James Patterson - 11th hour

Janet’s stiff expression tightened.

“I don’t think he ever met a woman he didn’t like,” said Nigel Worley, turning his eyes directly to me for the first time. “Harry Chandler would like you.”

His stare was chilling. It was as if he had put his hands around my neck and squeezed.

A young woman burst into the room, the sound breaking her father’s double-fisted lock on my eyes.

Janet Worley said, “Nicole, these people are from the police.” To me, she said, “I’ll be in the parlor,” and she left the room.

Nicole Worley was midtwenties, pretty, with a heart-shaped face, dark hair, green eyes, flushed cheeks. She wore jeans and a green sweatshirt with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife logo on the front.

Nicole asked her father, “What’s going on with you?”

“Your mother. She drives me round the bend.”

“I wish you wouldn’t fight.”

“The way she goes on about that self-important prick — ”

“Stop that.”

“You women are crazy.”

“All right. All right,” Nicole said to her father. To me, she said, “I’m Nicole. You wanted to see me?”

Nigel started cleaning the burners on the stove, and Nicole joined us at the table.

I said, “We need some basic information, Nicole. Where were you over the last few days?”

“I was off on a rescue,” she said. “Pronghorn antelope get panicked at headlights, or at anything really. This one was hung up in a fence.”

“And when did you leave for this rescue?”

“Friday morning.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes. I drove up north to Mendocino County by myself. What is it that you want to know? Did I kill some people and then dig up their heads? Leave them on the back step to scare my parents?”

“You tell me, Nicole. Did you have anything to do with the remains found here yesterday morning?”

“Absolutely not, and I cannot imagine how something like this could ever have happened.”

“Can you tell me how it’s possible that the three of you live in this house and are completely unaware of a series of crimes that happened over time outside the back door?”

Behind us, Nigel Worley said angrily, “Bloody cheek, these questions.”

“Dad, don’t you have something else you could be doing?” said Nicole.

Nigel Worley was a big, angry man with large hands. I could picture him turning violent. But if he’d killed these seven people, his exhuming their heads made no logical sense. And putting a garland of chrysanthemum blossoms around them seemed a little dainty for him.

I said, “Mr. Worley. Do you think Mr. Chandler could have been involved in what has happened here?”

“Killing and digging would require actual labor, wouldn’t it? I don’t picture Mr. Chandler getting his hands dirty.”

I didn’t know about Harry Chandler, but Nigel Worley looked like he got his hands dirty every day.

Nigel Worley slammed around behind us, crashing the last of the iron trivets against the stove.

When Nigel had left the room, Conklin put a picture of the recently decapitated woman’s head in front of Nicole. Her eyes widened at the sight of that decomposing face and she pushed back from the table.

“Do you know this woman?” Conklin asked her.

“I’ve never seen her in my life.”

“This is one of the two heads your parents discovered yesterday morning,” I said.

“It’s revolting. It’s horrible.”

“She was walking around last week, Nicole. Then her head was cut off with a saw.”

“I find this unfathomable.”

“What is your relationship with Harry Chandler?”

“I’m his caretakers’ daughter. That’s all. Do you want my opinion of him?”

“Please.”

“He’s been accused of horrible things before, but I know him to be a good man. He has been very kind to my family. We’ve been good to him too.”

“Your father seems to dislike him.”

“Oh, all that growling means nothing. He thinks my mother is starstruck and he hates that.”

“You were sixteen when you came to live here?”

“That’s right.”

“And the reason you moved from London?”

“My parents had a romantic notion about America. As soon as we arrived, I fell in love with this city and this house. I’m kind of an expert on the Ellsworth family. Harry lets me live in number two at no charge,” Nicole explained, “and so I give lectures about the house to the tourists in exchange for free rent.”

I said, “So you know everything about this house, Nicole. Everything except that the backyard was basically a cemetery.”

The young woman’s face colored.

The direct approach wasn’t working, or maybe Nicole knew as little as she said she did.

Before I could fire off another question, my phone rang.

I glanced at the caller ID, got up, and took the call in the pantry.

Claire said, “I spoke with Dr. Perlmutter. She said looks like all the skulls are female. We’ve got a little multicultural mix going on here. Two of the skulls plus the head of our Jane Doe makes three white women. We also have one female of African background, one Asian, and two undetermined.”

“Their ages?”

“Approximately twenties to forties.”

“How long have the heads been in the ground?”

“It’s hard to be precise, Lindsay. But yes, they could all have been buried in the last ten years.”

Since Chandler bought the Ellsworth compound.

I hung up and called out to Conklin, asked him to join me in the pantry.

Conklin can read me like a map.

He knew that I felt pressure from Brady to work on Revenge and that at the same time, I was committed to the Ellsworth case. I wanted to do both.

I told him about my conversation with Claire.

He said to me, “I’ll work on Nicole.”

I nodded, said, “Good. While you do that, I’m going to use my famous charm on the movie star.”

Conklin held the back door open for Nicole, then followed her out to the patio. They ducked into the tent and Conklin said hello to a tech who was labeling bags of dirt.

“Got booties?” Conklin asked.

The tech handed him a carton of disposable shoe covers and Conklin took two pairs, then handed one pair to Nicole.

A brick path skirted the base of the wall, and once their feet were swaddled in plastic, Nicole and Conklin walked around the shadowy patch of garden.

Conklin focused his attention on Nicole Worley, watched her body language as she told him that she was a biologist and was hoping a teaching job would open in one of the schools within commuting distance of the Ellsworth place.

“My parents are getting older, and it’s better for them if I’m around. I keep them from killing each other — oh, I didn’t mean that literally.”

Conklin smiled, said, “I knew what you meant.”

Nicole slipped into her tour-guide role, talked about Bryce Ellsworth, his five wives and fourteen children, how the house survived the great fire of 1906. She had anecdotes about Prohibition and about Billie Holiday, the famous chanteuse, who’d sung for the Ellsworth family in their own parlor.

As Nicole and Conklin rounded the corner of the lot, Nicole indicated the four six-story houses beyond the wall.

Nicole said, “These houses are high for this area, but Bryce Ellsworth wanted them to balance the height of the main house. He liked symmetry. Notice that there are no windows facing the back garden. This is one of the interesting things about this place. I can’t even see the garden from my flat in number two.”

“What was the point of not having back-facing windows?”

“The first Mrs. Ellsworth was very private. I think it was her idea to keep the help from spying on her when she walked in the garden.”