James Patterson - Filthy Rich

“Shut up!”

“Tell your father.”

“You know how Dad is. You don’t tell your parents everything.”

“I’m not going to some freak’s mansion to rub his feet.”

“That’s right. I am.”

“And if I told your father? Or mine?”

“You’d never see me again.”

Mary felt bad as she said it. She felt bad for lying.

She knew that it would be more than a foot rub.

Wendy had told her that much, at least.

Jeffrey Epstein: February 2005

John Kluge, the media magnate, has bought up several lots around here, torn down the mansions, and built a grand, sprawling estate. But Epstein’s neighbors have blocked his own efforts to buy more land and increase his holdings.

Epstein’s address in Palm Beach is 358 El Brillo Way. Built in the fifties by a totally run-of-the-mill architect, the house has none of the elegance of his neighbors’ homes. It’s big, with a big swimming pool-that’s the most you can say for it. It’s totally bland. But it’s the last house on a dead-end block, the last block of the street, and this makes it very secluded .

Tonight, one of Epstein’s black Escalades will whisk him away, taking him to the private terminal at Palm Beach International Airport. Then a short flight down to Little Saint James-or, as he likes to call it, Little Saint Jeff’s-the seventy-eight-acre island he owns in the Virgin Islands. But for the moment, there are still things to attend to in Florida. Business and pleasure-although, in Epstein’s experience, the two have always fit together nicely.

He strolls through the gate, past the guard, up to the side door that leads to the kitchen. Inside, he ignores the maid doing dishes and climbs a wide, winding staircase to the second floor. He walks down a hallway, one that’s lined with photographs of naked women. Then, in his bedroom, he opens a closet. Inside, there are many more photographs. Erotic photos, tacked to the wall, of girls who have come to the house.

Familiar faces, familiar bodies. That’s what makes the first-timers so special.

Epstein checks his watch before closing the door.

The Virgin Islands can wait.

Mary: February 2005

The Dubble Bubble’s lost all its flavor, but Mary’s still chewing the gum as she shifts, nervously, in the backseat of Wendy’s big pickup truck. The girl sitting up front next to Wendy is a stranger to Mary. She’s chain-smoking menthols. The music is blaring; the seat is filthy and gross. Worried that her white jeans will get grody, Mary sits on her hands. Then, through the window, she sees a gigantic resort called the Breakers. It is resplendent, sun-drenched, not quite real -like something you’d see in the movies.

It makes for an interesting contrast.

“We’ll wait for her,” Wendy says to the girl in the passenger seat. “Then we can all go to the mall.”

“Which one?”

“The Gardens.”

It’s like she’s not there. Mary wants to say something about it, but she doesn’t know if the other girls would even respond. Wendy’s always seemed so much cooler than kids Mary’s age. This other girl’s just a mystery. And when Wendy does turn around to speak to Mary, her stare seems to slice right through the younger girl.

“Remember,” Wendy says, according to a probable cause affidavit filed by the Palm Beach police. “When he asks how old you are, say eighteen.”

The light changes, and Wendy turns back around but keeps looking at Mary in the rearview mirror.

“Got it?”

Mary nods.

“I mean it,” says Wendy.

Who would believe her? Anyone can see that Mary is younger than that.

“O kay, ” she says. “I got it. Eighteen.”

Mary takes out her flip phone and sends Joe a text: “Your cousin is a BAMF.”

A badass motherfucker.

There’s no reply.

“Or maybe she’s just a bitch,” Mary texts.

Still no reply.

Joe must still be in church, Mary thinks.

They pass El Bravo Way and turn onto El Brillo Way.

Wendy’s driving slowly now, right at the speed limit. Once more, she says: “When the man asks your age, say eighteen.”

Mary nods again and smiles, slightly. She wants Wendy to see her smiling. To know that she’s got it all under control. But Wendy’s eyes are on the front gate now. It opens, she parks, and they walk past a guard.

“We’re here to see Jeff,” says Wendy.

The guard nods- of course you are -and leads them to the side door.

They’re in the kitchen now. Mary, Wendy, some middle-aged man. The man has a long face, bushy eyebrows, and thick silver hair-and he’s fit . As fit as the jocks that Mary goes to school with. Not attractive, exactly. He’s way too old for that. But confident, in a way that makes an impression.

Standing behind the man there’s a woman. She’s blond, very pretty, much taller than Wendy.

What a strange scene, Mary thinks. She can’t shake the feeling that the man is studying her. Then he nods, and he and Wendy walk out of the kitchen. A little while later, they’re back.

“Sarah,” the man says to the tall woman. “You can take Mary upstairs.”

Sarah takes Mary up a wide winding staircase carpeted in pink. Together they walk down a hall that’s got photographs on the wall-naked women. Long curtains cover windows and don’t let in much light. In the air, there’s a strong lavender fragrance.

Then they come to a room containing a green-and-pink sofa. There’s a large bathroom off to one side and doors on either side of the sofa. There’s a wooden armoire with sex toys on it. There’s a massage table, too, and a mural of a naked woman.

“Wait here,” says Sarah. “Jeff will be up in a moment.”

Mary’s too freaked out to do anything else. Fidgeting with her belt loops, she sits on the sofa, jumps up again.

Then she sees the picture .

All the girls in the photos are young. But the girl in this one’s just a baby.

Much younger than Mary herself.

The girl’s smiling, but the smile’s mixed with something else-some sort of anxiety that’s out of place on such a small face. And what she’s doing is shocking: pulling her underwear off to the side. Flashing one of her tiny apple-round butt cheeks toward the camera.

Mary gasps. She turns around. And there’s Epstein standing in front of her, wearing nothing but a towel.

Michael Reiter: March 2005

Chief Reiter looks more like a bank president than a cop. He’s well built, with an air of formality and discretion. But he’s got twenty-four years on the job. Decades earlier, he was a campus police officer in Pittsburgh. Then he rose, steadily, through the ranks in Palm Beach, moving up from patrol officer to detective, working vice, narcotics, and organized crime, then becoming a sergeant, captain, major, and assistant chief-a job he held for three years-before becoming chief of police. Reiter is what you’d call seasoned, although chief of police in Palm Beach is a job that calls upon his political skills as much as his street smarts.

Then again, from time to time, things do happen.

Once in a blue moon there are murders-though these are so rare that they tend to be remembered for decades.

Sometimes there are hurricanes to contend with, and, when the sea calms, human cargo washes up on the shore. Sometimes traffickers aim the bows of their boats at the glow of the Breakers resort, order their passengers to go overboard, then tell them to swim.

Most of the passengers are Haitian-men, women, and children who stake all they have on a chance at a life in America. From time to time, Palm Beach cops have to retrieve their bodies from the surf.