Brennan had been remarkably quiet up to this point, but he still had that self-assured, superior look on his face, even with Marty standing a few feet away pointing the gun at him. It was clear Brennan didn’t think we were going to hurt him. Obviously, we’d been drinking, and I’m sure Brennan just viewed it as another immature prank by a dull wife he thought he’d gotten rid of. But after a minute or so, he was tired of the game and anxious to get back to work.
He had his hands up slightly, like he was being robbed. It must have been human instinct. He kept his voice low as he said, “Could you point that somewhere else, please.”
Marty just said, “Nope.”
It was the best possible response to unnerve Brennan. It also shut him up. He stared at Marty but wisely remained silent.
Marty cut his eyes to me in an effort to get a clear idea of what we had planned. He was visibly more agitated than when we’d started this little prank and was hopping from one foot to the other like a nervous kid who needed to go to the bathroom. He was probably wondering if I expected him to gun down Brennan like he had Teal the day before. I stepped over to him, patted him on the back, gently wrapped my hand around the gun, and eased it from his tight grip, quietly saying, “It’s going to be okay.” He visibly relaxed as he relinquished the pistol and took a pace backward.
Now I held the gun. I took a breath to calm down. Marty was about to snap, and I was sure I’d taken the pistol just in time. As I stepped away from him, closer to Brennan, I told Marty, “Just wait right there, sweetheart, and keep calm.”
Brennan picked up on the fact that I was trying to keep Marty from doing anything crazy, and he thought we were looking for a way out. He waited while I made sure the pistol was pointed down, away from anyone’s vital organs.
Marty appeared a little hurt that I had taken the gun from him. If I had acted a little faster the day before, maybe poor Teal would still have been alive. The gun was heavy in my hand. Heavier than I remembered it from the range. I carefully slipped it into the pocket of my jeans. It fit snugly.
Brennan was visibly relieved and regained some of his swagger. He raised his voice and said, “You found some moron you can order around and you think it’s love? Christy, what in the hell are you guys doing here? This doesn’t help anyone. You guys need to get out of my house and sober up.”
That’s when I straightened up and looked him right in the eye and said, “I’m not drunk. In fact, I’ve barely had a drink all night.” I realized that surprised Marty, too, as he looked at me with a puzzled expression.
Then I reached into my purse, the one large purse I owned, and easily drew out another pistol. The second one of the matched set. It looked identical and rendered both men absolutely mute. I liked that.
I gave my full attention to Marty. “I’m afraid there’s a lot you don’t understand, sweetheart. And I don’t think you’ll ever realize how much this bothers me.” He still had that look like a puppy as I stepped closer to Brennan, standing just behind him and facing Marty. “I mean it, Marty, I am really, really sorry.” Then I aimed the pistol and squeezed the trigger. Just like I had been taught. By Brennan. The pistol bucked in my hand and the noise inside the house, with all the marble and tile, sounded like a nuclear blast.
But I still managed to hit my target and shot Marty once, almost dead center in his chest.
The flash from the muzzle blinded me temporarily. I didn’t even see any bloodstain on his shirt before he dropped straight to the floor, and thankfully, he didn’t make any sounds like Teal had. He rolled onto his back, and then everything stopped. He was absolutely still. My ears rang from the gunshot, and the air had the acrid odor of gunpowder. Marty was dead. It had been quick, and he was now flat on a hard wooden floor that would be easy to clean up.
I’d noticed how much Brennan had jumped when I pulled the trigger. I couldn’t see his face, but I could imagine what he was thinking right now. His legs were already trembling.
Good God, this was what I had been waiting for.
Chapter 32
I was still standing behind Brennan, who dared not turn his head. He had a perfect view of Marty’s crumpled body about fifteen feet in front of him. My ears still throbbed from the noise of the gunshot. Now I knew why we always wore earplugs when we went to the range. My guess was that right about now, Brennan was regretting our days shooting together and his detailed lessons. At the time, he’d just enjoyed being able to tell me things. It had been a power trip for him.
Brennan’s voice cracked as he said, “Christy, Jesus Christ, what have you done?” He choked up on whatever he was going to say next as he tried not to vomit.
“How’s it feel, Brennan? Knowing you’re helpless. Is it a new sensation?” I let a brief silence fall over the room so I could enjoy seeing Brennan squirm. Now he was shaking as he tried to maintain his composure. The air was still filled with the odor of the gunshot. This old house had never seen anything like this, and Brennan had never experienced anything like it either. He deserved it. Not just for the way he’d treated me, but for the way he treated the rest of the world. It was time he learned he wasn’t better than anyone else.
I said, “I doubt the sound of the shot even penetrated the walls. No one outside this room has any idea what just happened. No one is coming to help.” I let that sink in, then said, “Stand there perfectly still, looking straight ahead. Got it?”
He nodded frantically. Sweat stains were now visible on the back of his shirt near his underarms. I don’t think I’d ever seen Brennan sweat.
I said, “I’d like to savor your reaction to this, but I have a lot to do.”
