James Patterson - Murder House

I move to the corner beyond where Zach’s body was found and squat down, trying to get the angle right and using the photos to make sure I’m accurate. Where Zach would have been lying on the floor, with his head to the right, his sight line travels beyond the edge of the bed to the armoire. I repeat the same exercise from Melanie’s vantage point and get the same line of vision, from the opposite end.

I remove my compact from my purse and squat down by the leg of the armoire that Melanie’s right hand touched. I curl the compact under the armoire and around the leg so I can see the back of it. As I thought, the wood is abraded — scraped and cut.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking on Ocean Drive toward Main Street, on my cell phone with Uncle Lang. “Melanie Phillips was handcuffed to the armoire’s leg,” I say. “He made her watch the whole thing. This wasn’t an act of blind rage, Chief. This was a calculated, well-executed act of sadism.”

I get back to my car and drive to see the chief, who is away from the office this afternoon (don’t ever tell him he has the day off, because he’ll spend a half hour explaining that the chief of police never has a day off). My uncle lives on North Sea Road in a three-bedroom cottage set back from the road and flanked with well-manicured shrubbery that always reminds me of a defensive military formation.

The front door is unlocked and open. It smells like it always smells in here, musty guy scent: dirty socks and body odor combined with the latest fast-food takeout he ate. A bachelor pad, ever since Aunt Chloe left him two years ago.

On my way to the back porch, I detour to the kitchen, open his fridge, and peer inside. Cartons of Chinese takeout, half a Subway sandwich in its wrapping, a twelve-pack of Budweiser with three cans remaining, a long stick of summer sausage, a pizza box shoved in the back. Oh, yes, and then a tall plastic container of sliced fruit that’s packed to the rim, and a batch of veggie lasagna, still in the shrink-wrapped casserole dish, with only one square cut out of the corner.

I find Uncle Lang out back, sitting in a chair overlooking his lawn, a water sprinkler doing its thing, the air steamy as a sauna. Lang is wearing a button-down shirt and slacks and decent loafers. I’d forgotten he had that fund-raiser earlier today.

“Heya, missy,” he says to me. His eyes are small and red. The glass of gin in his hand isn’t his first of the day. He probably drank gin at the fund-raiser and pretended it was ice water.

I kiss his forehead and sit in the chair on the other side of the small glass table, the one holding the bottle of Beefeater.

“You haven’t touched the fruit I cut up for you,” I say. “And the veggie lasagna? What’s the deal there? You preserving it for posterity?”

He sips his gin. “I don’t like spinach. I told you that.”

“Yeah?” I turn to him. “And what’s your excuse for the fruit?”

He waves me off. “I don’t know, it’s... mushy.”

“It’s pineapple and melon and cantaloupe. You like them.”

“Well, it’s mushy.”

“That’s because you let it sit there for a week. I cut it up a week ago and you didn’t touch it. Not one piece.” I whack the back of my hand against his shoulder.

“Ow. Don’t hit me.”

“I’ll hit you if I want to hit you. You’re like a child. You’re like a little kid. That spinach lasagna is delicious.”

“Then you eat it.”

“Hopeless,” I say. “You’re hopeless. You know your doctor’s appointment is next week. You think Dr. Childress is going to say, ‘Congratulations, Chief, a month of eating meatball sandwiches and fried chicken and French fries did the trick — your cholesterol has plummeted!’”

Lang pushes the empty second glass over toward me and gives me a crosswise look. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, missy.”

“I’m looking out for the well-being of my only living family.”

“No, you’re deflecting . You call me up and tell me you’ve been to the crime scene, which you know you’re not supposed to do, since this isn’t your case, so you try to put me on the defensive about my eating habits.”

I pour myself a glass of gin. One won’t kill me. “Ten gets you twenty that the abrasions on the armoire leg came from a handcuff. He made each of them watch the other die,” I say. “He immobilized Zach and he handcuffed Melanie to the armoire. He made them watch each other bleed out.”

“Jenna—”

“This guy knew what he was doing,” I say. “He stabbed Zach in a place where he wouldn’t die instantly. I mean, he could have sunk that knife into his heart, or slit his throat. Instead, he stabbed him in a place that would cause incredible pain and a slow death. And when Zach made any feeble attempt to raise himself up, he stomped on his hands. And he did the same thing to Melanie. Every time she tried to move, he stabbed her. She kicked her legs, and he stabbed her in the calf. She raised her free arm, and he stabbed her in the triceps—”

“Jenna—”

“These were sadistic, brutal torture-murders,” I say, “not crimes of passion committed by a jealous lover.”

“Crimes of passion can be sadistic, Jen—”

“Do you really think if Noah was in love with Melanie, he’d watch Zach have sex with her first? Why wouldn’t he rush in while they were in the heat of it?”

“Hey!” the chief shouts. “Do I get a word in here? I’ve heard enough. There is protocol, and there is a chain of command, and nobody breaches that in Southampton. If you think just because you’re my niece—”

“Of course I don’t think that. And I’m just trying to help—”

“You’re not helping. You’re not helping at all!” The chief coughs into his fist, his face turning red. He needs to take better care of himself. I can make all the heart-healthy meals the culinary world has to offer, but I can’t make him eat them. I can tell him to walk a couple of miles a few times a week, but I can’t walk them for him.

He ignores every bit of advice I give him. He openly defies me on a daily basis. So why do I love this grouchy old man so much?

“Why am I not helping?” I ask.

Lang polishes off his glass of gin and composes himself. “Because Noah Walker confessed,” he says.

I draw back. “He... confessed?”

“Ah, the hotshot from NYPD doesn’t have all the answers, does she?” Lang pours himself another inch of gin. “He confessed this morning. So don’t you go writing up a report that I’ll have to show a defense lawyer. Not when this thing is tied up in a bow.”

“Noah confessed,” I mumble, raising the glass to my lips. “I’ll be damned.”

“Noah Walker is guilty, and Noah Walker confessed,” he says. “So do me a favor and move along.”

The Dive Bar is aptly named, dark in every way, from the dim lighting to the oak furnishings, with the Yankees on the big screen, mirrors behind the bar sponsored by various breweries, and nothing but some fried appetizers on the menu for those who dare eat. But the people are friendly and laid-back. It’s a place to disappear, and disappearing sounds good to me at the moment. It started as a glass of wine, and then it became three, and I’m thinking it’s five now. Once I started, I couldn’t think of a good reason to stop.

This place is locals only — tradesmen and laborers and the occasional cop — which I prefer, because it’s high season in the Hamptons and all the money’s in town. Not that I don’t enjoy seeing men with cardigans tied around their necks and women with so much work done on their faces that they’ve begun to resemble the Joker. Just not on my day off. And not after the day I’ve had, making a jerk out of myself in front of my uncle, the guy who gave me a second chance.