The Murder House

by James Patterson

  Ricketts looks around at the bedlam, the reporters and onlookers, practically shutting down the turnpike. “A note said I could find their bodies back here. By the large elm tree with the X in red spray paint.” She shrugs. “Why would someone do that? Why would someone write me a note?”

  I think about that. But she knows the answer, same as I do. The note was written to her because she was working on this case with me.

  “Whoever did this—he wants you to know,” she says. “Since I’m the responding officer, it’s my case. I have access to all the data. He wants you to have the information, Murphy. He knows I’ll tell you.”

  She’s right. It makes sense.

  “Aiden didn’t work alone,” I say. “There are at least two people doing this. Aiden and someone else, maybe two somebody elses. Someone who knows we’re working on this case together.”

  She thinks about it, nods. “So what do we do now?”

  “Do your job,” I say. “Find out all you can. And then, when it’s safe, you and I should work through this.”

  “Okay. Right. Okay.”

  Ricketts takes a deep breath. This is a big moment for her. It’s not every day a rookie patrol officer breaks a major unsolved case.

  “Watch your back, Officer,” I say. “They may be trying to communicate with me, but they’re using you to do it.”

  I walk back to my car as a light mist begins to fall, my mind racing with questions. He’s messing with me now, telling me something, sending me in a certain direction. But which direction? And why? How does showing me Dede’s and Annie’s bodies help him?

  My head starts to ache. Another new piece of evidence, yielding nothing but more questions.

  When I reach my car, Noah Walker is leaning against it, his arms crossed.

  “Hello, stranger,” he says to me.

  93

  “I’VE BEEN calling you,” Noah says. He pushes himself off my car. He’s in his construction gear, jeans and T-shirt, boots, protective vest. Off work now, catching dinner at Tasty’s.

  I feel something between us, always that radiating heat, but this time more penetrating, turning my stomach sour.

  “I guess you heard about Annie and Dede,” I say.

  “Yeah. You have any information?”

  “None,” I say. “I’m not on the inside anymore.”

  “But you have that friend, that young cop. What’s her name again?”

  Playing dumb. I’m not going to play back. “What do you want, Noah?”

  He opens his hands. “Same thing you want,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I thought we were a team.”

  So did I. Before you tried to help Aiden kill me.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  Ask him. Just ask him and see what he says.

  “Were you adopted, Noah?”

  He gives me a funny look. “Adopted? No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Am I sure I wasn’t adopted? I think I’d be sure about that.”

  I look him over, try to read him. I’m not getting a solid hit either way.

  “It’s public information,” I say. “I can find out.”

  “I don’t think so,” he answers. “I don’t think adoptions are public information.”

  “For a guy who wasn’t adopted, you seem to know a lot about them.”

  “Murphy, what the hell?” He steps toward me. “What’s with this bizarre interrogation? I’ve been leaving you messages—”

  “By the way,” I say, getting my Irish up now, “I went to Justin’s last night, like I told you I would. And guess who paid me a visit?”

  He shakes his head. Playing dumb again.

  “Aiden,” I say. “He came through a window at me. With a knife.”

  “He what? Are you okay?”

  “I wonder how he knew I’d be there, Noah. Got any ideas?”

  He waves his hand, like he’s erasing something. “Wait a second, wait a second. You don’t think it was me—”

  “Oh, no, of course not. It was probably the long list of other people who knew I was going to be at Justin’s last night. Oh, wait—nobody else knew.”

  “Murphy, just hold on a second.”

  He reaches for me, but I pull back.

  “Don’t you touch me,” I say. “Don’t come near me ever again. Just know something, Noah—I will figure this out. You tell your buddies, whoever’s a part of this: I’m close. I’m going to nail all of you. Or die trying.”

  Noah steps between me and my car.

  “Okay, you got to talk,” he says. “Now I get to talk.”

  “Get out of my way, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Hey!”

