James Patterson - #1 Suspect

Justine knocked, calling Danny’s name.

There was no answer.

She knocked louder and called again, with no response. She was about to walk around to the back of the cabin when a car pulled up to hers and stopped. Rick Del Rio got out.

It was more than a little spooky here, and she was very glad to see him. And his gun.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Damned if I know,” said Justine. “The car is here, but I don’t think anyone is home.”

Del Rio said to Justine, “Go around back. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

Del Rio tried the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. The door swung open, and with his light shining into the house, he crossed the threshold.

He shone his beam around the main room and took stock. The house was one of those magazine-type decorated cabins with Native American rugs on the terra-cotta floor, bright blankets and pillows on the leather couches in front of the fireplace.

Embers glowed in the grate. He saw empty wine bottles on the floor and jars of wildflowers on the windowsills.

Del Rio called out, “Is anyone here?”

There was no answer.

There was a light on in the hacienda-style kitchen, another designer-inspired room, bright with Mexican tiles. Iron hooks hung from the beamed ceiling, holding pots and pans. There were dishes in the sink and plates with remains of chocolate cake sitting on the counter.

He could almost see Danny and Piper cutting up right here.

Del Rio found the bedroom down a short hallway. The bed was king-size, made of birch saplings, and took up most of the room. He noted the rumpled sheets, the pillows that had fallen between the mattress and the wall, and the calico quilt in a heap on the floor.

Piper’s sundress, the one that she had worn for her scene that day, was over the back of a chair. Feminine underthings were on the seat and a pair of flat shoes was underneath it.

Didn’t need to be a genius to see that sex had happened here. In fact, the entire place had the look of a nonstop party. Too bad Piper was sixteen and Danny was twenty-four.

Del Rio continued his quick tour of the cabin. The bathroom was empty. Damp towels were hanging over the shower curtain rod. He opened closets, found men’s casual clothes and shoes.

Relieved not to find bloodstains or any other signs of violence, Del Rio returned to the kitchen and exited by way of the back door.

The deck cantilevered out over the canyon. It was furnished with a grill and comfortable chairs. Beyond the deck, a spot of light bobbed along a trail and then was blocked from view by a thicket of trees.

Del Rio went down the steps to the path through the scrub dotted with trees. He walked fast, ducking under branches, and caught up with Justine.

She spun, startled by his touch on her shoulder. “Find anything, Rick?”

“Looks like the kids were having a good time. That’s it.”

“How could Danny be so stupid?”

“Call him. Now,” Del Rio said.

Justine did. “Danny. Danny, where are you? It’s Justine.”

Her voice echoed across the canyon. Del Rio said, “Listen.”

He heard a man’s voice saying, “I’m here, ” coming from far along the path. And then there was the sound of car doors slamming behind them, back at the cabin.

There was zero visibility.

Del Rio thought that the night was so black, even dawn couldn’t break through the moonless and overcast sky.

While Justine went back to the cabin, Del Rio pushed ahead, following the narrow path through oak and sycamore and chest-high scrub in the direction of Danny’s intermittent cries, until the trail ended in a clearing.

He flashed his light around, and there was Danny, just ahead. The kid was wearing only his boxers, lying facedown on the ground, pretty much hysterical.

Del Rio went to him, stooped down, shook his shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Nooo,” Danny cried.

His voice was slurred and he stank of booze. Del Rio saw that he was clutching a shoe, like a ballet slipper. Danny’s flashlight was turned off or dead, lying an arm’s length away.

“Where’s Piper?”

Danny rolled onto his side and pointed to where the trail ended and the steep drop into the canyon began.

“What? She’s down there? ”

Del Rio walked a few yards to the edge, pointed his light straight down, and saw a patch of white. He was pretty sure that he was looking at Piper Winnick’s splayed and broken body, a hundred yards down in the canyon.

Del Rio stared for a long moment, hoping he was wrong. The girl looked dead, but maybe she was unconscious. It was a slim possibility, but he had to check.

He went back to Danny, grabbed him by his hair, forced the blubbering kid to look him in the eye. “What happened, Danny? What did you do to her?”

“I can’t…carry her out of there,” Danny wailed. “I want to die.”

Del Rio said, “What did you do, you piece of shit?”

The kid kept crying. Del Rio stood up and walked back to the lip of the canyon.

The canyon wall was at a treacherous forty-five degree angle to the floor. Del Rio looked for footholds, saw jutting boulders, some ledges running parallel to the ground, flat places where he could put his weight. If he watched where he was stepping, he could maybe get all the way down.

Pressing his left hand to the hill, gripping his light with the other, Del Rio started his descent, doing a good job of being a mountain goat even though his heart was slamming hard against his rib cage. He was about halfway to the bottom when, without any warning, his feet slipped across the smooth surface of a rock and shot out from under him.

Del Rio twisted his body, grabbed at the branches of a manzanita with both hands. His flashlight jumped away from him, bounced, and rolled downhill-and then Del Rio lost his tenuous hold and began skidding downward, his whole body sliding over rocks and dirt and grasses until, forty or fifty feet later, the ground came up and dumped him hard on his ass.

Del Rio was scraped and shaken, but he hadn’t slammed into anything on the way down. He rested for a moment, then got to his feet and made for his flashlight, which was, miraculously, still throwing light. Huffing, he picked his way across the rough terrain and closed in on young Piper Winnick.

She was on her back, her arms flung out like broken wings. Her white cotton nightgown was ripped and dirty, hiked up to her breasts, exposing her panties. She was wearing one shoe, a match to the slipper Danny had been holding in his hand.

Del Rio knew Piper was gone, but he hunched down beside the girl and put his hand to her neck.

He couldn’t find a pulse. He listened to her chest. No heartbeat. Her body was still warm to his touch. He didn’t want to accept it, but Piper was dead and that was a sin. No other word for it.

Del Rio wanted to straighten her limbs, cover her body, close her eyes-acts that would destroy the crime scene, which this almost certainly was.

He flashed his light over Piper’s face, tracked the dried blood to a wound at her temple-and saw that her skull was crushed there, caved in.

He used his light and his camera phone to catalogue the skull wound, the bruise on her arm, scrapes on her thighs, the blood trailing down her pale skin, indications that Piper had been alive when she’d gone over the cliff.

Playing his light up the canyon wall, Del Rio saw dozens of big rocks, any one of which could have cracked Piper’s skull.

Danny. That fucking kid.

Screwing young girls wasn’t enough. He’d moved up a few levels to physical aggression. Had Piper tried to get away from him, made a misstep, and fallen? Or had Danny shoved her over the edge on purpose?