Triple Homicide_Thrillers

by James Patterson

Joan had bought and paid for the Murphys’ home prior to her marriage to Robert, and it had since been featured in multiple glossy style magazines. The Murphys were also pictured in many of the society columns and had a handful of celebrity friends. On the face of it, they seemed to have a pretty good quality of life.

  Conklin stretched, taking a break. He texted Sackowitz, telling him he was going to interview Joan Murphy ASAP. After that, he scavenged the refrigerator in the break room and found a container of yogurt marked “Boxer.” He grabbed the snack, knowing Lindsay wouldn’t mind.

  He ate at his desk and opened the criminal databases, finding zip, zero, and nada on Joan and Robert Murphy. They hadn’t ever been in trouble with the law. No scandals, no shoplifting, no nothing.

  Next, Conklin looked at all online photos he could find of this nice, upscale couple. What had happened to Joan? She seemed to have a decent life, but then one night she checks into a hotel room and entertains a man who isn’t her husband. A shooter somehow gets into this hotel room and blows away the lover. Then that same assassin wings the millionairess and leaves her for dead.

  And what had happened to Joan’s jewelry? Had the whole thing been a pre-planned armed robbery? It was starting to look that way to Conklin. Maybe it hadn’t been about the duplicitous relationship after all.

  Suddenly, his desk phone rang, jerking him out of his thoughts.

  The caller ID read SACKOWITZ.

  “It’s crazy that Joan Murphy is alive, right?” he said to the night-shift detective.

  Sac said, “My thinking exactly. Who’s the target here? Or was this a robbery that got out of control?”

  Conklin said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Hopefully this interview helps us figure things out. Then, after I see Mrs. Murphy, I’m going to drive out to her home so I can talk to the husband. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Sounds like a plan. But be careful.”

  PRESENT TIME

  CHAPTER 10

  RICH CONKLIN HAD finished his useless bedside interview with Joan Murphy, but before they could go to Claire Washburn’s office, Joan had to be cleared to leave the hospital.

  He called Cindy from the waiting room and left her a voice mail telling her that she shouldn’t hold dinner for him. Minutes later, the attending physician came down the hallway to ask him to come with him to his patient’s room.

  Once he was standing at Joan’s side, Dr. Kornacki turned to Conklin and said, “I want you to be my witness on this situation. I told Mrs. Murphy she should stay with us overnight, so that we could keep an eye on her for twenty-four hours at minimum.”

  Joan chirped, “And I said, ‘No thanks, doctor. I’m fine now.’ And I really, truly am. I’m ready to go home.”

  Kornacki said sternly, “There’s a chance that you might relapse if you leave, but I can’t force you to stay here. See your regular physician. Please do it tomorrow.”

  Joan plucked at the hospital-issue nightgown. “Detective, may I please have my clothing and other belongings back? I must have been wearing quite a bit of jewelry. I’m never without my engagement ring and mother’s necklace.”

  Conklin ran his hand down the side of his face. “Unfortunately, Joan, we weren’t able to locate your jewelry. And your clothing will need to stay with our team for now, for testing.”

  Joan sighed and said, “Doctor, may I borrow some scrubs? Either blue or green would be fine with me.”

  Conklin stood outside as Joan dressed and then he co-signed the “Against Medical Advice” release form. He watched as Joan submitted to the nurses, who were fussing around her as they seated her in a wheelchair.

  He pushed Joan’s chair out to his car. The foot well on the passenger side was filled with litter, and Joan sniffed in disgust when she saw it.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can get that.”

  He gathered up the pile of fast-food wrappers and empty water bottles, and then placed it on the seat of the wheelchair. He walked the trash over to a garbage receptacle and returned the chair to the lobby.

  He’d rarely worked a case as incomprehensible as this double homicide that only had one actual fatality. But he was determined to see it through to its conclusion. Whatever that might be.

  When he and Joan were both in the car and buckled up, she said, “Richard, why not just drop me at home? We can shake hands and say good-bye. I’ll write a note to your superior saying how good you have been to me. You have been very nice.”