  Noah and I both turn. Justin is jogging toward us, from the restaurant.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks.

  Noah glares at him. Something primitive in his eyes. These two are casual acquaintances—each has said a kind word about the other—but something passed between Noah and me last night, until I mentioned Justin. I remember the look on his face, the blow he suffered, even though I insisted Justin and I are just friends.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Noah says to Justin.

  Justin stops short of us, looks at me. “Jenna?”

  “It’s none of your business,” Noah says.

  “You’re on my property, Noah. And you’re bothering my friend. So I think it is my business.”

  “Stay out of this, Justin.” Noah squares off on Justin. “This is a private conversation.”

  Two men, the macho thing, battling over the damsel’s honor. Only this damsel ain’t interested.

  “Uh, guys? Over here?” I wave my hand. “I’m leaving. I’ll call you later, Justin. And Noah? Stay away from me.”

  I climb into my car and slam the door. I start up the engine and throw it into reverse, gravel flying in my wake, then head north on the turnpike, unsure of my destination, only certain that wherever I’m going, I’m going alone.

  94

  I DRIVE home as darkness sweeps over Bridgehampton.

  Aiden’s still out there, and while I seriously doubt he’d be dumb enough to hang around the Hamptons to take another shot at me, I take simple precautions. I lock the dead bolt and prop a chair against the door, and I move the dresser against the small window. It’s not much of a deterrent, but at least it will keep Aiden from doing another nose dive through a plate of glass.

  I have almost nothing in my cupboard but some noodles, so I boil some water and drop them in.

  Eat and sleep, Murphy. Or you’ll crumble like a stale cookie.

  But I have no appetite. My stomach is a pool of nerves and chaos.

  You’re getting closer, Murphy.

  I push the plate of noodles aside.

  But you’re not there yet.

  Then two things happen at once, causing me to jump from my seat.

  My cell phone buzzes, and my doorbell rings.

  The phone is Ricketts. I punch it on while I move to the door.

  I look through the peephole at the man standing at my door.

  It’s Isaac Marks, our beloved chief of police.

  “Ricketts, let me call you back,” I say into the phone. “Your boss is at the door.”

  “No, Jenna, wait—”

  I punch the phone off, release the dead bolt, and open the door.

  And stare at the man who just might be responsible for the murder of eight people. Including the man he replaced as chief.

  “Murphy,” Isaac says, nodding. Wearing his uniform. Probably did some press today on Annie and Dede.

  “Need you to come down to the substation,” he says.

  “You can talk to me right here.”

  He takes a deep breath, grimaces. “Don’t make this difficult. Come down with me voluntarily. Make a good decision for once in your life.”

  “You don’t have anything better to do?” I ask. “After finding two dead bodies today?”

  He gives me a funny look.

  “The two dead bodi
es,” he says, “are the reason I’m here.”

  95

  I SIT in the same interview room where I’ve sat many times, only on the other side of the table. I used to be good at this, questioning witnesses, sizing them up, reading them, making them sweat, gaining their trust, taking them on a roller-coaster ride from fright to horror to despondence to remorse to confession.

  The door opens, and in walks Isaac Marks. He stands against the wall, arms crossed.

  What is he capable of? Did he kill all those people, with Aiden as his accomplice? And maybe Noah, too?

  Did he do something to me, along with Aiden, at 7 Ocean Drive when I was a little girl?

  I’ve never had a bead on the guy. I was his partner for less than a year, and he was a phone-it-in cop, a guy who liked to strut around with the badge, enjoyed the power more than the responsibility. Never one to put in the extra hours necessary. Never one to go the extra mile.

  But a killer? If it’s true, I missed it. Never saw it.

  Then again, I wasn’t looking for it.

  “I want some answers, Murphy,” he says. “Some straight answers.”

  “So do I.”

  He shakes his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Maybe you forgot.”

  “It does now. Or I take Five.”

