James Patterson - Filthy Rich

Don’t you know that you’re toxic?

The tight white jeans fit Mary perfectly. She turns to check herself out in the mirror, cropping the scene with her fingers to block out the Barbies behind her. Over on the Gold Coast, girls in big, high-ceilinged bedrooms have American Girl dolls. Dolls with natural smiles, perfectly vacant moon faces. American Girl dolls are beautiful. They’re expensive. But you have to have one if Mom and Dad are willing to pay. Over on the Coast, most mothers and fathers are. But out in the sticks, where Mary lives, you get Barbies-passed down from mother to daughter, from sister to sister. They’re rail-thin, missile-breasted. There’s a touch of knowingness to the curl of their otherwise innocent mouths. American Girl dolls are girlie, but Barbie’s like Britney Spears. Barbie’s dangling her long legs over the line that separates girls from women.

Be like Barbie, Mary thinks.

She can’t be nervous. Not now. Not today.

What she tells herself, over and over again, is: It’s not that big a deal .

But, of course, it is a big deal. Before long, Mary’s visit to the big fancy house will become part of a months-long Palm Beach police investigation-an affidavit for probable cause, filed by the Palm Beach PD-and, finally, the arrest and conviction of the home’s owner, Jeffrey Epstein.

Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005

Jeffrey’s morning routine is precise and unvarying. First he spends twenty-five minutes in silence, visualizing the day ahead as he digests the guava, banana, and Müeslix that his chef prepares for him-the same way every day-at six in the morning. Then Jeffrey walks a third of a mile up to South County Road, pausing once in a while to take deep, restorative breaths.

It’s a slight slope that leads toward the ocean. Jeffrey’s home on the Intracoastal Waterway is behind him now. The morning’s not windy. The Atlantic is calm and glittery, and fishing trawlers bob gently on distant waves.

Jeffrey’s partial to monogrammed sweatpants, monogrammed fleece pullovers, and hoodies. Casual attire offset by embroidered Stubbs & Wootton slippers-the kind that sell for hundreds of dollars a pair. His hair, which is thick, has turned silver. But Jeffrey Epstein does not have a paunch. For a fifty-two-year-old man, he’s extremely fit. Six feet tall, 180 pounds, brown eyes, a strong jawline.

He’s never been a drinker. He doesn’t smoke or take drugs, and he takes care good care of his body as well as his mind.

It’s a magnificent mind. His gift is for numbers: complex calculations, abstract formulas. Even as a child, Jeffrey could untangle math problems that would stump most smart adults. Numbers just fall into place for him, forming in ranks he can bend, twist, manipulate-and multiply . He could have been a scientist or a mathematician. As a young man, he taught calculus and physics. Then he became an investor-a very rich man. Then he became a philanthropist, like Bill Gates. His love for science has inspired him to give millions to academics and institutions committed to studying mysteries of the brain and the arcana of physics. He’s given millions to Harvard. And he’s given money to politicians: Governor Eliot Spitzer, of New York, and Governor Bill Richardson, of New Mexico, where Epstein owns the largest home in the state.

Epstein’s flown Bill Clinton to Africa on a private jet-not the Gulfstream he owns but his Boeing 727, customized with its own trading floor-so that the former president could promote his various and worthy causes.

Just for fun, Chris Tucker, the comedian, and Clinton’s pal Kevin Spacey had tagged along for the ride.

“Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of twenty-first-century science,” Clinton would say through a spokesperson. “I especially appreciated his insights and generosity during the recent trip to Africa to work on democratization, empowering the poor, citizen service, and combating HIV/AIDS.”

But is Jeffrey thinking about that trip now?

His first guest is due that morning at nine, and that leaves him enough time for a shower, a lunch, and a few phone calls before the second girl arrives.

Sarah has scheduled that girl for one.

For Jeffrey, it’s just part of the daily routine.

But on this day, there’s a delicious twist.

One of the girls is a first-timer.

Mary: February 2005

Downstairs, the doorbell is ringing. Mary’s father shouts, gruffly:

“Ella está aquí. Su amiga con el camión.”

“She’s here. Your friend with the truck.”

Mary runs down the stairs. It’s game day, and Dad’s already got the TV on. Her stepmom’s out running errands. Mary’s twin sister has gone out, too, Rollerblading with a few of her friends.

“Going shopping,” she yells, and she pops a piece of Dubble Bubble into her mouth.

“¿Dice quién?”

“Says who?”

Mary’s already halfway out the door. Her father calls out again, but on Sundays there’s no getting him out of his chair. Besides, Mary knows he’ll be happy when he sees the money she’s made. Real money, like Joe’s cousin Wendy Dobbs, is making.* And it’s not like she’s running off to do something crazy. After all, Wendy’s assured her already that there’s nothing to worry about.

Mary’s father is Cuban-an immigrant-a self-made man who runs a contracting business. He’s wise to the ways of the world and highly protective of his two daughters. They’re good girls, he knows. Almost angels. As far as he knows, they don’t drink. They’ve never tried drugs. They love clothes and, especially, music-Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Maroon 5, the boy band with that dreamy lead singer. Mary loves California, which she’s never seen but daydreams about. She just knows she’ll live there someday-a plan that’s okay with her father as long as Mary keeps up with her homework and chores.

What he worries about, in the meantime, is the crowd that Mary runs with.

Joe is a fine boy. More responsible than most American boys his age. But Joe’s cousin, Wendy, is another story. Mary’s father doesn’t like Wendy at all and would have liked her even less had he known about Wendy’s intentions.

In just one hour, Wendy’s told Mary, she can make more money than her father makes in a day: “This guy in Palm Beach. He’s rich. Very rich. He has an airplane. He owns an island , you know?”

Like a lot of kids who live inland, away from the Florida coast, Mary’s dreams reach way beyond the dull, scrubby flatlands and strip malls she’s grown up around. There’s so much that she wants to do and see. But for her the Gold Coast, twenty miles away, might as well be another country.

“ Yes ,” she had said, without even thinking about it.

Then there was Joe to contend with.

“Who is this guy?” Joe had said, shaking his head. “You don’t know a thing about him.”

“ Hundreds of dollars,” Mary had whispered. She couldn’t quite look at Joe, but she was firm: “I can make that in one hour .”

Joe seemed to think they were actually talking about it. A conversation-some back-and-forth. But the thought of not going hadn’t even crossed Mary’s mind. If anything, she hoped that it would become a regular thing.

“To rub his feet? Are you kidding? If you’re not worried about it, why haven’t you told your dad?”

“It’s your cousin, Joe! Some girls go three times a week.”

“The guy’s feet must be killing him.”