  “Joan, there was a dead body of a man found in a bed with you. He has a family out there somewhere and they’re never going to see him again. Someone killed him.” He wanted to add, Does that ring a bell? but he bit down on the sarcasm. The last thing he wanted to do was drive his witness underground.

  Joan said nothing in reply. She just looked out the window at rush hour traffic on Pine.

  He continued, “We’re going to make a quick stop at the medical examiner’s office. Twenty minutes after that, you’ll be home.”

  She said, “I know I said I would look at that man. But this isn’t easy for me, Richard. I have really bad memories of that place.”

  “I know you do. But can you try to look at this a different way? Your unscheduled stop at the ME’s office was a blip in the span of your life. Now you’re alive and well, and you’re helping out the San Francisco Police Department. For about two minutes, you’re going to return to the site of a personal miracle.”

  She looked at him dubiously.

  Rich gave her one of his beautiful smiles and said, “I’m not going to leave your side. You want the sirens, Joan? Or shall we just enjoy the ride?”

  She let out a good laugh.

  “Sirens,” she said.

  Conklin grinned at her.

  He flipped on the sirens and the lights, and they headed toward the medical examiner’s office. He couldn’t wait to reintroduce Joan to Mr. John Doe. He had absolutely no idea—couldn’t even guess—what she would say or do when she looked at the man’s dead body.

  But he had a feeling her reaction was going to surprise him.

  CHAPTER 11

  CONKLIN DRAPED HIS windbreaker around Joan Murphy’s narrow shoulders and walked her from Harriet Street to the ME’s office.

  Claire was waiting for them at the open rear door. She gently placed her arm around Joan and told her how glad she was to see her.

  “How’s that shoulder? Are you feeling okay?” Claire asked.

  “The pain pills are telling me that I feel just fine.” Joan Murphy’s smile faded as she looked around the autopsy suite. She stiffly walked with Claire and Richie into the cool room in the back. There, she took in the sight of the stacked stainless-steel drawers that were holding bodies of the dead.

  Claire said cautiously, “Are you ready, Joan? I’m going to open the drawer now.”

  Joan Murphy shook her head and said, “I’m never going to be ready for this. But let’s get it over with.”

  Claire slid the drawer open slowly. Wisps of brown hair peeked out over the top of the crisp sheet, followed by a long topographical stretch of white. The sight before them terminated with a man’s knobby toes.

  Claire carefully folded the sheet down below John Doe’s chin.

  Conklin stood beside Joan as she peered down at the dead man’s blanched and chubby face. To Rich, the man’s features were unremarkable. He looked like a typical suburban dad, the kind of guy who would watch out for the kids on the block, was handy around the house, and didn’t fool around at the office.

  Clearly, his appearance didn’t square with the circumstances in which his body had been discovered.

  Joan stared at the corpse for a long moment. Then she seemed almost indignant when she said, “I’m supposed to know this person?”

  Conklin looked past Joan to Claire. Their eyes met. He said, “Joan, this is the man who was found dead, naked, and in bed with you in room three twenty-one at the Warwick. His wallet was stolen. We’re trying to identify him and it’s only a matter
of time before we’re successful. And we could do it faster and better if you can give us a name or a lead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Richard. I’ve never seen this man before, and honestly, I don’t think I would even notice him if he walked by me on the street. He’s not my type.

  “Here’s my theory,” she continued, looking up at Conklin. “Somehow, both he and I were drugged, kidnapped, put into that bed, and shot. Maybe he was already dead. I was as good as dead, and maybe they didn’t realize that I was still kicking. There’s no other explanation.”

  Conklin stifled a laugh. He couldn’t believe that Joan had come up with the fantastic theory that somehow two people had been kidnapped and smuggled into the Warwick, where they were stripped, posed, and shot, in that order. For what purpose? To create a scandal?

  Maybe to create a pulp fiction murder tableau for a book cover.

  He arranged his features in a straight face. “But why would anyone do that to you?”

