The Beach House

by James Patterson

  He sat down next to her on the bed and watched her breathe. Christ, she sleeps like the dead.

  He touched his hand down between her legs, and that got her up in a hurry. All full of piss and vinegar, too.

  "Hey! What the hell? Who are you?" she screeched, and raised her fists as if she wanted to fight.

  But then she saw the gun, and the silencer attached to the long barrel.

  "You're a very smart woman, a doctor, so you know what this is about, don't you?"

  She nodded, then whispered, "Yes."

  "There's going to be an inquest soon, and you've already been overruled by one of your superiors. That should make it real easy for you."

  Then he did something naughty — the Fixer pressed the barrel of his gun between Jane Davis's legs. He rubbed it around. Well, it worked for him.

  "You owe me, Jane," he said, and rose from her bed. "Don't make me come back here. Because I'd like to do you. And, Jane, I wouldn't call the police, either. They're in on this, too. Call the police, and I'll be back real soon."

  He left her bedroom, and she listened to him walk back downstairs. She finally took a breath. But then she heard the silenced pistol cough once.

  She knew what the bastard had done, and Jane was crying as she hurried downstairs.

  He was still there in her house, grinning, and he hadn't shot Iris after all.

  "You owe me, Jane."

  Chapter 48

  FIRST THEY MURDER YOU. Then they slander you. That was my "breakfast revelation of the day" when I spread out the Star beside my omelette at Estia. I sighed, shook my head, and felt sad again. Sad and really shitty.

  Peter was featured in another bold, fourteen-point headline, but the story had spun 360 degrees out of control. Now we had a second opinion about how Peter died: POLICE SUSPECT RIVAL DRUG DEALERS IN MULLEN'S DEATH.

  The lead paragraph elaborated: "A bitter battle over turf or a drug deal gone awry are two possibilities that police are pursuing in their ongoing investigation into the death of twenty-one-year-old Montauk native Peter Mullen, according to East Hampton Chief Detective Frank Volpi."

  Mack was right. Life is war.

  Volpi also said that there was the possibility Peter Mullen was under the influence of drugs at the time of his death and that a request had been made for further tests to determine if that was the case. "We have requested tests to detect the presence of cocaine, alcohol, or marijuana in the victim's blood," said Volpi, "and should have them completed in time for the inquiry."

  Neubauer's lawyers were employing the same strategy that had worked so well with O. J. Simpson and so many others. Put enough semiplausible scenarios out there and it becomes almost impossible to conclude that there isn't reasonable doubt.

  I borrowed the phone and finally got the Star's editor on the line. "Who is feeding you these stories?" I asked. "It's Volpi, isn't it?"

  "No one is feeding us anything. We're reporting everything relevant. That's what newspapers do, Mr. Mullen."

  "Bullshit. Why don't you try reporting the truth for a change?"

  When the two-bit editor hung up, I called again and asked to speak to Burt Kearns, the reporter who'd written the earlier stories.

  "You can't talk to Burt Kearns. Kearns was fired three days ago."

  Then the editor hung up on me again.

  Chapter 49

  THINGS GOT EVEN WORSE later that morning. I was on a roll — backwards.

  I took one look at Nadia Alper's littered desk and did my best to conceal my alarm. Alper was the assistant district attorney assigned to the inquiry. The condition of her office, tucked away in an upper floor of the former Seaford Town Hall, didn't communicate a high level of organization or readiness. Every inch of her desk was strewn with police and coroner reports, phone books, notepads, cassettes, and crinkled Subway fast-food wrappers.

  As she rummaged through papers, tiny columns of dust sifted through the sunlight tilting through the windows.

  "I know it's here," insisted Nadia. "I was looking at it a minute ago."

  "Are you handling this completely on your own?" I asked as calmly as possible. Neubauer had a lockstepping army of five-hundred-dollar-an-hour Ivy League attorneys protecting him like a Kevlar vest. Peter, it appeared, had one very young, underpaid, overworked assistant district attorney seeking justice for him.

  "I also have a detective who's out in Montauk interviewing people right now," she said. "And no, this isn't my first case."

