James Patterson: Now You See Her

I scanned the parking lot as I thumbed Unlock a second time. I turned to my left as the double bloop sounded out faintly again.

What the heck? It seemed to be coming from across the street.

I stepped past my Vespa to the edge of the sidewalk that rimmed the strip mall’s lot and hit the fob one last time.

In a parking lot directly across North Roosevelt Boulevard, a parked car’s lights went on and off with the familiar electronic bloop.

I stared across at it. It was sleek, black, brand-new. What the hell? I squinted at the Florida license plate. Yep, it was ours. It was our Supra.

But why was it there? I thought. Shouldn’t it be parked at police headquarters? Shouldn’t it be at Peter’s job?

Then I made the mistake of reading the lit sign on the building behind the car.

A sickening numbness sprouted in the pit of my stomach and began expanding upward, outward, filling my chest like a swallowed balloon.

BEST WESTERN, the sign said.

CARS WENT BACK AND FORTH on North Roosevelt as I stood there, staring at the shiny black hood of Peter’s car sitting in the Best Western parking lot.

OK, I finally thought as my shock eased up slightly a long five minutes later.

Slowly now, I urged myself.

Think this through.

I tried. Nothing would come. It was fruitless. There wasn’t anything to think about. Even an idiot like me knew what finding your husband’s car in a motel parking lot meant.

One word surfaced in my swirling mind. It made sense that it had four letters. As I stood there, it was as if each one was being struck into the surface of my brain with the heavy-handed pound of an old-fashioned typewriter.

L-I-A-R.

Peter was a liar.

There was no construction job at Big Pine. No overtime. I also figured there was no DEA assignment and never had been. Peter had lied about the other night and about all the other double shifts over the last two months.

As I stood on the sidewalk in the dark across from the Best Western, the thing that struck me most—more than hurt, more than even anger—was the sudden knowledge of exactly how vulnerable I was.

Because my whole life revolved around Peter, I realized. The house was his, and so were the car and the boat. In the last two years, my six-dollar-an-hour, off-the-books catering job had paid for what? Some clothes from the Gap? The occasional meal?

I had nothing, I realized. Not even the University of Florida academic scholarship I had blown off when brilliant old me decided to throw caution to the wind and pull a Jimmy Buffett and take that last plane out.

I’d put all my chips on Peter, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that his car across the street meant that I’d lost big time.

No, wait a second. Correction, I thought, cupping my stomach.

It wasn’t just me who had lost big time.

So had my brand-new baby on board.

Well, what did you expect, Jeanine? screeched my next thought.

This new internal voice was my mother’s, I realized. The unforgettable tone was her black, drunken raging that occurred more and more after my dad’s death.

Are you really that stupid, Jeanie Beanie? What kind of cop would cover up a man’s death? What kind of cop would get rid of a body? An Eagle Scout? Did you really think you could make a bloody mess and not have to pay for it? And while we’re on the subject of bloody messes, what’s up with the machine pistol you found on your handsome husband’s boat?

A hair-raising pulse of terror gripped the back of my neck like a claw. I reared back until my shoulder blades found the video store’s wall. I started sliding down it until my butt touched the cold, hard concrete.

The traffic went by obliviously on the dark street as I covered my face with my hands like a toddler trying to make herself disappear. At that moment I realized something for the first time.

It had somehow completely escaped me.

I had taken everything Peter had told me about himself at face value.

I really had no idea at all who Peter was.

IT WAS ABOUT ten soul-annihilating minutes later when one of the motel’s ground-floor rooms opened and a man exited.

Even though I’d been expecting it, it still felt like an uppercut to the chin when I saw that it was Peter.

That wasn’t the only blow, either. Peter was wearing a suit. It was a tailored dark blue one I’d never seen before, an Armani maybe.

I started sobbing. How could this be happening? How could the man who’d introduced me to “Brandy” and The Princess Bride and the joys of Japanese beer be the world’s biggest lying scumbag?

I watched Peter as he scanned the parking lot carefully. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled the motel room door closed behind him and headed for the Supra.

I turned and broke into a run for my moped as he opened the car door.

Was whoever he was with still in the room? I wondered, still flabbergasted. Or maybe they hadn’t met yet. Maybe he was going to pick her up?

“Hey, can I be the fifth wheel on your date, you son of a bitch?” I said to myself, truly losing it as I gunned my Vespa to life. “Thanks, Peter. Don’t mind if I do. Sexy suit, by the way.”

Duval Street, Key West’s main strip, was staggering room only as I buzzed onto it two cars behind Peter’s Supra a few minutes later.

With its packed bars and outdoor street stalls that sold beer and rum the way Coney Island sold hot dogs, Duval Street was to Key West what Bourbon Street was to New Orleans. Except in Key West, it seemed that Mardi Gras was every night.

I pulled to the curb in front of a crowded bar as Peter turned the car into a side alley beside a T-shirt shop and parked. What now, Peter? I thought. Some drinking and dancing? A late dinner perhaps?

My clenching hands shook on the moped’s sweat-slicked rubber handlebars. I still couldn’t believe this was happening.

I sat waiting about a block back, scanning the Friday night sidewalk parade of navy aviators, drag queens, college kids, beach bums, and trendy millionaire couples on vacation. Peter appeared a few moments later from the alley. He was holding a small green duffel bag now, I noticed.

How do you like that? I thought as he headed south through the crowd. Maybe Peter’s alter ego was now going to hit the gym?

A double shift? I thought, absolutely stunned, as I gunned my moped to life and started to follow him again.

It was more like Peter was working a double life.

I came to a hard stop, scraping my moped and ankle off the curb, when I saw Peter turn the corner onto Fleming Street around the south side of the more shabby than chic La Concha hotel. I hopped off, keeping in the shadows beneath the storied art deco hotel’s awning, as I jogged to the corner and peeked around the side street.

Peter was standing on the brightly lit sidewalk in front of a Hibiscus Savings Bank ATM. As I watched, he took a thick envelope out of the bag and slipped it into the bank’s deposit slot.

A late-night deposit would have been normal enough, I suppose.

Except Hibiscus Savings wasn’t our bank.

Our savings account was with First State. At least the account that I knew about, I thought, shaking my head.

I was trying to process that revelation when a small silver Mazda Z with tinted windows pulled past me. It slowed and made the turn onto Fleming. Peter turned as its horn honked and ran around to the passenger side and got in.

I ran back to the moped.

Peter’s night was apparently just getting started.

A NEW POSSIBILITY slowly occurred to me as I tailed the Mazda Z off crowded Duval and onto the darker side streets of the adjoining Bahama Village neighborhood.