James Patterson - Lifeguard

He stood on the ground and winked up at her on the porch in her dripping wetsuit, his gaze drifting to the kayak. “Nice board. What is it, a Big Yak?”

“No,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “A Scrambler.”

He nodded approvingly. The lifeguard, right. Then he started to back away into the night.

“Ned!” Ellie called.

He turned around. For a second they stood staring at each other.

She shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I liked you better blond.”

WHEN DENNIS AND LIZ STRATTON threw a party, the A list people came, or at least the people who thought they were A list.

Ellie had no sooner walked through the door than a fashionably clad waiter put a tray of caviar canapés in front of her and she was face-to-face with some of the prominent people in Palm Beach art society, or so they would tell you. Reed Barlow, who owned a gallery on Worth Avenue, leading around a gorgeous blonde in a low-cut red dress. Ellie recognized a stately white-haired woman who owned one of the more ostentatious collections in town, with a tanned man half her age on her arm, a “walker.”

Ellie felt a little uncomfortable just to be there. All the women were dressed in designer gowns with major-league jewels, and she was in an off-the-rack black dress with a cashmere cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Her one accommodation was the diamond solitaire studs her grandmother had left her. But in this room no one would notice.

She waded deeper into the house. Champagne seemed to flow at almost every turn. Magnums of Cristal, which Ellie knew cost hundreds of dollars a bottle. And caviar – a huge bowl rested in the hand-carved body of a swan sculpted in ice. In the den a quintet of string players from a Florida symphony. A photographer from “The Shiny Sheet” getting the ladies to jut a hip, angle a leg, turn on their brightest, whitest smiles. All this for charity, of course.

Ellie caught a glimpse of Vern Lawson, the Palm Beach head of detectives, standing stiffly on the edge of the crowd, wearing an earpiece. Probably racking his brains over what she was doing there. And along the walls stood at least five barrel-chested men in tuxedos, hands behind their backs. Stratton must have hired half the off-duty cops in Palm Beach as security.

A small crowd was buzzing in the corridor leading to Stratton’s living room. Ellie went over to see what all the commotion was about.

Her jaw dropped.

She was staring at Matisse’s Still Life with Violin , one of the most famous examples from his cubist stage. Ellie had seen it once at the MoMA in New York. She’d heard it had changed hands recently in a private sale. But seeing it there on Stratton’s wall, suddenly she felt angry. That’s why he had invited her. The SOB was trying to rub it in her face.

“So, I see you found the Matisse, Agent Shurtleff.” A haughty voice startled her from behind.

Ellie turned. Stratton was wearing a collarless white shirt and a cashmere blazer, a smug, self-satisfied expression on his face. “Not a bad example, on such short notice. Perhaps not as explosive as the Picasso, but what can one do…A collector has to fill his walls. Even if I had to overpay.”

“It’s lovely,” Ellie said, unable to hide her appreciation of the painting itself.

“There’s much more…” Stratton took her by the arm and led her to a group of admirers staring at a well-known Rauschenberg on another wall. That one must’ve gone for ten million alone. And on the steps leading into the great room, on two wooden easels, were stunning El Greco drawings: studies, she recognized, from his famous The Opening of the Fifth Seal of the Apocalypse .

Masterpieces.

“Whoever’s advising you on your art is doing a better job,” Ellie said, looking around.

“So glad you approve.” Stratton smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “And all dressed up, I see. Come, have some champagne. There must be a nephew of someone rich and famous floating around here who would find what you do for a living completely refreshing.”

“Thanks,” Ellie sniffed up at him, “but not tonight. I’m working.”

“ Working ?” Stratton seemed amused. “Well, that will set you apart in this crowd. Let me guess, you think that Ned Kelly character is in the house?”

“Kelly… no.” Ellie looked at him. “But I was wondering if the name Earl Anson means anything to you?”

“Anson?” Stratton shrugged and took a deep, thoughtful breath. “Should it?”

“He was the man killed along with Kelly’s brother up in Boston. Turns out he was a hood from around here. I thought it might ring a bell.”

“Why would it?” Stratton said, nodding across the room to a familiar face.

“Because he was up in Boston looking for your three paintings.”

Stratton waved across the room to his wife, greeting guests in an off-the-shoulder gown that looked like Prada. Liz Stratton smiled when she saw Ellie.

“You keep forgetting,” Stratton said, barely shifting his gaze, “it’s four. There were four paintings stolen. You always seem to overlook the Gaume.”

“An innocent man was killed up there, Mr. Stratton. A law student,” Ellie came back at him.

“One less lawyer,” Stratton said, and laughed at his own tasteless joke. “Now, I’m afraid I have other guests.”

“And what about Tess McAuliffe?” Ellie said, grabbing Stratton at the elbow. “Am I confused about her, too?”

Stratton’s face grew taut.

“I know you were seeing her.” Ellie stared at him. “I can tie you to the Brazilian Court. You were having an affair with Tess.”

Stratton’s gaze suddenly hardened. “I think we should have that champagne now, Ellie.” He latched onto her arm. “Out on the veranda.”

MAYBE SHE SHOULDN’T have said what she did. She knew she had gone too far. But she wanted to throw it in his face and watch the haughty smile disappear.

Stratton dragged her through large French doors leading onto the vast terrace off the ocean. They were outside before she could resist. He’d dug his fingers into her arm.

“Get your hands off me, Mr. Stratton.” Ellie tried to pull away without making a scene – like taking him down in the middle of this crowd.

“I thought you might like to see the Fratesi marbles out here,” Stratton said as they passed a couple wandering on the terrace. “I shipped them from a villa outside Rome. Seventeenth century.”

“I’m a federal agent, Mr. Stratton,” Ellie warned him. “Twenty-first century.”

“A federal fucking bitch is what you are,” Stratton said, muscling her over to a remote section overlooking the sea.

Ellie looked around for someone she could yell to if things got really bad. A band was starting to play inside. If this got back to Moretti, she’d be toast.

“It seems our talk the other day didn’t impress.” Stratton yanked her across the tiles to a fieldstone ledge.

“You’re a pretty little girl, Ellie. You know how pretty little girls have to be careful in today’s world. Even when they’re with the FBI.”

“You don’t want to take this any further,” Ellie said, trying to pull away. “You’re threatening a federal agent…”

“Threats? I didn’t make any threats, Agent Shurtleff. All the threats came from you. Tess was private. I liked to fuck the little bitch, that’s all. I don’t know how she died. I don’t much care. But as an observation, when pretty little girls do things, like, say, jog on the beach, or better yet, sea-kayaking… Look, Ellie…You never can tell how rough it gets out there in the surf.”

“I’m going to tie you to Earl Anson.” Ellie glared back at him.