  "I didn't mean to suggest . . ."

  "It's my third."

  We both bemoaned the fact that so much of the evidence pointing to foul play in Peter's death was circumstantial. Our strongest cards, she believed, were Jane's medical report and the photographs of the battered body. She finally unearthed the missing folder, and we reviewed it together. Attached were copies of the X rays revealing the multiple broken bones and skull fractures and the severed vertebrae, and photographs of Peter's lung tissue.

  Having just been worked over myself, I had an inkling of what my brother's last minutes must have been like. It made me feel sick all over again.

  Buried somewhere inside the paper pile, a phone rang. As she burrowed for it, her elbow knocked over a coffee cup, and it sent a mocha sluice flowing toward the pictures. Before I could scoop them out of the way, several were stained. Careful dabbing with a paper towel undid the damage, but I felt like taking the pictures and going home.

  "What can I do to help?" I finally asked.

  "Nothing. You're in law school, Mr. Mullen. We're in good shape here. Trust me."

  "All right," I said with a sigh. What else could I say? "I could help, though, Nadia. I'll even fetch coffee and sandwiches."

  "What happened to your face?" she finally asked. I could tell that her decision was final and that she was trying to change the subject.

  "I got beat up. Quite possibly by the same people who killed Peter. Neubauer did this to me."

  "Why don't you press charges?" she asked.

  I wrinkled my nose, shook my head.

  "It looks like you have enough on your plate already."

  Chapter 50

  SAMMY GIAMALVA was having the nightmare again, the one in which he is falling and falling, all the time bracing himself for an impact that never comes. It was the third time he'd had it in a week, so in some part of his brain, Sammy knew it was a dream.

  He opened his eyes to a completely different nightmare. This one was real.

  In the chair beside the bed sat a large man, with the small, mean eyes of a pig. He wore a well-cut black suit. His legs were casually crossed, as if he were a guest at a cocktail party. Instead of a drink, he held a gun, which, like his awful smile, he aimed at Sammy.

  "Get up, Sammy," the Fixer said. "I need a haircut."

  He jabbed the muzzle hard into Sammy's throat, and nudged him down the stairs to the kitchen. Still training the gun on Sammy, the Fixer settled into the large chair facing the long mirror.

  With the fingers of his free hand, he poked around in his thinning, light brown hair. "What do you think is a good length for me, Sammy?" he asked. "If I go real short, I look like a Nazi. I grow it longer, I look like an asshole with a comb-over."

  "Shorter is better," Sammy tried to say, but his mouth was so dry that it sounded more like a cough.

  "You don't sound so sure, Sammy."

  "I'm sure." This time Sammy managed to get the words out. He desperately tried to size up his situation. He was remembering what had happened to Peter. Not to mention Fenton Gidley. This guy matched Fenton's description right down to the scar on his cheek.

  "I guess you've already figured out I didn't come all the way out to Fag Harbor just to get a haircut."

  Sammy just nodded and began to spread out the white plastic poncho for the haircut. He was trying to come up with a plan. Anything that would keep him alive. The man with the nasty eyes was cocky. Maybe that was something to play with.

  "Is it because of what happened at the Memory?" S
ammy finally spoke again.

  "I've already taken care of that. That was no big whup. I'm here about what happened at the beach."

  When Sammy responded with a puzzled look, the man said, "Don't look so sad. All we want are the negatives. There's no point pretending anymore. The game's over. I win. You lose."

  The guy in his barber chair delivered these last words with an awful finality. This was worse than Sammy had thought. It wasn't about scaring him. It wasn't about the inquiry at all.

  "Go ahead," said the Fixer. "I still need a haircut. And I'll take your advice on the length."

  Soon the man's hair was falling like a light snow on the plastic tarp spread out beneath the chair, and despite everything, Sammy fell into the calming, competent rhythm of his work. Snip and move and pull. Snip and move and pull. Forget that this guy had a gun in his hand.

  A simple phrase pulsed in his head: Do something or die. Do something or die.