  Most people are afraid to invoke their Fifth Amendment rights. They think it makes them look guilty. They’re right, but they’re wrong. Yeah, you look bad if you won’t talk. But how you appear at that moment to a cop pales in comparison to the damage you do by answering detailed questions, locking yourself in.

  Maybe I should be heeding that advice right now.

  “The bodies were Annie and Dede?” I ask.

  Isaac closes his eyes, nods. “We have a rush on DNA. We won’t have it for another day or so. But there was a missing finger, and some personal articles on the bodies that the families confirmed. It’s not official, but unofficially? There’s no doubt.”

  “How did you make the discovery?” I ask.

  Still planted against the wall, still stoic, but now with a gleam in his eye. He knows Ricketts and I are friends. He knows I know.

  “Anonymous tip,” he says.

  “How convenient.”

  He cocks his head. “Convenient? How so?”

  I shrug. “Maybe someone was getting too close to solving this whole thing. Maybe Aiden’s being given up as a sacrificial lamb. A scapegoat.”

  “A scapegoat.” Isaac’s eyes narrow. “Meaning he’s innocent.”

  “Meaning,” I say, “that he wasn’t the only one. He has a partner.”

  Isaac doesn’t move. Expression doesn’t break. Tough to read, because interrogators are playing a role, acting out a scene, so it could be just him doing his job. Or it could be he’s sweating bullets underneath that uniform.

  “A partner,” he says. “Two people?”

  “At least two,” I say, “and the partner just fucked Aiden.”

  Isaac pushes himself off the wall and pulls out the chair across from me. He takes his time getting seated, settling in, training his stare on me.

  “How did the partner fuck Aiden?” he asks.

  My heartbeat ratcheting up. He has me in an enclosed room, in his custody. But it’s a police station. There are witnesses, other cops watching through the one-way. It’s not like he can silence me.

  Do I want to do this? Right here, right now?

  Hell yes, I do. With other cops as witnesses.

  “Let’s say Aiden was getting nervous,” I say. “He talks to his partner. He says, ‘They’re getting close.’ So his partner tells Aiden to leave town. Get out of Dodge for a while. Let things settle down.”

  Isaac nods, listening intently.

  “Maybe the partner tells Aiden, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.’”

  Isaac does a double blink with his eyes. I’ve just quoted what he said to Aiden on the phone last night—when he didn’t see me hiding outside.

  “Go on,” he says, his voice flat and cold.

  “But once Aiden scrams, his partner makes an anonymous tip to the cops. Bodies are discovered a stone’s throw from Aiden’s property line. And ten gets you twenty there’s incriminating evidence found at that burial scene, evidence that implicates Aiden and Aiden alone. My guess? Aiden’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  Isaac is silent, his eyes deadened.

  “So now Aiden’s an obvious suspect,” I say. “Gift-wrapped, practically. And his partner walks away scot-free.”

  Isaac takes a breath, leans back in his chair.

  “Cat got your tongue, Chief?”

  His fingers tap the table. “You think Aiden’s a part of this.”

  “Yes. I’ve suspected him for a while now. In fact, I tried to confront him last night at his house. He ran from me before I could question him. But…you already know that, don’t you, Isaac?”

  The dam has burst. I’ve all but accused him now. I don’t know if this is the smart move here, but I’m running out of options. Smart or not, it’s time to move.

  Isaac tries to smile. It doesn’t work very well.

  “Tell me more about this second killer,” he says.

  I shrug. “He’s lasted this long, eight murders over five years, so he’s smart, and he’s able to function in society as a normal person. A classic psychopath. He could be anyone. He could be a construction worker. He could be a ditch-digger.”

  I look Isaac squarely in the eye.

  “He could be a cop,” I say.

  “A cop? Interesting.” Isaac purses his lips. “Well, Murphy, it turns out we did find Aiden’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  “You have Aiden’s prints on file?”

