CHAPTER 26

  CLAIRE HAD LEFT her handbag at the breakfast table, which meant that she didn’t have a phone on her.

  Holy shit, she didn’t have a phone.

  She ran past Joan over to the man called Peter, who was on his back on the grass. The other man, whom Claire took to be Robert Murphy, was cradling Peter’s head and pleading with him, asking him not to die.

  A quick visual exam told Claire that Peter had taken a shot under his rib cage. The man was probably bleeding internally. He’d taken another bullet to his left thigh, which was spouting blood like a small fire hose.

  Peter was conscious, and he seemed to be in excruciating pain. In between moans, he was gasping to Robert, “It had to be done. I had to do it.”

  What was he talking about?

  Claire directed Robert to take off his belt so he could make a tourniquet above the bullet hole in Peter’s thigh.

  “Robert, cinch it and hold it tight. Good. I’m going to make sure an ambulance is on the way. Do not let him move. Do you hear me?”

  Robert nodded. Tears were running down his cheeks. “He has PTSD. From a stint he did in Afghanistan.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He freaks out sometimes. Jesus Christ. Peter.”

  Claire told Robert to try to keep Peter calm. Then she stood up to look for Joan.

  And she saw her. Joan was walking back toward the house at a leisurely pace. She was still holding the gun at her side. She’d simply turned her back on the bloody, awful scene that had blown up in her own backyard. All because of the gunshots she’d fired.

  But in Claire’s opinion, Joan had shot Peter in self-defense. Those shots had saved her life and probably Claire’s, too. She must be in shock. That was understandable. But now that a man’s life was on the line, Joan had to snap out of it.

  Claire yelled, “Joan! Call an ambulance!”

  “Okay,” said Joan. But she didn’t quicken her pace. She just continued to stroll up the soft, grassy lawns toward the house.

  “Joan, they don’t call this a matter of life and death for no reason! If you don’t hurry up, Peter could actually die!”

  Joan turned and seemed to give Claire’s words some thought. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said, “There’s a landline in the pool house.”

  “Make the call,” Claire said. “Damn it, Joan! Run!”

  Claire’s mind was reeling. She obviously couldn’t count on Joan to do what needed to be done, and she didn’t know if she could count on Robert to help her, either. Claire was surrounded by eccentrics when she needed an ambulance filled with professionals and a platoon of cops.

  She went back to Robert and Peter. Robert had completely lost his cool. As far as Claire could tell, he wasn’t acting. Clearly, he cared a lot about the man in his arms—and that man was currently pale, sweaty, and losing consciousness. She told Robert, “Joan is calling an ambulance.” Honestly, she couldn’t be confident that Joan had listened to her, but she hoped the news would calm Robert down.

  Claire walked toward the street and looked out over a grassy hillock and the stone staircase that led toward the drive, the gates, and the street.

  She was completely unprepared to see a woman’s body sprawled out on the stairs, her head facing toward the bottom.

  Oh, my God. Peter had killed someone.

  Of course. She and Joan had heard shots at breakfast, and they had been fatal. Claire ran toward the body, and once she got closer, her heart almost stopped.

  It couldn’t be true, but it was.

  The woman on the steps had a blond mop of curls and her entire outfit was baby blue. It was Cindy.

  And she was lying motionless on the ground.

  Please. Don’t let her be dead.

  CHAPTER 27

  CLAIRE KNELT DOWN beside her friend. There was blood at Cindy’s temple. A head wound. But Claire could see the gentle rise and fall of Cindy’s chest. Her friend was still breathing.

  Claire felt her pulse. It was strong. Thank you, Lord.

  “Cindy, can you hear me? It’s me, Claire.”

  She gently turned Cindy’s head and looked for the source of the blood. She was covered in it. It was running from her temple, down her neck, and into her sweater. Had Cindy been shot in the head?

  But then Claire found it. Four inches behind the temple, at the back of her head, was a bloody gash. Not a hole. Claire parted Cindy’s hair and saw that the laceration looked like it had been caused by Cindy’s fall. She must have hit her head on the edge of a stone tread.

  Claire put her hands on Cindy’s shoulders.

  “Cindy. It’s Claire. Can you hear me?”

  Cindy groaned and Claire said, “Thank you, God.”

  “Claire? What happened?”

  “Put your arms around my neck.”

  Cindy reached up, and Claire helped her friend into a more comfortable position. She sat her on a step, and leaned her back against the edge of the wall.

  “How do you feel?”

  “My head hurts. And I think I twisted my ankle.”

  “Aw, Cindy. I’m here. I’m here.” Claire patted her friend’s back.

  Claire saw Cindy’s handbag below the steps, lying on the grass. She ran down to get it, opened the hobo bag, and poured out the contents. She pawed through the litter of purse junk until she found it.

  Cindy’s cell phone. She checked the battery. The phone was charged.

  Next, she dialed the radio room at the Hall and let out a breath of relief when she got the voice of dispatcher
May Hess. May knew every cop in the Southern Station. And she knew everyone in the ME’s office, as well. Claire was in good hands.

  “May, this is Claire Washburn and I’m reporting an emergency. I need an ambulance pronto to 420 El Camino Del Mar. We’ve got a man bleeding out from multiple gunshots. And we have another victim here with a head injury. When I say pronto, I mean it. Get everyone moving at the speed of light.”

  When she clicked off with dispatch, Claire called Richie, cursing silently when the call went to voice mail. “Rich, I’m at Joan Murphy’s house. Cindy is here. She’s taken a fall and is a little shaken up, but she’s going to be okay.

  “Also, Rich, the pool boy who goes by the name of Peter was about to fire on Joan but she shot him first. Twice.

  “An ambulance is on the way. Listen, Rich, I think Robert Murphy might be involved with Peter. And it seems that Peter may have knowledge of the Warwick Hotel shooting. He might tell you what he knows. But on the other hand, there’s a good chance he might die. And soon.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CLAIRE LISTENED FOR the sound of sirens.

  Only four minutes had passed since she’d called dispatch, but each minute was critical. She needed to get Peter into emergency care alive.

  Robert was still cradling Peter’s head in his lap. He was also holding his hand, stroking his hair, and telling him that he would be fine. But as the soothing words left his mouth, Robert shot a questioning look at Claire, looking for verification that Peter would survive.

  She nodded but couldn’t fully commit to her answer. The man’s shorts were soaked with blood. Despite the tourniquet, Peter was hemorrhaging. He could very easily bleed out if help didn’t arrive soon.