James Patterson: Now You See Her

I was coming back up the faded sidewalk with the champagne when I spotted a man in the beat-up black Jeep across the street.

He reminded me of the tennis player Björn Borg, with long, dirty blond hair and wraparound sunglasses. He also sported a blond Jesus beard. I glanced at the windshield, and though his face was pointed away, I got the impression that as I approached he was watching me from behind the glasses. He took something out of the pocket of his cutoff denim shirt and started playing with it. It was a gold lighter, and he started clicking it in rhythm to the clink of champagne bottles as I walked past.

I swallowed, suddenly afraid. The guy was definitely creepy. As I picked up my pace and made it back to the gate, the Jeep roared to life and peeled out, its big tires screeching as it took the first corner.

What the hell had that been about? I thought, hurrying back toward the white tent.

Teo didn’t so much as grunt a thank-you when I dropped off the heavy case by his busy bar, which was par for his course. I couldn’t decide what I disliked more about the young, handsome Hispanic with frosted hair: the several occasions I spotted him coming out of a bathroom rubbing his runny nose or the way he constantly tried to look down my shirt. If he wasn’t Elena’s cousin, I would have complained. I was definitely losing my patience.

I found Elena with her business partner, Gary, the chef, in our staging tent. She smiled as she pulled a tray of puff pastries off the portable oven’s rack.

“Hey, you made it back,” she said, winking at Gary. “See any dangerous-looking parachutists?”

I actually was about to tell her about my evil Björn Borg sighting, but the way she said it, like I was a complete idiot, checked me. It would only lead to more teasing. I liked Elena, but sometimes her tough-chick sarcasm was a little hard to take. I decided to keep the creepy encounter to myself.

“Ha-ha. At least you have a gun,” I said. “Speaking of dangerous, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Elena. How dangerous is that DEA task force thing at work?”

“Are you kidding me?” Elena said, handing me an hors d’oeuvre–packed silver tray. “You have to be a stone-cold supercop like your husband to even think about doing undercover work. Besides, you mean how dangerous was that DEA task force thing. They rerouted the DEA agents back to Miami, like, two months ago. Fed funding dried up. Sucks, too. I did surveillance for them for almost two weeks. The overtime was kick-ass. Take those out now. The yuppie natives look like they’re getting restless.”

Over? For the last two months? I thought as I stumbled out onto the grass, the tray almost slipping from my hand.

Then where the hell had Peter been going on Saturdays only to come home at three in the morning? I wondered.

For the last two months.

PETER BLINKED when he turned on the kitchen light and saw me sitting ramrod straight with my arms folded at the table at five thirty the next morning.

“Jeanine, you’re up,” he said.

Two months, I thought, noticing that he was showered. I didn’t know whether to scream or cry or hit him. I was ready for all three at once.

Why had Peter been lying through his teeth to me for over two months!?

“I’m up all right,” I said. “All night, in fact. I wanted to ask you a question. Um, I wonder how I can put this delicately. Where the FUCK have you been going every Saturday for the past two FUCKING months?”

Peter held up his hands, a completely floored expression on his face. “What in the name of God are you talking about? Where do you think I’ve been? Mexico? I’ve been at work.”

“Then why did Elena tell me that the DEA task force returned to Miami two months ago?”

“She what?” he said. He actually laughed. “It’s OK, Jeanine. Don’t shoot. I can explain. It’s simple. For a cop, your boss, Elena, is one hell of a caterer. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You didn’t tell her, did you? That I was still involved with the DEA?”

“No,” I said, confused. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Listen to me for a second, all right? The DEA only said they were going back to Miami. They have a confidential informant who said there’s a leak in the department. Some bad cop is leaking stuff to a suspected drug smuggling operation. That’s why the chief hand-selected me. It was stupid not to explain it to you. I should have told you. The important thing is not to tell Elena about it. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You think Elena might be a bad cop?” I said.

“Who the hell knows?” Peter said, shrugging as he took the orange juice out of the fridge. “Somebody in the department is. We can’t rule her out.”

“Are you sure about all of this, Peter?” I said, staring into his eyes. “I mean, are you really sure you’re sure?”

“Am I sure?” he said, laughing again as he stared right back. “Christ, Jeanine. Look at you. I thought cops were suspicious. You want to look at my pay stubs? Check our phone records. If you want, I’ll bring home a CSI kit so you can take prints.”

“It’s just…” I began and then started crying.

Peter stepped over and opened his palms.

“Hands,” he demanded.

I gave mine over.

“Look in my eyes,” he said. “There. Much better. Now, I have a question. Why do you think I married you?”

“You love me?” I said.

“Ya think?” he said. “Look, Jeanine. I never told you this before, but you weren’t the only one that night on the beach who was seriously thinking about calling it quits. I was sick of it. Being a cop, Key West, people, partying. I don’t know, being alive, everything. It all seemed so meaningless and stupid.” He smiled down at me.

“Then I rolled up and looked into your eyes, and I haven’t been inside a church since my Communion, Jeanine, but it felt holy, you know? Like God sent me an angel down from heaven. After I got to know you and realized how incredible we were together, I knew it was true.”

“Not an angel, a mermaid,” I said, sniffling.

“Exactly,” Peter said, wiping a tear off my nose. “You’re the first thing in a long time, maybe the only thing ever, that actually makes me want to get out of bed and floss my teeth and balance my checkbook. You understand? I’m not Alex. I’m not some asshole. I’d do anything. I’d die before hurting you. I’d burn this shit-heel, sunburned tourist trap to the ground, if you wanted me to. I’d—”

“Oh, Peter,” I said, crying as I kissed him. “I know. I’m sorry. My Saint Peter, my love,” I said, burying my face in his shoulder.

ON FRIDAY NIGHT, exactly one week before our trip to Palm Beach, I was sitting on the couch, thinking about going to bed early. But at the last second, I decided to throw caution to the wind and put my flip-flops on and head out to the island’s only Blockbuster, half a mile away on North Roosevelt Boulevard.

Peter was pulling a double, directing traffic at some road construction on the Overseas Highway up in Big Pine Key, so I was flying solo. Being much more of a classic movie buff than he was, I decided I couldn’t waste the home-alone opportunity to indulge in a late-night Alfred Hitchcock double feature. I snagged The Birds and North by Northwest off the shelf.

I was a foot out the door when I hit the Unlock button on my car key fob and heard the faint bloop-bloop.

No, wait, I thought as I suddenly spotted my battered blue Vespa at the curb. What was I thinking? I’d taken the moped. Our new Toyota Supra was still with Peter at work.

I stopped and stared down at my car key fob, confused. Why had I heard the car beep, then?