  Sammy concentrated on his work as if his life depended on it, and when the Fixer leaned forward in his chair so Sammy could pull off his plastic poncho, he couldn't help but be impressed. "Now I know why those rich ladies drive all the way out here."

  Do something or die.

  "One last spot," said Sammy, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. The man chuckled, then he settled back in his chair. When he looked into the mirror, he saw Sammy's right hand blur across his chest.

  Goddamnit, he couldn't believe it. Not this puny little fag. Not here — not like this. Oh, Jesus, no.

  The slice of the razor was so fast and clean, the Fixer didn't know for sure if his throat had just been cut until he saw a second pink mouth flap open beneath his chin. Then, as the hairdresser reached from behind the chair and pinned his arms with a strength and fury that was the final surprise of his life, the Fixer watched the life gush out of him.

  "Who's going to fix this?" were his last five words.

  When Sammy released his hug, the large man slid out of the chair onto the plastic tarp on the floor. Sammy took a deep breath and tried to think this mess through. Fast. Jesus, he'd killed this guy. Nothing he could do about it now.

  Once he made up his mind, he went upstairs and packed. Then he went to the garage and siphoned a couple of gallons of Exxon regular from his car. He wetted down the cottage, corner to corner. Then he tossed in a flaming Zippo.

  By the time the first pumper truck arrived, that's exactly what was left of Sammy's Soul Kitchen. Zippo.

  Chapter 51

  I WAS WORKING UP A FEW NOTES to give Nadia Alper when I heard Mack's bellowing voice downstairs. "Jack, come outside. Your girlfriend's here. Pretty as ever, too."

  Pauline was barely out of her car when Mack insisted she stay for dinner. About ten minutes later he announced he was abandoning us "lovebirds" to investigate the various offerings of Montauk's more reputable vegetable stands and fishmongers. "You are staying for supper," he told Pauline, and she didn't bother to argue.

  Two and a half hours later, as the sun was losing its edge, he made his triumphant return. In one hand he held the first local corn of the summer. In the other, three fat swordfish steaks.

  "Sal swears on the soul of his mother that he carved these out of a three-hundred-fifty-pounder this morning," boasted Mack.

  After unloading his treasure, he cracked open three beers and joined us on the deck, where we brought him up to speed on Pauline's latest discoveries about Barry Neubauer.

  After he listened to the dirt, Mack surveyed our respective strengths in food prep. Then he doled out assignments. I headed to the garage to dig up the old hibachi. He and Pauline disappeared into the kitchen.

  Just having Pauline around was making everyone happy. For the first time in years, the place felt like a home instead of a dorm for lost boys.

  Mack was particularly euphoric. It was as if someone had slipped him a tab of Ecstasy. Every once in a while he'd wander out from the kitchen just to stand beside me and share his affection as I poked the coals.

  "I know you're dying to tell me how much you love Pauline, so why don't you get it off your chest?" I said.

  "You should see her working on the salad dressing, Jackson. Madame Curie in cutoffs. I strongly urge you to marry this woman. Tonight if possible."

  "I haven't even touched her yet."

  "Yeah, well, what's that about?"

  "Macklin, can I ask you a personal question, just between us? Mullen to Mullen?"

  "But, of course. Please do."

  "You think these coals are ready?"

  "I talk to you of the longings of the human heart and you ask me about coal. Cook the damn fish, Jack. Show how you can do something right."

  "I like her, all right?" I finally said in an exasperated voice.

  "That's not good enough, Jack. This one deserves more than 'like'!"

  "Mack, I know what she deserves."

  Thirty minutes later we all sat down on the back porch to a perfect summer dinner.

  Everything turned out just right — the swordfish, the corn, the wine. Even Pauline's salad dressing lived up to the hype.

  We were all a little laid-back after the meal. I looked at Mack's ragged map of a face. It seemed to be lit from within, like a lantern. Pauline looked more relaxed and lovelier than I'd ever seen her.

  Mack drew out Pauline about her childhood in Michigan. She told us that her old man was a retired Detroit cop, and her mother taught English in an inner-city high school. Most of her aunts and uncles were autoworkers.

