James Patterson - Now You See Her

Yorgenson paused, letting it all sink in.

“I don’t remember if it was in the papers, but Amanda was shot several times. The first time in the abdomen. The first officer to arrive on scene retired soon after on a psychiatric disability pension. I hear he lives in the subway station down at the Government Center now.”

Yorgenson chuckled bitterly.

“Think Petey Boy was nervous when we came to question him? Think again. He sat there with those big cold baby blues of his and a shit-eating grin, like we were best buddies watching a Sox game at the corner watering hole. Had his alibi information ready and waiting for me. He didn’t even bother asking if we had any other leads. The whole thing seemed to amuse him.”

“But why didn’t he—?” I started.

“Go to jail?” Yorgenson finished. “I ask myself that every day. Classic stalker-husband-kills-wife open-and-shut case, right? Wrong. The DA wouldn’t prosecute, wouldn’t even help us get a search warrant to look for the murder weapon.

“If I had to bet, Peter’s uncle, Jack, who was the head of Boston PD’s Internal Affairs, used every dirty secret and favor and string he had to squash our case. At least the stink I made got the punk to resign from the force.”

I closed my eyes, my forehead banging against my knees as all the breath escaped my lungs.

“If you ask me—” Yorgenson started.

Then my time had elapsed and the phone went dead.

The phone clicking back into its cradle sounded like a pistol shot in the silence. A bullet right through my brain. I stared down at my hands as they shook in time with the painful thump of my heart.

I wandered outside dazed. Blinking in the sunlight, I felt weary, drained, like I’d just completed a stint of hard labor. The sun-blasted steps and sidewalk were empty. The George Hamilton look-alike bum who’d been weaving palm frond hats was long gone.

What a coincidence, I thought, glancing up into the painfully blue sky. So was my mind.

I left my moped where it was and decided to walk. I headed south past a construction site where a bunch of black and Mexican laborers sat in the shade of a king palm on a metal tool cart, staring blatantly, silently, and rapaciously. Usually I was nervous about such scenes, but that morning, I stared back defiantly, daring them to whistle, to say something to me, to set me off.

Where was I going? I wondered as I made a turn and wandered down a picket fence–lined street. I didn’t have a home anymore. I’d never had one, in fact.

How stupid could a person be? I thought. Red flag after red flag had been raised, and I’d pushed them aside time and time again. It was over. I’d been duped, scammed, fleeced. The strangest and by far the worst part of all was that I was the one who’d conned myself.

Peter wasn’t my best friend, wasn’t the love of my life. I thought about the happy life of ease and suntan lotion on the deck of Peter’s Stingray I’d been envisioning less than twenty-four hours ago, and I started laughing. Instead of tanning myself topside, I was in a hole as black and deep as they come, and I had no idea how to get out of it.

It was a rabbit hole, I realized as I walked down the sunlit street, skating along the edge of my sanity. And I was Alice. Peter was the White Rabbit. Who had Elena been? The Queen of Hearts, I thought. And off went her head.

Key West was actually Wonderland, I thought. The theory made a lot of sense, especially if you’ve ever been to Duval Street after midnight.

I RETRIEVED MY MOPED and got back to the house twenty minutes later. I went straight to the bedroom closet and took down a suitcase. I opened it on the floor of the closet and threw in some underwear, my shirts, my jeans.

I glanced up at the top shelf at the big white box that contained my wedding dress and shook my head. That was staying. All yours, Peter!

By Greyhound bus, it would take about four or five hours to get back to Homestead, my small Florida hometown. My mom was gone, but I knew a couple of people there. I had a grandaunt I could crash with for a few days. I lifted the phone to call a taxi. Maybe I could get a job at the Gap, where I’d worked summers, until I figured things out.

I dropped the phone back into the cradle.

Wait a second. What was I doing? That would be the first place Peter would look for me.

I was assuming Peter would just accept the fact that I had left him. But hadn’t the Boston cop said that Peter had stalked his wife when she tried to leave? I held my head in my hands as I sat down on the bed.

Was that what I had to look forward to? Would Peter stalk me now? Murder me in a staged robbery?

My hand covered my mouth.

Wait a second. No.

Just like Elena.

Jamaicans hadn’t killed Elena and the store clerk.

Peter had.

It all clicked into place. Peter had shot Elena with the machine pistol I’d seen on his boat and made up the story about the robbery.

It was over drugs, I realized, nodding my head. Which had to be why the FBI was involved. Peter was under investigation!

As I sat there, I knew it was true. All of it. I couldn’t believe how much denial I’d been in.

Peter wasn’t my hero. He wasn’t the love of my life. He was a corrupt, drug-dealing cop and an ice-cold-blooded killer.

What now, Mermaid? I thought, dropping onto the bed. I lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling.

Then I sat back up and took out the FBI agent’s card.

I turned it in my hand as I stared at the phone.

Maybe I should call him? He knew the jam I was in. He could help me. He said so.

No! I thought, tapping the card to my forehead. Then everything would come out. What I’d done. How Peter had gotten rid of Ramón Peña.

I held my stomach in my hands. Staring down at the bulge that had already started to take over my belly, I envisioned myself giving birth in jail.

Unbelievable! I crumpled the card as I curled up on the bed. I couldn’t call the FBI either. I might as well get a taxi to the nearest prison.

It took a little over an hour for the third option to finally dawn on me: What I needed to do. How I could try to go about doing it. It was an absolutely insane idea.

Right up my alley, I thought, getting to my feet.

THE FIRST THING I did was carefully put all my clothes away. After I replaced the suitcase, I went into the bottom of my sock drawer and shook out every nickel of catering-tip money I’d put aside to buy Peter a watch for our anniversary. Two hundred and eleven dollars wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

I quickly put the money into the pocket of my jogging fanny pack and changed into a gym shirt and sneakers and shorts. Finally, I went into the bathroom and put on some lip gloss before doing my hair up in a cute ponytail.

I needed to look my best.

I was, after all, going to be abducted by the Jump Killer this afternoon.

It was the news story at the hospital that had inspired me. The missing Marathon woman. The fact that the serial killer was now supposed to be in the Lower Keys.

Nineteen young women had gone missing, as if they’d disappeared into thin air.

I was going to be number twenty.

Peter wasn’t stupid, I knew. If my plan was going to work, it would have to be flawless, perfect in every way. The second he found out, he was going to be suspicious. So was my new FBI friend.

But I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to get away from Peter, to get out of the immense hole I’d dug for myself, I had to try. It was my only shot.

I checked myself in the bathroom mirror one more time and then looked at my watch. It was just coming on noon. I went into the bedroom and stared out the sliders at the sunlit water. There was no sign of Peter’s boat. At least not yet. I’d have a six-or seven-hour head start.