  “He was arrested once, long time ago, for retail theft. Shoplifting. His prints are in the database.”

  “Did you run all the databases, Chief? Even the government employees’ database? Every cop in our department has their prints in that database. Did you remember to check that database, too? Or did it…slip your mind?”

  My blood is boiling now. But the cops who are watching this interview need to hear this, all of it.

  “You figure,” says Isaac, “that if we found another set of prints, we’d have the second person—Aiden’s partner.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  “Someone who can act perfectly normal in society. Like a construction worker.”

  “Or a cop,” I say again.

  “Yeah, you said that before,” he says. “A cop?”

  “Why not? It’s the perfect cover. He could manipulate the evidence. He could influence the investigation.”

  “True,” says Isaac. “That’s true.”

  I open my hands. “What are you afraid of, Isaac? Check the government database. Or…are you worried that maybe your hand slipped, and your prints accidentally got on that knife?”

  Now his smile comes on, full glow. He shakes his head.

  “We did run the prints on the murder weapon through the government database,” he says. “And we got a match.”

  He rises out of his chair and leans over the table, so he can whisper his next words.

  “Aiden’s prints weren’t the only ones on that murder weapon,” he says. “We found yours, too, Jenna Murphy.”

  96

  I SPRING out of my chair. A slow burn through my chest.

  “No,” I say. “No way.”

  Chief Isaac Marks is suddenly enjoying himself very much. He sits back in his chair, crosses a leg. “I suppose now you’re going to claim that I manipulated the process somehow. Planted your fingerprints. Right?”

  My mind racing, my throat full, everything moving too fast.

  “Well, let me put you at ease, Murphy. I had no part in the gathering of the evidence or in running the prints. If you don’t believe me, you can ask your bestest buddy, Officer Ricketts.”

  The walls closing in. The heat turned way up. This isn’t right. It can’t be right.

  “You can’t possibly think…
” My throat closes before I can finish the sentence.

  “I can’t possibly think what?” he says whimsically. “That you had something to do with Annie’s and Dede’s murders? Well, let’s think about that. Have a seat, if you would.”

  I put my hand against the wall to brace myself. My prints are on the murder weapon? That can’t possibly be right. Somebody, somehow, must have—

  “I said sit the fuck down, Murphy.”

  My legs unsteady, I find the seat and plant myself.

  “So let’s think this through,” he says. “You have very persuasively argued that there were two killers—Aiden Willis and another person. You have also persuaded me that the second killer could be a police officer, that it would be the perfect cover for a psychopath.”

  “I didn’t mean me—”

  “So we have two girls who were murdered in the summer of 2007. Since we don’t know the exact day, or even the exact month of their death, it’s impossible to know your whereabouts at the time. You were a cop in Manhattan, but how easy would it have been to drive out here and do the deed, then drive back without anyone knowing? Very easy, I’d say.”

  “No. No.” I push myself out of the chair, knocking it over with a clatter. “You can’t actually believe that. No.”

  My pulse soaring. Sweat covering my brow. This is like a bad dream. This can’t be happening.

  “You did this, Isaac. You think I don’t know what’s going on?”

  “Oh, Murphy, I think you know exactly what’s going on.”

  Two officers, uniforms whose names I’ve forgotten, step into the room. Isaac nods to them. Cool and collected, he is having the time of his life.

  “Jenna Murphy,” he says, “you’re under arrest for the murders of Annie Church and Dede Paris.”

  97

  NOAH WATCHES. And waits. Two hours pass, while the midnight air moves from brisk to cold. He’s underdressed in his black sweatshirt and black baseball cap and black jeans. They may not keep him warm, but they serve another purpose.

  Nobody can see him in the dark.

  He hears a noise—probably just the wind—and scrapes his cheek against one of the shrubs. He’s been crouched low for a long time, so he stretches out, kicking out one leg at a time, like a sprinter preparing for a race, so he’ll be loose when the time comes.