“What—what are you talking about? What do you have to do?” He started to whimper and added, “What’s going on? I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I think experts call it ‘arranging the crime scene.’” I stayed behind him as I snapped on a pair of gloves. I’d figured out the right trajectories and what the residue tests would show. “You see, Brennan, it took a lot of research to learn that the cops might connect the gun to Teal’s murder. I had to take all that into account and come up with the right story.”
“Story? What story? You’re going to try to make the police believe I shot your boyfriend?”
I chuckled. “I have no doubt I could sell any story to the cops at this point. It’s all the other details that take concentration.” There was a long silence as Brennan thought things over.
He finally said with a cry, “What are you doing? I don’t understand.”
“Well, Brennan, dear. This was my backup plan. I admit I had another one in the works for quite some time, almost from the day I met Marty, who I recognized as being very nice and extremely easy to manipulate. I knew if my legal challenges to your ridiculous prenuptial agreement failed, I’d need an alternative. This is it.
“I knew I wanted to go through with the plan the day you crushed me in court just because you could.” I let him think about that and how he had abused me. “Yesterday, Marty shot his ex-wife. You might’ve seen it on the news. He got away with it, too. At least he thought he’d gotten away with it. I told him I had backed up his alibi”—I leaned in close to Brennan and whispered in his ear—“but I didn’t.”
Now I pulled the gun from my pocket and held it in my right hand. The other was loose in my left, hanging by my side. I slowly strolled around in front of Brennan until I was standing near Marty’s body. “Marty was crazy for Teal and everyone knew it. She even got a restraining order on him. I told the cops we left the racetrack early and I didn’t know where Marty was most of the afternoon until I met him at the Palm Beach Grill.” Now I could enjoy Brennan’s expression as I laid out my story.
“That’s why I’ll say I broke up with him earlier tonight at the Palm Beach Grill and why I told my friend Allie, at the Brazilian Court, that I had already broken up with him and I was a little scared. I also told her Marty went crazy when he heard you were interested in reconciling with me. It’s also why
I’m sure the police are at Marty’s apartment waiting for him right now.”
I held the gun steady in front of me. “The best part, the one thing that just fell into place, was when Marty found your pistol. I may have moved it so he’d notice it, but he thought it was all his idea.” I saw that Brennan was confused. “That’s right, he found it in your closet one day when we came to visit. I didn’t say a word when he stole the pistol. Because I knew the cops could tie the gun that killed Teal to the gun used here tonight, I had to switch them on poor, simple Marty. Wild, huh? He used my gun to shoot Teal and I used your gun to shoot him. All I have to say is that Marty stole my gun from the nightstand in my hotel room. It will work out perfectly. Brilliant, right?”
Brennan was trying to keep from sobbing. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?”
I grinned. “Because I can. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Chapter 33
I couldn’t believe how thrilling it was to have this much power over another person. It almost made me understand why Brennan had done some of the things he had. Now it was time to explain exactly what was about to happen as I stood in front of him, holding the gun in a remarkably steady hand.
“It’s really a simple story. The key is to always keep things simple. Marty asked to go for one final drive together. Then he pulled the gun, the Walther PPK you gave me as a present. He must’ve gotten it out of my nightstand at the hotel. Then he forced me to drive here so he could prove he loved me, because he was, you know, crazy.
“He came into the house and you shot each other. I was terrified and fled upstairs to call 911. Simple and believable.”
Brennan just stared at me. “But why? This could ruin your whole life. What do you really have to gain?”
I let out a quick laugh. I’d never realized Brennan could be so funny. Then I looked at him with a deadpan stare and said, “You have no will. I checked the wall safe the other day when we were here. And I know you’re far too cocky to leave it with an attorney.”
Brennan had a real hitch in his voice now. “So what? We’re divorced. What good does all this do you?”
“Actually, we’re in the process of divorcing. We might even reconcile. If you die intestate—that means with no will—I get my house back. It’s really all I wanted. I couldn’t care less if you live or die. And frankly, I would’ve preferred a nice fella like Marty to live with. But shit happens.”
“I can make this right, I swear. You can have the house. You can have a great settlement. You name it.”
“It’s a little late to negotiate, Brennan. You had your chance to do this the right way. Now I’ve just turned it into a big game. A game of make-believe. Let’s make believe we’re part of a fantastic murder mystery. Now you have to make believe you’re going to die.”
I let that realization dawn on him so I could see it in his face. It was amazing. One moment he thought I was ranting and raving, and the next he realized I was following through on a carefully laid-out plan.
I said, “Every game has a winner and a loser. I’m afraid in this one you’re the loser, babe.” I squeezed the trigger and the gun jumped in my hand. The bullet flew a little high, hitting Brennan in the upper chest. He toppled backward and fell with a thud on the hard floor, gurgling for a few seconds. This time the noise didn’t shock me so much and the gunpowder smell wasn’t as jolting. Everything is easier the second time around. Even shooting a man.
It took only a minute to wipe down the guns and stick one in the right hand of each of the dead men in the room. I pulled the trigger with the gun in the hand of each man and didn’t really care where the bullet went. It was all part of the story I had planned.
