James Patterson: Murder House

“Go home,” says Isaac. “Go work out—”

Already did this morning.

“—or see the ocean—”

I’ve seen it already. It’s a really big body of water.

“—or have a drink.”

Yeah, a glass of wine might be in my future. But first, I’m going to take a quick detour. A detour that could probably get me in a lot of trouble.

Langdon James closes his eyes for just a moment and raises his face to the sun shining down on the backyard cocktail party. In these moments, with a slight buzz from the gin and the elite of Southampton surrounding him, he likes to pretend he is one of them, one of the socialites, the mega-wealthy, the trust fund babies and personal injury lawyers, the songwriters and tennis pros, the TV producers and stock speculators. He is not, of course. He wasn’t born with a silver spoon, and he was always more street-savvy than book-smart. But he has found another route to power, through a badge, and most of the time, that is enough.

There are at least a hundred people in the sprawling backyard, most of them blue bloods, all of them here to support the reelection of Town Supervisor Dawn McKittredge and her slate, but really here to be seen, to eat elaborate hors d’oeuvres served by waiters in white coats and talk about their latest acquisition or conquest. They don’t live here year-round, and the only relevance the governing authorities of the town hold for them is the rare zoning issue that may arise — water rights, land use, and the like — or in Chief James’s case, the occasional drug bust or DUI or dalliance with prostitutes from Sag Harbor.

“Nice day, Chief.”

Langdon turns to see John Sulzman. He’s had a place on the ocean in Bridgehampton, a tiny hamlet incorporated within Southampton, for over a decade now. Sulzman made his money in hedge funds and now spends half his time in DC and Albany, lobbying legislatures and cutting deals. His net worth, according to a New York Post article Langdon read last year, is upwards of half a billion. Sulzman’s on his third marriage — to the lovely Paige — and what appears to be his third or fourth Scotch, judging from the slurring of his words. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the collar open and white slacks. He is overweight, with a round weathered face and a full head of hair if you count the toupee, one of the better ones Langdon has seen, but still — don’t these guys realize everybody knows?

“John,” says the chief.

“I understand Noah Walker is in custody,” says Sulzman, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “I understand you were there, personally.”

“I was.” The chief takes a sip of his gin. No lime, no tonic, no stirrer. To all appearances, he could be drinking ice water, which is the point.

“I saw the police report,” says Sulzman. “What was in it, and what was not.”

His wife, he means. The chief didn’t mention Paige in the police report, thus concealing her presence from the media. John Sulzman probably thinks he did it to curry favor, but he didn’t. There was no need to include her. She had nothing to do with the arrest, other than being a bystander.

But if Sulzman sees it as a favor — well, there are worse things.

“It’s not a well-kept secret that you have your eyes on the sheriff’s job, Chief.”

Langdon doesn’t answer. But Sulzman is right. The Suffolk County sheriff is retiring, and it would be a nice cap-off to Langdon’s law enforcement career.

Sulzman raises his glass in acknowledgment. “Ambition is what makes the world go round. It’s what drives men to excel at their jobs.”

“I always try to do my best,” says the chief.

“And I try to reward those who do.” Sulzman takes a long drink and breathes out with satisfaction. “If Noah Walker is convicted, I’ll consider you to have excelled at your job. And I’ll be eager to support your next endeavor. Are you familiar with my fund-raising efforts, Chief?”

It so happens that the chief is. But he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I can raise millions for you. Or I could raise millions for your opponent.”

“And who would my opponent be?” The chief looks at Sulzman.

Sulzman shrugs and cocks his head. “Whoever I want it to be.” He taps the chief’s arm. “And do you know who else is familiar with my fund-raising efforts? Our town supervisor. Your boss.”

Chief James takes another sip of his gin. “Would that be a threat?”

“A threat? No, Chief. A promise. If Noah Walker goes free, there will be people in this community — maybe I’ll be one of them — who will call for your head.”

John Sulzman is not known for his subtlety. When you’re worth five hundred million dollars, you probably don’t have to be. So if Noah is convicted, the chief is a lock to be the next sheriff. If Noah walks, the chief can kiss his current job, and any future in law enforcement, good-bye.

“Noah Walker is going to be convicted,” says the chief, “because he’s guilty.”

“Of course he is.” Sulzman nods. “Of course.”

This conversation should be over. It never should have started, but it should definitely end now. A guy like Sulzman is smart enough to know that.

And yet Sulzman hasn’t left. He has something else to say.

“There’s a... new officer on the case?” he asks. “A woman?”

The chief whips his head over to Sulzman.

“Your niece,” says Sulzman, clearly pleased with himself for the knowledge he’s obtained, and happy to throw it in the chief’s face. “Jenna Murphy.”

“Jenna’s not on the case,” says the chief. “She handled the arrest, that’s all.”

“I only mention it because I understand she had some issues with the NYPD,” says Sulzman.

“The only ‘issue’ she had is she’s an honest cop,” Langdon snaps. “Truth is, the day she arrived, she was the best cop on our force. She’s as smart as they come, and she’s tough and honest, and she wouldn’t put up with corruption she found in Manhattan. She wouldn’t go along with dirty cops, and she wouldn’t look the other way.”

Sulzman nods and purses his lips.

“It’s not her case, John,” says the chief.

Sulzman appraises the chief, looking him up and down, then square in the eye. “I just care about the result,” he says. “Make it happen. Make sure Noah Walker goes into a very deep hole. Or there will be... consequences.”

“Noah Walker is going into a hole because—”

“Because he’s guilty,” says Sulzman. “Yes, I know. I know, Lang. Just... don’t forget this conversation. You want me as a friend, not an enemy.”

With that, John Sulzman makes his exit, joining some acquaintances under the shade of the tent. Chief Langdon James watches him leave, then decides he’s had enough of this party.

As the funeral for Melanie Phillips ends, I say good-bye to my partner, Detective Isaac Marks, without telling him where I’m going. He doesn’t need to know, and I don’t know if he’d keep the information to himself. I’m not yet sure where his loyalties lie, and I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with the NYPD.

I decide to walk, heading south from the cemetery toward the Atlantic. I always underestimate the distance to the ocean, but it’s a nice day for a walk, even if a little steamy. And I enjoy the houses just south of Main Street along this road, the white-trimmed Cape Cods with cedar shingles whose colors have grown richer with age from all the precipitation that comes with proximity to the ocean. Some are bigger, some are newer, but these houses generally look the same, which I find comforting and a little creepy at the same time.

As I get closer to the ocean, the plots of land get wider, the houses get bigger, and the privacy shrubs flanking them get taller. I stop when I reach shrubbery that’s a good ten feet high. I know I’ve found the place because the majestic wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway, which are slightly parted, are adorned with black-and-yellow tape that says CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.