Джеймс Паттерсон - Three Women Disappear

James Patterson and Shan Serafin

THREE WOMEN DISAPPEAR

CONTENTS

THREE WOMEN DISAPPEAR

COME AND GET US

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

JAMES PATTERSONis one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 385 million copies worldwide. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, Dog Diaries, Treasure Hunters and Max Einstein series. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past thirteen years in a row. He lives in Florida with his family.

SHAN SERAFINis a novelist and film director whose works include Seventeen, The Forest , and The Believer . Among his recent collaborations with James Patterson are Come and Get Us and The 13-Minute Murder .

A list of more titles by James Patterson appears at the back of this book

THREE WOMEN DISAPPEAR

PROLOGUE

ONE

DETECTIVE SEAN WALSH

“LET’S KILL him again in slow motion,” I said.

I took a coffee cup from the sink, started the faucet running.

“Assume for a second that it was a female killer,” I began. “I’m Anthony Costello, accountant to the mob, nephew of top dog Vincent Costello. It’s early in the morning, and either the help’s asleep or they haven’t arrived yet. I’m probably ticked off at having to do my own dishes.”

“As ticked off as I am right now?” Detective Heidi Haagen asked.

I ignored her. This was my wife we were talking about. I wasn’t going to let the department pin a murder on her—especially not when it was me who sent her to work for Costello in the first place.

“The lady assassin approaches me from behind,” I continued, “as I’m rinsing my mug. I’ve got the water running full throttle because I’m Anthony Costello and I never do anything halfway. The sound makes for nice cover. Lady Assassin tip-toes up behind me and plunges a big old kitchen knife deep into my left shoulder. Probably she’s aiming for my neck or spine, but she’s no pro—that’s obvious from the mess she left behind. Her hands are sweating, and she closes her eyes at the last second.”

“We’ve been over this,” Heidi said.

Heidi, my onetime partner, now boss. She was the one who shut me out of this case. Now I was trying to claw my way back in.

“I know,” I said. “I know we have, but bear with me. Costello’s a big guy. About my height, but a hundred pounds heavier. That first blow brought him down, but it didn’t kill him.”

I spun away from the sink, dropped to my hands and knees. Heidi rolled her eyes.

“Lady Assassin sidesteps, gets me in the center of my back, but not as deep this time. I drop to my belly and start crawling, trying to get away, maybe headed for the living room, where I keep that Glock stashed in the coffee table drawer.”

I pulled myself forward on the tile mosaic floor, grunting and grimacing, playing the part.

“This isn’t necessary,” Heidi said.

But it was. I had to make her understand—Sarah wasn’t capable of killing Anthony Costello.

“She keeps coming at me, again and again, but she’s out of breath, losing force. These are just puncture wounds she’s inflicting now. I’m Anthony Costello. I’m not going to be done in by my own chef in my own kitchen. So I reach for a chair and pull myself up. Maybe I manage a threat: ‘It’s my turn now’ or ‘You’re a dead woman’—some stock phrase to make her tremble. I start toward her, then stumble, brace myself against the sink. And now it’s me who’s scared, because I’m looking at her eyes, and it’s clear a switch has flipped. She charges, stabbing wildly. I shield my face with my forearms. The blade finds my gut, my ribs, my thighs. And then she lines up for the kill shot, the tip of the knife pointed at my sternum. In a final burst of energy, I hurl myself out of the way, then stagger and drop. Her final thrust hits the countertop. Here.”

I pointed dramatically to a deep gouge in the polished oak. Heidi yawned.

“Sean,” she said, “Sunday mornings are sacred. I told you when you called that you’d better have something—”

“Solid and irrefutable, I know.”

I went over to the knife block and found one with the same make and model as the murder weapon. Heidi took a step back, which almost made me smile. I held the knife out to her, handle first.

“Sean, I—”

“Just take it.”

She did.

“I know you’ve seen the photos,” I said. “I know there were measurements taken, and I know those measurements suggest that the killer was ‘above average in strength.’ Here’s the thing: I asked you to meet me at the scene today because I want you to try it.”

“Try what?”

I gestured to the stray hole in the counter.

“You’re about five foot ten, right? You hit the gym daily. Bench your own weight. Hell, you could probably bench my weight. I challenge you to take the same knife and, with just one thrust, make a hole that deep.”

She was less than enthusiastic.

“Even if the department would allow a—”

“Half as deep,” I said. “The same gouge, half as deep. Forget what’s allowed: I’m fighting for my wife’s freedom here.”

She glared at me.

“This isn’t going to prove anything,” she said.

“Just make sure you grip the handle tight. I don’t want the blade sliding up your palm.”

She gave in. She repositioned the handle in her fist, switched her weight to her back foot, and lunged with everything she had.

TWO

THE RESULT?

Not even one-quarter the depth of the original. The hole was barely noticeable when she pulled the knife back out. We stood staring at the counter. No words were exchanged, no meaningful glances. Then she dropped the knife in the sink and started for the door.

“We’re leaving,” she said.

“That’s it?”

“I told you: it doesn’t prove anything.”

I followed her outside, onto the wraparound porch of what had begun as a plantation house, rebuilt and renovated over time into a multimillion-dollar mansion. Drive time to either Tampa or Orlando was roughly an hour, but the immediate area looked like the land that civilization forgot. Nothing but kudzu, palm trees, and now police tape in every direction. Heidi lit a cigarette, probably just so she could blow smoke in my face.

“Sarah Roberts-Walsh is a small-boned diabetic who couldn’t lift a twenty-pound barbell off the floor,” I said. “She couldn’t have made that gouge in the counter.”

Heidi turned to face me.

“Open your eyes, Sean. Stop ignoring the obvious.”

“Nothing’s obvious.”

“Your wife disappeared the same day Anthony Costello was murdered. Maybe the same hour.”

“She isn’t the only one who went missing that day.”

“Yeah, and maybe when we find her she’ll have a real good story.”

She walked down the porch steps and started toward her car, then turned and came striding back.

“Just what exactly was the wife of a homicide detective doing working for a mob accountant?”

“She was his chef.”

“I’m not talking about her job title. How did she meet him in the first place?”

I didn’t say anything. I was surprised it had taken Heidi this long to ask the question. I’d had run-ins with the Costello family before. A little over a year ago, I’d arrested Nicholas Costello, Anthony’s nephew, for holding up a liquor store on the outskirts of Tampa. After the arrest, evidence went missing, witnesses recanted. It looked bad. It made me look bad. And then Sarah started working for Anthony. Rumors were flying around the squad room: Detective Sean Walsh on the Costellos’ payroll. Me, who’d given fifteen years to this job.