James Patterson - The Beach House

Finally, in the early-morning light, the truck turned into Bluff Road. Three stops later, Hank drove it through the open gates of the Neubauer compound.

THREE-FIFTEEN a.m.

My Casio went off in sharp, persistent beeps, and my eyes flipped open on a splintery beam slanting down from the ridge of the roof.

I slid to the end of the mattress, set my feet on the loose plywood floor, and breathed deeply.

There's nothing like waking up in the attic of a house you've entered illegally to get the blood flowing. Oh, man, Jack, I thought once again. Is this the only way to get this done?

When my heart rate slowed, I laced up my sneakers and pulled a flashlight from my backpack. Then, with one hand aiming the light and the other holding on to the overhead beams for balance, I made my way rafter to rafter across the attic.

The huge two-story house, built in the 1930s, faced the water and was laid out like a staple whose sides bulged a little past ninety degrees. When I reached the end of the guest wing, I wriggled through a thicket of beams, turned right, and set out across the main body of the house, which contained the kitchen and living and dining rooms. Just below where I was walking, a forty-eight-seat screening room.

Huge industrial-strength air-conditioning units had been wedged into that part of the attic. I had to maneuver around the metal casings and the thick tangle of plastic tubing piping chilly air into the rooms below.

Up there, however, it was as steamy and airless as a subway platform. By the time I'd crossed over the center part and turned right again over the bedroom suites, sweat was dripping off my nose, splattering softly on the baking wood.

I kept walking until I reached the tiny window cut into the gable of the attic at the end of the house.

It was 3:38. I was five minutes ahead of schedule.

From the window I could see ocean waves hitting the beach in the eerie light. I could see the spot where Peter's broken body had washed ashore.

It was good to be reminded of why I was in that attic.

I counted off fifteen strides, to where I estimated Dana's bedroom would be. When I couldn't find the sliding sheet of plywood I was looking for, I expanded my search three strides in each direction. Finally, I spotted the sliding plywood flooring that opened down into her closet.

Squatting low, I stuffed my flashlight into my backpack and mopped my face and neck with my T-shirt. When I slid the plywood sheet aside, a jet of cool air blew into my face.

Supporting my weight with my palms, I slowly lowered myself into the chilly darkness of Dana's room.

I FOUND MYSELF in the back of a deep closet between scented rows of designer blouses, dresses, and slacks. I used my flashlight to see. Each shelf was labeled with a designer's name: Gucci, Vera Wang, Calvin, Ralph Lauren, Chanel. I pushed my way through the thicket of Dana's linen, silk, and cashmere to the edge of the slightly open closet door. Fifteen feet away on the bed, Dana lay asleep.

It was time for a judgment call, and I had to make it. The question was whether Dana was directly involved in Peter's murder. By now I knew a fair amount about that night a year ago. I knew Peter had received a perfumed note on stationery that looked like Dana's, and maybe it even was hers. But I was pretty sure that whatever relationship she'd had with Peter had been over before the night he died. She'd lied for her father at the inquest.

So I made the call: Dana was more a victim than a true accomplice. She might not be the best person, but she wasn't a murderer. She'd been sexually abused by her own father. Let sleeping dogs lie, I told myself.

Keeping my eye on the rows of expensive shoes and jeans scattered about, I slid out of her closet, then out of the bedroom. I was in a wide gallery that led to the separate bedrooms her parents had maintained for decades. It was lined with paintings by Pollock and de Kooning and Fairfield Porter, all of which had been done in the Hamptons. The tiny red lights of their alarms blinked in the darkness.

A toilet flushed to my right. I froze against the wall.

Then a dark-skinned young guy in boxers stepped out of the bathroom. Who the hell is this? What is he doing in this part of the house?

He looked to be about nineteen, Indian or Pakistani, and at least as handsome as Peter was. In a postcoital cocoon, he padded dreamily toward the guest wing. Peter's goddamned replacement.

A few more steps and I was at the threshold of Barry Neubauer's bedroom. The last day – the whole last week, really – had passed like an endless nightmare. Every few hours I found myself doing something, or committing to something, that I knew I shouldn't. I could still turn back. It wasn't too late. It was like one of those suspense-movie scenes where we want to yell, Don't do it. Don't open that door, Jack.

I didn't listen, of course.

I took out my starter pistol and nudged open Neubauer's door. My heart was thundering inside my chest. I'd never set foot in the room before. Even in the Dana months, it was off-limits.

The room was spare and loftlike with irregular white floorboards. By a bay window was a sitting area with a flat-screen TV, a black leather couch, and matching armchairs.

It was another five paces to the huge wood-and-steel sculpture of a bed. I could hear Neubauer breathing heavily. It sounded as though he was chewing something in his sleep.

In a kind of a trance, I cautiously crossed the floorboards. He lay sprawled on his back, his hands instinctively shielding his black silk briefs. A ribbon of drool trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Even in my disembodied state it occurred to me that it had the makings of a wonderful portrait of the CEO at rest.

I was afraid that if I watched him any longer, he would sense a presence and open his eyes, so I dropped to a crouch below the level of the bed. I removed a roll of silvery electrical tape from my backpack. My heart was exploding.

Still crouching, I peeled off about a half-foot strip of tape. This was it. I counted three, took a deep breath, and brought the tape down on Neubauer's mouth before he could make a sound. Hard. I pushed down so hard against his whiskery cheeks that the back of his head sank deep into the pillow. I brought my free hand around and pressed the barrel of the pistol to the bridge of his nose.

For a long, hard beat, we were locked in a kind of negative harmony – his shock and rage matched perfectly by mine.

Suddenly, he grabbed for the gun, setting off a struggle. But I was in a much better position. I was also stronger. I ripped the gun away, reared back, and slammed it hard into his ear. Neubauer didn't offer any more resistance. Only his dark eyes showed his anger and hatred. How fucking dare you?

I rolled Neubauer over onto his stomach and handcuffed him. Then I yanked him to his feet and looped more silver tape around his thighs, limiting his movement to small, hair-plucking hops.

"Good morning," I finally said. "At the inquest you said you had gone out of your way to offer your condolences about Peter. That discussion wasn't very satisfying to me or my family. I've come back to continue it."

OUTSIDE CAMPION'S BEDROOM, dim light trickled from under the door. I pushed Barry onto his stomach and added another circle of tape above his ankles. I was afraid my scuffle with her husband might have awakened her. It helped that they didn't sleep together.

When I opened the door, I saw that the light was cast by the flickering flames of some two dozen small butter lamps burning at the base of a painting of a multiarmed Krishna. Campion's bedroom looked more like an ashram than a bedroom.