I stepped back to make sure everything looked just the way I wanted it to. The bodies were well separated, and the police measurements would show that the bullets had traveled about the right distance. I went to the nearest bathroom and, using the back of my hand to avoid leaving fingerprints, double-flushed the gloves. Perfect.
I strolled through the house and started to climb the stairs, then dialed 911 on my cell phone, and as soon as the operator answered, I screamed, “They’re shooting each other, they’re shooting each other, what should I do?” Then I threw in a convincing cry.
The operator, keeping calm like they’re trained to, said, “Ma’am, ma’am, where are you? What’s the address?”
I continued to climb the stairs. Through a series of sobs I gave her the address. And told her, “He’s crazy and he has a gun.”
The operator said, “Where are you in the house? Are you safe?”
I gave her a good moan and said, “I’m hiding upstairs in a closet. Think I’m safe for now.”
The operator said, “Stay there. Help is on the way.”
When the cops found me in the closet, they would see that I’d been crying. What they wouldn’t understand was that they were tears of joy. I had just gotten my house back by winning a game. This game was called let’s play make-believe that I can get away with the murder of my husband.
Nooners
James Patterson
with Tim Arnold
Chapter 1
“So, Tim, how would you describe yourself in a single sentence?”
Friday lunch, and I was sitting across the table from Linda Kaplan, the president of one of the most successful advertising agencies in New York, Kaplan-Thaler. She’s in her mid-fifties, attractive, and exudes the confidence of well-deserved success.
I’m your typical New York adman, Madison Avenue through and through, but after a second stint at Paul Marterelli & Partners, I’d hit a wall. It was time to move on. Past time.
And at this lunch, it’s taking all I’ve got to stay in the moment. A lot of bad, crazy shit has come crashing down around me, and I’m trying to figure out what it all means.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.…
We’re at Soho House, a members-only restaurant, hotel, and spa down on 9th Avenue in the Meatpacking District. Linda Kaplan launched her agency in 1997 with the Herbal Essence shampoo “Yes! Yes! Yes!” campaign—think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally—and never looked back. Now the agency is part of the Publicis Group, a global organization with the financial means to pay their people well. My headhunter hooked us up because Linda is looking for a co-partner and managing director to assume responsibility for all of the agency’s clients.
I’m getting a good vibe. The light in her eyes suggests she has a good sense of humor and doesn’t take life—real life—too damned seriously. Just her job.
This is a big deal. Our first interview. I want this job. A lot. Possibility of a 25 percent salary hike, plus bonus. I know I’m qualified, and so does she.
I’m wearing a necktie for the first time in years. I usually just wear jeans and a button-down to work, unless we have a client in or a new business pitch, but this meeting calls for a tie. Lots at stake here. And the damned thing feels like a noose tightening around my neck.
This was the day of the first murder. Somebody I knew. By the end of next week, my life will have changed forever.
Chapter 2
Yesterday…
On bad days the advertising agency profession can get old fast. Especially with lousy clients. But this day is set to remind me why I got in this business in the first place.
We’re presenting a new campaign to a client who’s sat on the same advertising for five years: Chubb Insurance—Marterelli’s biggest client—has become one of those “unapproachable” insurance companies lost in the morass of indistinguishable brands in a category that’s competing on price, and little more. Worse, Chubb is premium priced. We’ve got a scary idea—the kind I love—to take Chubb to the next level. The plan is to confront consumers with the inevitability of some painful loss of assets during their lifetimes. Then we let them know that Chubb will be there to help, with a campaign built around humor to balance the grim forecast.
It’s enough to distract me from the real-life b
ullshit swirling all around me.
The meeting’s scheduled for eleven a.m. I’m in the office by eight; I stop by the break room, crank up the coffeepot, and head upstairs to go over some notes.
I’m wearing jeans, for sure—Ralph Laurens—pressed, and an oxford cloth open-collar long-sleeved shirt. Got my black-on-black brocade sports jacket slung over a chair, ready for the client. So I’m going formal. Cool New York formal.
“Hey, buenos dias, amigo.” It’s Ramon, our tech guy, at my cubicle door. A tall, dark, and handsome guy, as they say, with a bright, persistent smile on his face. “What’s up? And what am I doing here this early, you ask?”
“Looking for…?”
“No one. Just here to set you guys up in the conference room. Big meeting, huh?”
“Yeah, totally. But we’re ready to kick some client ass. Thanks, man, I’ll see you later.”
“Ciao.” I will definitely see Ramon later.
Back upstairs with my coffee. Now it’s Mary Claire Moriarty, my junior account leader—that’s what I like to call all of us account types. Early twenties, straight out of the Missouri School of Journalism, and she’s a terrific writer, too, so I’ve given her a small part in the pitch. It’s all about teamwork, and providing experience in the trenches for these bright up-and-comers.
“Good morning, sir,” she says. Her bright eyes are beaming. She’s a spark.
“MC, I keep telling you, no ‘sirs’ in this business—or anywhere else for that matter—except the military. Anyway, how are you? Ready to rock?”
“Yeah. Just wanted to thank you for the opportunity. Hope I don’t screw it up.”
“Girl, you won’t. I know you won’t. Now you need to know it. Got it?”
The Palm Beach Murders Page 8
