The House Next Door

by James Patterson

  Well, maybe one: I would have wanted to move back into the city. But I promised the kids we’d stay in the suburbs till they all finished high school. I figure I owe them that.

  Will I ever get over the guilt I feel, bringing Vince into our lives? I’m not sure. And I’m not sure what will happen once Ned gets out. It’s clear to me now that our marriage had problems long before Vince entered the scene. Ned says he’s willing to work on it. But I don’t know if there’s anything left anymore.

  It’s like that line from “The Gambler”: “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.”

  So that kind of brings you up to speed on everybody involved.

  Oh. Except for Vince.

  EPILOGUE

  From the outside, the MacDougall-Walker Correctional Institution could pass for a Holiday Inn. But once you push your way through the heavy glass doors and walk through a metal detector, you know it isn’t.

  I put my pocketbook through an X-ray machine and submit to a serious body frisk. Then I fill out a bunch of papers, sign the visitor’s log, and am sent to a waiting room. Along with many other visitors—family members, friends, clergymen, and attorneys—I wait.

  Then I see him.

  He is dressed in the classic orange jumpsuit, escorted by a prison guard who looks as if he doesn’t know how to smile. I am seated at a wooden table. Vince sits down on the other side. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “They told me I had a visitor,” he says. “I knew it would be you.”

  “How’s it going?” I ask. I remember what I had read in the local papers. In Law & Order terms: they threw the book at him. Forgery. Blackmail. Intimidation. Trafficking. Possession of controlled substances with intent to sell. Child abduction. Attempted manslaughter.

  I think of the lovely afternoon he and I had on that park bench, a million years ago. He won’t be seeing one of those anytime soon.

  Vince looks older, tired, but as appealing as ever. That boyish lock of hair that kept falling into his eyes is gone—shaved away in a prison buzz cut. But he still has the same smile.

  Here I am, seated across from the man who almost destroyed me and my family. Yet hard as I try, I can’t hate him. We make small talk—the food there, his cell, what Joey is up to. And then I ask him the one question that’s been burning in my brain.

  “Did you ever care for me at all, or was I just part of the plan?”

  He throws his head back and laughs.

  “My God,” he says. “All you women are the same!”

  All you women…?

  “A guy says a couple of nice things to a broad, and she’s ready to follow him anywhere. You gotta learn to toughen up, Laura. Or else, the next guy who comes along…”

  But I don’t let him finish.

  “Guard!” I call out. The guard comes over as I get up to leave.

  “Laura, wait!” Vince calls out. But I’m already out the door.

  The visit lasted six minutes. Just long enough to learn what a fool I’ve been these last several months.

  And now?

  These days, with Ned not there, I have a lot more time for myself. Time to figure out what makes me happy.

  Maggie will be a help with that. And no, she and Ned weren’t having an affair. He needed to come clean to someone; she was the perfect choice.

  I joined a support group. That should help, too. Maybe I’ll go back to acting, like I always wanted. Or maybe I’ll write a play about everything that happened.

  I think it would make a hell of a story.

  The Killer’s Wife

  James Patterson

  with Max DiLallo

  Prologue

  Detective Andrew McGrath stands in front of his open liquor cabinet, shaking. Inside are just a few old bottles, most of them covered with a fine layer of dust. McGrath may have his share of vices, but booze has never been one of them.

  Tonight, however, he’s desperate to have a drink.

  Partly it’s to settle his nerves. But also because it’s tradition. When McGrath first traded his patrolman’s badge for a detective’s shield nearly eleven years ago, his colleagues at the San Luis Obispo Police Department all pitched in to buy him a nice bottle of Scotch. A very nice bottle of Scotch. A Macallan 25-Year-Old Sherry Oak, which retails for about a thousand bucks.

  The catch?

  He was only ever allowed to drink it after he’d solved a murder.

  Since then, McGrath has popped it open roughly once or twice a year. San Luis Obispo, a scenic town of about forty-five thousand tucked along California’s hilly central coast, rarely sees serious crimes.

  But tonight, the book has just been shut on the toughest, most taxing homicide case of McGrath’s career. He’s a veteran detective, but this pushed him to his limits—then past his limits. He is exhausted. Utterly drained. Shaken to his very core.

  So once he unscrews the cap from the heavy glass bottle—after all these years, still about three-quarters full—McGrath doesn’t pour a nip into a tumbler.

  Instead, he takes a long, hearty gulp right from the source. Thick, amber rivulets trickle down his chin. The taste is rich and floral, sharp and smoky.

  But the feeling is bittersweet.

  Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, McGrath carries the bottle into his sparsely decorated living room. Nestled next to each other on the sofa, beneath a threadbare old quilt, are his elderly parents, Leonard and Evelyn McGrath. A late-night talk show is flickering softly on the TV, but both his parents’ eyes are closed.

  They look so calm, McGrath thinks. So at peace.

  So different from how he’s feeling.

  With his free hand, McGrath gently lifts and retucks the blanket around their shoulders, careful not to disturb them. He turns off the television.

  And, in the silence, hears something outside that makes him stop in his tracks.

  The distant whine of a police siren.

  Strange, given the late hour. To avoid bothering the town’s residents, police officers are instructed to use only their flashing lights between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m., except in extreme emergencies. So McGrath’s curiosity is piqued.