  “How would I know? I don’t have a criminal mind. And now, I’m ready to go home. Didn’t you hear the doctor? I need to rest.”

  CHAPTER 12

  CONKLIN HAD PROMISED to bring Joan home and he kept his word. He walked her back to his car and drove them to Seacliff. The sun was going down and house lights winked on along Lake Street. Conklin turned right on 28th and took it to El Camino Del Mar. When he pulled into her neighborhood, he noticed that it was an upmarket, oceanside area dotted with large estates. Many of them had water views and private access to the shoreline. Joan was looking straight ahead, saying to him, “How am I going to explain all of this to Robert?”

  “That you were found in bed with another man?”

  “What? No. He’ll believe me when I say that I was drugged and kidnapped. But I have to explain getting shot. Why would anyone shoot me? Maybe Robert got a call from the kidnapper. Maybe he had to pay ransom money or something. Did you think of that, Richard?”

  Joan had some pretty crazy theories about her attempted murder, but this time, she had a point. Her husband hadn’t reported his wife as missing. Could he have forked over a ransom payment while he was waiting for his wife’s return?

  Rich Conklin couldn’t wait to see Robert Murphy’s face when Joan came through the front door to her house—alive.

  Maybe it would give him the final clue to crack this case.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE CLOSER THEY came to Joan’s home on El Camino Del Mar, the more anxious Joan became. She tried to call her husband again, as Mallory had done when Joan had first woken up in the morgue, but the call went unanswered.

  “I’m very frightened now,” Joan said to Conklin. “What if we find him shot and lying dead on the floor? What if my kidnapping was part of a larger plot?”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Joan. We’ll investigate every piece of evidence we find. If a clue surfaces in your memory, you know where to reach me.”

  The brass house numbers were embedded in the gateposts that flanked the driveway leading to a handsome Mediterranean-style stucco house with a tiled roof. The gate was open, revealing manicured gardens inside the walls. Conklin pulled his car up the long driveway and parked it between a blue Mercedes XL sedan and a silver Bentley.

  “Which one is Robert’s car?” he asked Joan.

  “The Mercedes. The Bentley is mine.”

  Conklin went around to the passenger side and helped Joan out of the car. He retrieved her handbag from the foot well and held it open for her while she searched inside it for her keys. When she found them, she handed the set to him.

  They reached the front door, and Conklin unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said, “Stay here. I’ll go in first to make sure everything is safe.”

  Conklin took three steps into the room, entering the foyer. Lights were on inside the house, but the security alarms weren’t set.

  He called out, “Mr. Murphy? This is the SFPD.”

  There was no answer. Conklin drew his gun and held it out, but he kept the muzzle pointing down. He walked through the foyer, which emptied into a spacious living area decorated with modern furnishings. The windows along the far wall looked out over lawns with topiary and a small pathway of stone steps. A large swimming pool was across the lawn and off to the right.

  He called Mr. Murphy’s name again as he rounded a corner. He heard music coming from outside the sliding glass doors, where a set of teak outdoor furniture faced the ocean.

  A man stood up and turned to Conklin, holding a sheaf of paper in his hand. He was big, not just tall, but well-built and handsome. He was wearing what looked to be a cashmere half-zip sweater and expensive jeans. He showed no sign of injury.

  Conklin said, “Mr. Murphy?”

  The man said, “Who the hell are you? And how did you get into my house?”

  “I’m Inspector Conklin, SFPD. I’ve brought your wife home from the hospital.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know. Why was Joan in the hospital?”

  “She was shot, Mr. Murphy. Let me go get her. I’ll tell her that you’re back here.”

  Conklin went back out to the front door and told Joan Murphy that her husband seemed fine. She smiled and then started to weep. Conklin holstered his gun and accompanied the frail woman, who was still wearing blue scrubs, paper slides, and an SFPD windbreaker.

  When he saw Joan, her husband opened his arms and folded her in. He patted her back as she sobbed against his chest.

  “I almost died, Robert. I almost died.”

