James Patterson: #1 Suspect

“At any rate, Colleen is worked up. And here’s where it gets painful,” Tandy said. “You say you’re not interested in her anymore. ‘Thanks but no thanks. Let’s be friends.’ And she doesn’t want to be rejected by you again. So she’s going to kill herself. That’ll show you.”

What Tandy was saying hurt. Yes, Colleen still had feelings for me. I’d still had feelings for her too.

I said, “Very theatrical, Tandy, but as I keep telling you, I didn’t do it.”

“So, as I’m telling you, Colleen knows where you keep your gun. She goes for it. You struggle with her. The two of you fall on the bed-and the gun goes off. Hair trigger. Bam. Bam. Bam. She takes it in the chest.”

“That never happened.”

“Colleen has been shot. It was an accident. I know you well enough to say that, Jack. But you can’t change the events. And now this poor mixed-up girl is dead in your place. Sure, you could dump the body, but you gotta ask yourself. Maybe Colleen told a friend she was coming to see you; you can’t know. Or maybe you’re scared. You panic. You lose it-”

“Ziegler, stay away from my desk.”

“What’s wrong, Jack? Is there something here I’m not supposed to see?”

Ziegler meandered over to where I was sitting with Tandy. I imagined putting my fist into his jack-o’-lantern grin.

“If I’ve got this wrong, make me a believer and I’ll work with you,” said Tandy.

So polite. Covering his ass because the chief of police and I were friends.

I said, “My turn to talk?”

“You’re on,” Tandy said.

“Okay. You’ve got to look at me for the crime. I get that. But you’re wasting time. I’ve been set up. Someone doesn’t like me. He kidnapped Colleen, got her to give up her key fob, and used her print to open the door. He brought her into my house and shot her in my bed.

“The shooter left before I got home. He figured that the cops wouldn’t look very hard at anyone but me. That was his plan.”

Tandy smiled. “But here’s where your story goes off road, Jack. There’s a gap in your timeline. You left the airport at five-thirty-something. Hit some traffic. You arrived home at six-thirty. So you say.

“At eight you call the chief. Time passes as Fescoe calls the precinct and the call goes down the line. By the time Ziegler and I arrive, almost two hours have gone by since you walked in your door.

“You had plenty of time to shoot the girl, get rid of your gun, throw it and your security system hard drive into the ocean. Then you shower, shampoo-hell, you could have had your guys come in and do a professional cleanup, like it never even happened.”

I said, “Mitch. The card reader shows Colleen’s key was swiped at six. At six, we were just getting clear of the airport.”

“So what? She waited for you. Or you screwed with the security program after the fact. Look, I’m a fair guy, Jack. You tell me. Who do you think killed Colleen?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“Well, think about it. I could use your thoughts on this. Why don’t you put together a list of your enemies. I’ll check them out. Personally. Okay? Call me, Jack. Anytime.”

“Thanks, Mitch. I will.”

I shook hands with the cops, then Cody walked them out to the elevator. Bastards. It was absolutely clear. I was going to have to find Colleen’s killer.

It was up to me to save my own life.

I swallowed some aspirin, then stole a few minutes at my desk, attacking the backlogged avalanche of e-mails and phone calls. When I looked up, Sci was sitting in front of me. I hadn’t heard him come in. Had he materialized out of the air? If anyone could do that, it was Dr. Sci.

“What the hell?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

Sci was wearing a red shirt, tails out over his jeans, bowling shoes up on the edge of my desk. He had the face of a cherub and the brain of Einstein-if Einstein had lived in the digital age. Since he hadn’t, Dr. Sci was arguably smarter.

“Thinking about what?”

“I’ve got news, Jack. I can’t find anything good in it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I spoke to someone.”

Along with Sci’s advanced degrees, he’d worked in the LA crime lab for a couple of years, doing rotations in ballistics, fibers, DNA. He had deep contacts at LA’s hundred-million-dollar lab, and his tech friends were close to the cops. One of those friends was hoping that Sci would bring him over to Private.

We had agreed long ago that Sci would give me off-the-record intel and I wouldn’t ask any awkward questions.

“There was a witness,” said Sci.

“Someone saw Colleen?”

“Someone saw you, Jack. On the beach. A neighbor, Bobbie Newton. You know her?”

“Slightly. She lives a couple houses down the beach.”

“She said she was jogging last night and she saw you on the beach, talking on your phone. She waved at you and you waved back.”

“When was this?

“Approximately six something. She doesn’t know for sure. She wasn’t wearing a watch.”

“She saw me? ”

“So she says.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sci. I wasn’t on the beach.”

I didn’t want to have the thoughts that were turning in my mind, but the tumblers were clicking into place. A riddle. Who was me yet not me?

My womb-mate. My enemy.

“Tommy,” I said. “What else?”

“The fingerprints in your room were all yours.”

“We’re identical,” I said.

“Yes, but your fingerprints aren’t identical. They’re shaped by the currents in utero. Tommy’s prints will be a little different than yours.

“Jack, you really think Tommy killed Colleen?”

“He knows her. He knows me. He could get close to her and he could force her to give up her key, press her finger to the biometric lock. He has motive. He fucking hates me.”

I took the stairs down to Justine’s office, which was directly under mine. Three associates were arrayed around her semicircular desk: Kate Hanley, Lauri Green, and our sixty-year-old virtual chameleon of a sleuth, Bud Rankin.

Justine was assigning them to collect background on all five of the hotel murder victims.

She looked up, her long dark hair hanging to her shoulders, framing her lovely face.

She thanked the troops and they filed out.

I sat down and told Justine about Noccia’s offer that I couldn’t refuse.

“We’re not taking the job, are we?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I vote, no, no way, and not in a million years.”

“Duly noted.”

“Now, bring me up to date on Colleen.”

About me and Justine. A few years back, we bought the beach house where I live as a future wedding present to us both. We made a lot of love and had a lot of good times in that house. Truth is, we fit together in every way-but one.

I don’t like to spill my guts. And Justine is a shrink. I’m guarded, or what she calls “too well-defended,” and she gets pissed off. Then she closes up. And she stays mad.

We were lovers. We broke up, then tried it again with the same result. After we split up the second time, more than a year ago, I started seeing Colleen-and Justine dated a guy not half good enough for her.

A few months ago, we were both unattached again, and we’d started dating in a noncommitted way. I still couldn’t open up. She still couldn’t tolerate that. So for good and for bad, not much had changed.

Sitting here looking at her, I couldn’t understand why I had to talk when Justine could pretty much read my mind.

She was peeling back the layers even now.

“There’s a witness,” I said. “A neighbor says she saw me on the beach around the time Colleen was killed.”