James Patterson - The Beach House

They were just settling in when Montrose called Dana Neubauer to the stand. My stomach sank.

"God in heaven," mumbled Mack. "What could she have to say?"

Dana walked solemnly to the stand. As I said, she looked particularly stunning that morning. In retrospect, I realize she also looked substantial, serious, and totally credible.

"Did you know the deceased, Peter Mullen?" Montrose asked.

"Yes, I knew Peter very well," she said.

"For how long?"

"I've been coming here every summer for twenty-one years. I met Peter and the rest of his family early on."

"I'm sorry to have to ask this, Dana, but were you ever intimately involved with Peter Mullen?"

Dana nodded.

"Yes."

There was some murmuring, but, overall, the room was still reeling from all the other testimony. I knew about Dana and Peter by then, but I hated to hear it in open court.

"How long did the relationship last?" he asked.

"About six months," said Dana, shifting uncomfortably in her witness chair.

Montrose sighed, as if this was as hard for him as it was for Dana. "Were you involved at the time of his death?"

Oh, Jesus, I was thinking, this just keeps getting worse.

"We had just broken up," said Dana, looking in my direction. I knew it was a lie. At least, I thought it was. But when I tried to catch her eye, she looked back at Montrose.

"How recently?" he asked. "I know this is hard for you."

"That night," said Dana in a stage whisper, "the night of the party."

"What a wonderful girl you got there, Jack," said Mack without bothering to look over at me.

Dana flashed me another fearful look and started to cry softly. I stared back in awe. Who was this woman on the stand? Was any of this true?

"Peter took it really badly," she resumed. "He started acting crazy. He broke a lamp in the house, knocked over a chair, and stormed out. He called an hour later and told me I was making a big mistake, that the two of us had to be together. I knew he was upset, but I never thought that he'd do anything rash. If you knew Peter, you wouldn't have believed it, either. He acted like nothing ever really got to him. Obviously, I was wrong. I'm so sorry about what happened."

Then Dana put her head down and sobbed into her hands.

"Brava!" Gidley called from a few rows behind. "Bravissima!" Then he jumped up and began clapping wildly for Dana's breathtaking performance.

A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE once spent a summer interning at a New York TV news station. The anchorman liked him and over a beer offered the secret to on-air success. "The whole thing in this business," said the anchor, "is sincerity. Once you learn how to fake that, the rest is easy."

Barry Neubauer followed Dana to the stand. Neubauer's specialty wasn't feigning empathy but projecting CEO-ness. Every detail of his presentation, from the cut of his charcoal suit to the tilt of his jaw to his full head of gray hair, reinforced the message that here was a man who was your superior.

"Mr. Neubauer," Nadia Alper began, "according to a bartender who was setting up at your place the afternoon before the party, you and Mrs. Neubauer engaged in a lengthy and nasty argument. Could you tell us what the argument was about?"

"I do recall a spat," said Neubauer with a shrug, "but I don't remember it as being particularly serious. In fact, I have no clear recollection of what it was about. Probably just pre-party anxiety. I suspect that bartender hasn't been married for twenty-seven years."

"Would it jog your memory, Mr. Neubauer, if I told you that the same bartender heard you say the name Peter Mullen several times in the course of the argument, often with an expletive attached?"

Neubauer frowned as he strained to recall the incident.

"No, I'm sorry, it wouldn't. I can't imagine any circumstances in which his name would come up in an argument between Campion and myself. Peter Mullen has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember. We consider his death, whatever the exact circumstances, extremely tragic. I've extended my condolences to the Mullen family. I visited his older brother, Jack, at the law firm where he worked and spoke to him at length."

As a witness, Neubauer had what might be described as perfect pitch. His erect posture, steady gaze, deep voice, and slow, thoughtful delivery all combined to create an impression of absolute credibility. To judge his responses as anything less than the truth seemed cynical and conspiratorial.

Alper persisted. To her credit, she didn't seem afraid of him. "Could you recall your activities on the day Mr. Mullen died?"

"I screened some dailies in the morning and played eighteen holes rather badly at Maidstone in the afternoon. Then Campion and I got ourselves ready for the party."

"Could you tell us what you were doing at about ten-thirty that night, the time that Mr. Mullen died?"

"I was in an upstairs den on the phone," said Neubauer, without hesitation. "This I remember very well."

Nadia Alper tilted her head in surprise. So did Mack and I.

"Is there a reason, Mr. Neubauer, why you remember a phone call so vividly yet have no recollection about a fight with your wife?"

Nothing seemed to shake Barry Neubauer. "For one thing, it was a very long call, a little more than an hour. I even remember feeling very guilty about being away from our guests for so long."

"He's just a goddamned caring human being," said Macklin under his breath.

"Do you have any proof of the call?"

"Yes, I've brought a copy of the phone bill. It shows a seventy-four-minute call from three past ten to eleven-seventeen p.m." Neubauer passed the record to Alper.

"Could you tell us who you were talking to, Mr. Neubauer?" asked Alper.

When Neubauer hesitated slightly, Montrose barked, "Objection."

Both attorneys looked toward Lillian.

"Overruled," said the judge. "Please answer the question."

"Robert Crassweller Junior," said Neubauer. The slightest trace of a smile crossed his lips. "The attorney general of the United States," he said.

This final answer drained whatever energy and tension remained in the courtroom. Some spectators got up and left, as if this was an Islander game and the fat lady had just sung. Barry Neubauer's eyes casually roamed the audience. When he found me, he offered up a lazy smile. Amateur hour is over, boys.

After a few more questions, Nadia Alper excused Neubauer. Then both lawyers informed the court that they had presented their list of witnesses.

Judge Lillian made a show of adjusting his robes before somberly addressing the court.

"Normally," said Lillian, "I would withhold my decision until the morning. In this case, however, I can't think of anything that requires further reflection. It is the finding of this inquiry court that on May twenty-ninth, Peter Mullen drowned by accident or suicide. This inquest is now completed, and this court adjourned."

THE COURT ADJOURNED at about 4:40. When I got to the Shagwong, it was five on the nose. I took a seat at the end of the bar and asked Mike to pour out six shots of Jameson.

Without raising an eyebrow, he grabbed two handfuls of glasses and, with practiced precision, lined them up and filled them to the rims.

"They're on me," he said.

"I would have asked for seven, then," I told him. I smiled for the first time that day.

Mike put down a seventh and filled it also.

"I was joking."

"Me, too."

As Mike laid out my full course of Irish medicine, I saw again that smug little smile Montrose flashed me on his way out of the courtroom. It showed more disgust than joy. Why, he seemed to be asking, was I the only one in the room who couldn't understand that justice is neither a mystery nor a crapshoot, but a major purchase? Spend your money thoughtfully and secretly, you walk free. That was the way it was in America these days. Who knows? Maybe it had always been that way.