  Conklin thought that Murphy’s actions were warm, but his expression and his affect seemed to be a little distant. Conklin watched and listened as Joan gave Robert a shorthand version of the story as she knew it. But why didn’t Joan’s husband seem shocked by the news?

  Joan told Robert that she had woken up in the morgue. Apparently she had been shot in the shoulder and had a wound on her hip as well, but she had no memory of being attacked. Thank goodness she had no broken bones. She just needed some TLC and rest.

  There was no mention of the deceased John Doe.

  Robert asked her where this had happened and she said, “At the Warwick, Robert. I was found in a hotel room, bloody and unconscious. The police thought I was dead! My jewelry was gone. That lovely pendant of my mother’s. And oh, my God. My rings were taken, too.”

  “Why were you at the Warwick?”

  “I have no idea how I got there, Robbie. I think that I was drugged and kidnapped.”

  “Drugged and kidnapped? My God, Joan. By whom?”

  “That’s my theory, but this kind man, Inspector Conklin, is going to figure out what happened and who is responsible.”

  “God, I hope so,” Robert said as he hugged her close one more time. “We’re going to take good care of you, dear.”

  From inside his embrace, Joan looked up at her husband and smiled.

  “I’m going to change into my own comfortable clothes, Robert. I could use a drink. Tell Marjorie I’m very hungry. I have no idea when I last had a meal. I think I’d like chicken stew. That will fix me right up. Inspector, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. I’ll be right back.”

  When Joan had left the room, Conklin turned to Robert Murphy and said, “You mind answering a few questions for me?”

  CHAPTER 14

  MURPHY NODDED HIS head and directed Conklin to a squared, taupe-colored chair. As Conklin sat down, Murphy took a seat in an identical chair that was situated at a right angle from him. Murphy did finger riffs on his knees, looking impatient and resigned.

  Conklin said, “These are routine questions, Mr. Murphy. Your wife was shot and left for dead. So I’m going to need details of your movements over the last forty-eight hours.”

  Murphy said, “Right. I know this one. You think the husband did it.”

  Conklin said, “Not necessarily. Think of this as the way we clear the husband, Mr. Murphy.”

  Murphy sighed, raked back his hair with his fingers, and said, “I didn’t leave the property all weekend and I h
aven’t left it today, either. Marjorie Bright, our housekeeper and cook, can vouch for me. Our pool boy, Peter Carter, saw me Sunday morning when I went for a swim. Gotta stay fit, no? Peter lives in a cottage in the back. He has the weekends off, but he was there on Sunday.”

  Conklin said, “You seriously haven’t left the house in two whole days?”

  “Honestly, it’s been longer than that. I have a part in a movie. It’s a thriller called Case Management. Craig Noble is directing and I play Evan Slaughter, the lead detective. I’ve been reading and rehearsing my lines for these past couple days. Marjorie even helped me run through them. She usually does. Anyway, we start shooting next week.”

  Conklin asked, “Were you contacted by anyone demanding ransom for Joan’s return?”

  “What? No. Of course not. I would have called the police if that had happened.”

  Conklin said, “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to hurt Joan?”

  “I doubt it. But she does have a strong personality. She always says what she thinks. She’s on a lot of committees and charity boards. Wherever money and politics are involved, people can get pretty pissed off. Thankfully, Joan keeps me out of her business.”

  Conklin nodded, wondering, Does this actor really think that murders spring from charity board decisions? Both Joan and Robert had B-movie theories to real-life murder. It was just another clue that they might be hiding something.

  Rich said, “Mr. Murphy, when your wife didn’t come home Sunday night, weren’t you worried about her?”

  “As I said, Joan does what Joan wants to do. We don’t question each other, Inspector. And if your next question is ‘Do you love your wife?’ the answer is ‘I like her independence, her humor, and her intelligence.’ And yes, I do love her as well.”

  “I have to ask you. Do you think your wife could be having an affair?”

  Murphy gave Conklin a scathing look and said, “If she is having an affair, it would shock the hell out of me. We have a full and trusting relationship. Thank you for bringing her home safely. I’d like daily reports on your progress in finding the kidnapper.”