James Patterson: The Beach House

He pulled hard on the stick, and the big bird seemed to screech to a stop in midair. It made him think of a cartoon character who realizes a beat too late that he's just run off the side of a cliff. Then, for the umpteenth time that day, Lt. Ames banked toward the mansion.

In close, he could see that the place wasn't quite finished. He spun around the grassless site like a stock car circling a quarter-mile track. His turbine engine hacked up a dirt cyclone that would settle over everything in its path – from the front porch to the big yellow steamroller at the end of the driveway.

He was about to swerve back and head for the airport when he noticed the mountain bike leaning up against one of the few trees.

He hit it with his 8,000-watt spotlight, and saw a lock hanging open from a back tire.

What have we here?

More slowly now, he circled the place again. He hovered at roof height and beamed his lights along the row of blacked-out windows.

That's when he saw the couple literally under his nose on the deck. Both of them buck naked.

Ames was about to reach for the two-way radio when the woman stood up and turned to face the lights. She was beautiful, and not in a pouting-model sort of way.

For about ten seconds she stood with her hands on her hips and stared up as if she were trying to tell him something important with her eyes. Then she raised both hands above her shoulders and flipped him the bird with each one.

Ames started to laugh, and for the first time all day remembered why he liked America.

I must have something better to do, he thought, than bust a couple of trespassers for making love in one of the most beautiful spots in North America. He put the handset back on its cradle, then swung the big bird back toward MacArthur Airport.

He was still smiling about the pretty girl who had flipped him the double bird.

PAULINE AND I WERE LOST in our own little world, holding hands and watching the surf, when Fenton burst through the French doors to the deck.

"Jack, Volpi's gone!"

"I thought you were doing ten-minute checks? The doors were double-locked?"

"I was, Jack. I swear. He can't be gone more than a few minutes."

Fortunately, Pauline and I were dressed by now. We followed Fenton out onto the beach. We looked up and down the shoreline. Nothing.No Volpi.

"He would have headed west, toward the Blakely place. It's the only way that makes any sense," I said.

The three of us sprinted toward the garage and Pauline's car. With Pauline driving, we raced down the long dirt driveway, then turned left toward town.

"It can't end like this," I said.

Pauline, who was already going faster than I would have, put the pedal to the floor. It was a little before two in the morning, and the road was empty. After half a mile she took a hard left toward Franklin Cove.

"Pull over here," I told Pauline. "The shoreline is just over that dune. Either we've beaten him here, or we're fucked."

We jumped out and clambered hand over hand to the top of the dune. My heart was pounding as we topped the crest.

We were too late. Volpi was already a hundred yards past us, chugging through the sand toward a cluster of big houses at the bend.

We took off after him anyway, and quickly began closing the gap. But Volpi, who had just noticed us, was running for his life, and we weren't going to catch him before he got to the first house.

As I struggled through the sand, a gun went off behind me. Fenton and I turned to see Pauline with her Smith Wesson held out in front of her. Then she fired again at Volpi.

The second shot must have barely missed him.

He stopped in his tracks and raised his hands. "Don't shoot!"

We kept running. Fenton got there first. He lowered his shoulder and 240 pounds into Volpi's chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. In a second we were on him, all the anger and frustration of the past year pouring into our punches.

"That's enough," said Pauline. "Stop it."

But Fenton wasn't through. He grabbed a fistful of sand and shoved it into Volpi's mouth. Volpi gasped for breath, spat, and sputtered out a few words.

Now I grabbed a handful and pushed it in.

"What happened to Peter?" I shouted in his face. "You were there, right, Frank? What happened?"

He was still spitting out sand and gasping. "No… no," he managed.

"Frank, I just want to hear the truth. It doesn't matter what you tell us out here! Nobody will know but us."

Volpi shook his head, and Fenton pushed another handful of sand into his mouth. More gasping and spitting and choking followed. I was almost feeling sorry for him.

This time we gave him a minute to breathe and focus.

Gidley couldn't leave him alone, though. "Now you know how I felt when I got a visit from your friend. He tried to drown me. I couldn't breathe! I was spitting up salt water. How's the sand taste, Frank? Want some more?"

Volpi held both hands in front of his face. He was still choking, trying to clear his mouth.

"Yeah, Neubauer had his goons kill your brother. I still don't know why. I wasn't there, Jack. How could you think that? Christ, I liked Peter."

Jesus, it felt good to hear that – to finally get the truth out. Just to hear it.

"That's all I wanted, Frank. The truth. Stop blubbering, you piece of shit."

But Volpi wasn't finished. "You still don't have anything on him. Neubauer's too smart for you, Jack."

I hit Volpi with a short right hand, definitely the best punch of my life, and he went face first into the sand. "I owed you that, you bastard."

Fenton put his hand on the back of Volpi's head and ground his face in the sand. "Me, too."

At least I knew the truth. That was something. We dragged Volpi's sorry ass to Pauline's car and took him back to the house.

A FEW HOURS LATER, after Pauline, Molly, and I made eggs and coffee for the group, we all filed back into the courtroom. I wasn't feeling too chipper, but then the adrenaline kicked in and I was okay.

After Macklin smacked his gavel and called the room to order, Montrose rose and launched into another of his pompous speeches, something he must have been working on all night.

I objected, and Mack called the two of us to the bench.

"You know better than this," he said to Montrose. "You should be testifying to the facts, not philosophizing, or whatever the hell it is that you're doing. You, either, Jack. But because of the other restrictions put on you, Mr. Montrose, and in the interest of fairness and getting at the truth, you go right ahead and make your speeches. Just keep 'em short, for God's sake. I'm not getting any younger."

I shook my head and returned to my seat. Montrose took center stage again.

"Our would-be prosecutor delights in recklessly tainting the reputation of my client," said Bill Montrose, glancing my way. I had the sense that he was just warming to the task. "Till now, we haven't retaliated by drawing attention to the sad details of his late brother's life. It seemed inappropriate and, I had hoped, unnecessary.

"Now," said Montrose as if he'd spent the night wrestling with his oversize conscience, "we have no choice. If, in fact, Peter Mullen's death wasn't an accident, which is doubtful, there are people far more likely to have done him harm than Barry Neubauer.

"When Peter Mullen died at the end of last May," said Montrose, clearing his throat, "the world did not lose its next Mother Teresa. It lost a high-school dropout who, at the age of thirteen, had already been arrested for drug possession. You should also know that despite having never held a regular job in his life, Peter Mullen had almost two hundred thousand dollars in his bank account at the time of his death. Two months earlier he paid for a nineteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle with an envelope of thousand-dollar bills."