James Patterson - The Beach House

The news coverage didn't stop with our local weekly. New York magazine sent a reporter and a photographer, and two New York TV stations ran nearly identical segments with a trench-coated reporter treading the moonlit beach where Peter's body washed ashore.

One evening I received a call from Dominick Dunne, the reporter-novelist whose daughter had been murdered years ago and who had emerged as a crusty talking head during the O.J. marathon. "My editors at Vanity Fair art begging me to do this story," he told me, "but I hate the Hamptons in the summer."

"I do, too, but you should do the story anyway. My brother was murdered."

"You're probably right. I'm sorry if I was flip. In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you not to let the bastards get away with it." He reminded me of Mack.

At Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel, I threw myself into the Mudman case. The injustice of his scheduled execution and the cover-up of Peter's murder had become connected in my mind. I prepared a two-hundred-page response to the judge's reaction to our latest request for DNA testing in Texas. The senior associate glowed and said it was the best work he'd ever seen from summer help.

No wonder. It was why I had wanted to be a lawyer in the first place.

FENTON GIDLEY WAS BAITING LINES on the deck of his boat when the Fixer pulled up alongside in a twenty-foot Boston Whaler. He cut the engine and called to the burly, sandy-haired fisherman who happened to be Jack Mullen's best friend.

"Hey, Fenton. How they biting?" the Fixer asked in a snotty, wise-guy voice.

Gidley looked up and saw this big guy with a scar on his cheek. He didn't have time for idle chitchat. "Do I know you, buddy?"

The Fixer pulled out a 9mm Glock and pointed it at Gidley. "I think you're going to wish that we had never met. Now, I want you to stand up real slow. Hey, he follows instructions. Good, I like that in a punk loser. Now jump in the fucking water, Gidley. Jump – or I'll shoot you right between the eyes. It would make my morning."

Fenton jumped off his boat, went under briefly, then bobbed to the surface. He was wearing shorts, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and work boots. He needed to get the boots off.

"Leave the boots on," the Fixer said. He leaned over the edge of the Whaler and stared down at Gidley. Then he smiled.

"You're going to die out here today. More precisely, you're going to drown. Want to know why?"

Gidley was obviously smarter than he looked. He was paying close attention, searching for some way out. But there was no way out.

"Peter Mullen's murder?" he said. He was already having trouble staying afloat. The water was choppy and cold, and the boots were a bitch.

"Peter Mullen wasn't murdered…" the Fixer said. "He drowned. Just like you're going to drown. I'm going to stay right here until you go under for the last time. That way, you don't have to die alone."

And that's what the Fixer did. He kept the gun on Gidley and watched him with only mild interest. He drank a Lipton iced tea out of the bottle. His eyes were cold and flat, like a shark's.

Gidley was a strong kid, and he really loved life. He didn't go down the first time until almost half an hour after he jumped into the water.

The second time was only a few minutes later. When he fought his way back to the surface, he was coughing up sea-water and foam, choking on it.

"Peter Mullen drowned," the Fixer called to him. "You understand that now? You getting a feeling for drowning?"

Fenton finally started to cry, but he wasn't going to beg this bastard for his life. It wasn't much satisfaction, but it was something.

Fenton went down again and immediately took a big gulp of salt water. His chest felt as if it was going to explode this time. He pulled off his boots – what the hell – and let them go to the bottom. Then Fenton came up for the last time. He wanted to kill the fucker, but it looked as though things were going the opposite way.

Fenton couldn't believe what he saw when he struggled to the surface this time. The Whaler was pulling away.

"You owe me one, Fenton," the bastard shouted over the engine noise. "You owe me your stupid life."

Fenton got the rest of the message, too – Peter Mullen had drowned. That was the way it had to be.

Fenton floated on his back for a while, until he was strong enough to swim to his boat.

THE FIXER was having a busy and productive day.

Looking downright mellow in baggy shorts, oversize T-shirt, and St. Louis Cardinals cap pulled down to his Ray-Bans, he lazily pedaled his rented bicycle down Ditch Plains Road. As he passed number eighteen, he gave it a long, hard look, then released his grip on the handlebars and rolled serenely by.

"Look, Ma, no hands," he said to the cloudless afternoon sky.

A couple of yards later, he swerved into the packed lot of the East Deck Motel and stood his bike in the motley row lined up at the break in the dunes.

Then, with a tube of lotion and the latest Grisham in hand, a big yellow beach towel slung over his shoulder, he backtracked toward the house on Ditch Plains, affecting the exaggerated shuffle of a recreating yuppie. Now came the tricky part.

Two doors down from the Mullen place, he cut across the lot where a big new house was going up and headed toward Ditch Plains Beach. But then, as if realizing he'd forgotten something, he turned toward the Mullens' rear door.

He pulled a flexible ribbon of steel out of his deep-pocketed shorts and probed the lock. When the first two attempts failed to produce the telltale click, he realized the goddamned door wasn't even locked.

That's a sign, he thought as he let himself inside. Don't be too creative. For the next half an hour he followed his own advice, scouring the drawers, the cabinets, and the bookshelves. But the obvious places didn't yield what he was looking for. Ditto for the clammy crawl space and the tiny attic.

He was starting to sweat. The fucking house wasn't air-conditioned. He checked behind every picture on the wall and peered into the sleeves of old Beatles and Kingston Trio LPs. Then he went through the closets, which were jam-packed with Mullen memorabilia.

Where the hell did you hide it, Peter?

This is important, you miserable little fuck. People could die – including your Mouseketeer pals. Even your hotshot brother.

So where the hell is it, you little dead fuck?

After another thirty minutes he was in such a foul humor, he was sorry to see Mack's old Datsun pull into the driveway. After all, if the old geezer had stumbled on him midsearch, he would have had no choice but to kill him.

Maybe he ought to do him anyway. Let the town spill a few more tears for those poor afflicted Mullen boys. No, spontaneous mayhem was for amateurs. He'd already caused enough trouble for one day.

He waited by the deck until he heard the garage door squeaking upward, then slipped out the back and hustled toward the beach.

Goddamn you, Peter. Where the hell did you hide the salami, pal?

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING in New York, I was tucked inside my tiny office by eight o'clock. Everything that could possibly have gone wrong seemed to have. The phone rang. Even before I picked up, I muttered, "Uh-oh."

It was Fenton, calling from the island.

"Hey, man, good to hear your voice," I said.

"Yeah, well, hold that thought," he said. Then he told me what had happened the day before alongside his boat. By the time he was finished, I wanted to rush back to Montauk, but what the hell good would it do?

"You have any idea who he was?"