  "How'd your parents meet?" asked Mack, still persistently steering the conversation.

  "My father is my mother's second husband," said Pauline. "Her first was this big, bad charismatic dude from the old neighborhood named Alvin Craig. Craig was a drag racer, a brawler, always in and out of trouble with the law, and once when he was drinking, he beat up my mother. The last time he tried to do it, she was five months pregnant with me. She called the cops.

  "The cop who arrived at the house was a big tough guy, too. He took one look at my mother and asked Alvin if they could talk outside for a little bit. My parents lived in a tiny row house, and for about an hour Alvin and the cop sat on the stoop out front.

  "There was no fighting. No yelling. Neither one even raised his voice. When they got up, my father went upstairs, threw his stuff into two suitcases, and left for good. The cop stayed for coffee, and a few months later my mother had a new husband.

  "I might never have known the real story except that one day when I was fifteen and acting like a total brat, I called my father an asshole. My mother was furious. She decided it was time I learned how they met and fell in love. They are a sweet couple, actually."

  It was an impossible story to top, so Mack didn't even try. But he offered childhood tales of his own, including the time he and his best mate, Tommy McGoey, hopped a lorry and spent three days walking around Dublin, sleeping under wagons and living on stolen milk and rolls, mesmerized by everything they laid their eyes on. Pauline had inspired him to dredge up stories that were new even to me.

  That's the kind of serenely magical night it was, when friendship feels as solid as family, and family as light and untroubled as friendship. I suppose it was too sweet to last. Just before midnight we heard a car door slam in the driveway. Then the sound of shoes scraping on the gravel.

  When I turned to look, Dana was walking toward us like a long blond ghost.

  "Ah, speak of the devil," said Mack.

  Chapter 52

  FOR THIRTY EXCRUCIATING SECONDS, the eye contact around the table was as fast and furious as a Kabuki drama.

  "Don't all act too excited to see me," Dana said finally. She turned toward the dark-haired stranger.

  "I'm Dana. Jack's girlfriend. I think."

  "Pauline."

  After extending an urgent conciliatory shrug toward Pauline, I turned to my self-described girlfriend.

  "Pauline's a very good friend from Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel," I said, and regretted it instantly.

 
"Where I understand you're no longer employed."

  "They offered me a golden parachute."

  "So, what do you do there?" Dana asked Pauline. "Are you a lawyer?"

  "I'm an investigator," said Pauline, her voice flat and neutral.

  "What do you investigate?"

  "You sound like an investigator yourself," said Pauline, the warmth and openness of the evening a memory now.

  "Sorry, just trying to make a little awkward conversation."

  As for Mack, he still hadn't said a word. To make it absolutely clear which side of the fence he was on, he hadn't even looked at Dana. He hadn't looked at me, either, but I didn't have to see his face to know how upset he was, and that he considered this my fault.

  Pauline, having sat through enough of this bad soap opera, rose to leave. "Dinner was delicious," she said, smiling at Mack. "So was everything else."

  "You were the best part of it by far, Paulie girl," said Mack, standing and giving her a long hug. "Let me walk you to your car."

  "You don't have to leave," I said.

  "Oh, but I do," said Pauline.

  Then she and Mack took off, arm in arm, almost as if Dana and I weren't there.

  "Let me walk with you, Pauline," I said. "Please. I need to talk to you."

  "No," said Pauline, without turning to face me. "You stay and talk to your girlfriend. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on."

  Chapter 53

  "I HOPE I DIDN'T INTERRUPT ANYTHING," Dana said. Her mouth was in a pout, but her eyes were smiling slyly.

  "Yeah, right. What are you doing here, Dana?"

  "Well, you can't expect a girl to give up without a fight," she said with one of her more charming, self-effacing smiles.

  "You haven't seen or spoken to me in two months. It was your idea, remember?"

  "I know that, Jack. I was in Paris. And Florence. Barcelona. I needed some time to think."

  "So, Dana, what did you figure out in Europe? That you don't like yourself as much as you thought you did?"