  But as he hears the siren getting louder, getting closer, he understands.

  It’s a professional courtesy. A friendly warning.

  The cops are on their way for him—but he’s been expecting them all night.

  McGrath steps into his front hallway now. Without putting down the bottle of Scotch, he unholsters his sidearm, a jet-black Glock 22. He ejects the bullet cartridge, and places it and his gun side by side on the entry table.

  Then he steels himself, and opens the door.

  An unmarked white Chevy Impala and two squad cars are pulling into his driveway. Four uniformed male officers and a female plainclothes one—Detective Gina Petrillo, smart, feisty, ballsy, the only woman investigator on the entire force and therefore one of its toughest—exit their vehicles and approach.

  “Evening, gang,” McGrath calls to them. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

  Gina takes a moment to try to control the storm of emotions raging inside her. Shock. Confusion. Fury. Betrayal.

  Then she readies a pair of handcuffs.

  “Detective Andrew J. McGrath,” she says stiffly, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in—”

  “Oh, Jesus, Gina, stop it.” McGrath holds up the palm of his empty hand like a crossing guard. “Just tell me straight. What am I being arrested for?”

  Gina responds with a vicious scowl. This was a colleague she once believed in. A man she once trusted. Once loved like a brother.

  “Murder, Andy. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  With a resigned shrug, McGrath takes a final swig of the exorbitantly priced Scotch.

  “Actually,” he replies, “it’s worse than that.”

  Without warning, he hurls the glass bottle to the ground, letting it shatter on his concrete front steps. Gin
a and the officers leap back, startled. But McGrath stays still as a statue.

  “Much worse. Come on inside.”

  Chapter 1

  Six weeks earlier

  “Know the thing I love most about this job?” asks Gina.

  She’s in the passenger seat to my right, rummaging through the plastic bag at her feet, which earlier held our grease-soaked KFC drive-thru dinner.

  We’ve been sitting in this stuffy parked car together for the past five mind-numbing hours, so I answer sarcastically. “The nonstop thrills?”

  Gina removes a crumpled paper napkin stained with barbecue sauce from the bag. She folds it inside out, then blots her glistening brow.

  “You’re close. The glamour.”

  It’s true. Real police work isn’t glamorous. Or very exciting. Definitely not how it’s portrayed in the movies. Most of the time, our chosen profession is about as hip as digging ditches, as riveting as collecting trash—except that a hole in the ground won’t ever lead you on a dangerous high-speed chase, and even the smelliest, foulest dumpster in the world won’t ever pull a gun on you.

  But real police work is what’s required to catch a very real bad guy.

  Like the one who’s been terrorizing our quiet community on and off for nearly two years.

  “Red Bull?” Gina asks as she reaches into a small plastic cooler behind her seat.

  She already knows my response—No, thanks. How can you even drink that crap?—so I don’t have to say it. Taking just one skinny, sugar-free can for herself, Gina holds it against her face for a few seconds, then cracks it open and gulps it down.

  I admit I could use a little pick-me-up, too. After tailing and staking out our current person of interest for nineteen days straight—no breaks, no days off—I’m definitely feeling worse for the wear.

  I can only imagine how Gina’s holding up—my loyal partner of almost seven years, and my best friend for decades. We went to San Luis Obispo High together, if you can believe it, less than a mile down the road. Gina’s a trooper: she and her girlfriend are raising two stinking-cute twin toddlers at home, and I don’t know how she does it. Sure, I’ve got my aging folks I help take care of, but at least they can change their own diapers.

  “Looks like another wild and crazy night in the Pierson household,” she says.

  Gina is peering through a pair of binoculars. I raise my own to look for myself.

  Through the second-floor window of a modest Spanish-style bungalow down the block, we watch as Michael Pierson and his wife, Ellen, get ready for bed. They change into almost-matching pajamas. They brush their teeth side by side at the bathroom sink in chilly silence. They exchange a chaste peck on the cheek. Then they slip under the covers and shut off the lights.

  “That right there is why me and Zoe are never getting married,” Gina says. “And they don’t even have kids! I get depressed just watching.”

  “Well, your relationship’s a little different,” I say. “Neither of you is a serial killer. At least as far as I know.”

  “You really think he’s our guy, huh?” Gina lowers her voice, adding somberly: “And you really think those poor girls are dead?”

  I do. On both counts.

  There’s been only circumstantial evidence so far linking Pierson to the ongoing string of abductions. But after I interviewed him twice at the station, he just felt…off to me. I can’t say why, but something deep in my gut tells me he’s behind them.

  For one, he’s vice principal of San Luis Obispo High School, where all the young female victims were students, and he knew them fairly well. Two witnesses also put Pierson near Santa Rosa Park—where the most recent missing girl was last seen, out for a jog—on the night she disappeared, twenty-two days ago.

  Like the three young women before her, she vanished without a trace.

  But goddamnit, I’m going to prove Pierson is guilty!

  That son of a bitch is going to pay, no matter what it takes.

  And if by some miracle those girls are alive…I’ll find them, too.

  It’s getting late, and I’m starting to feel a little foggy. I shut my eyes and rub my face, trying to fight it. Maybe I’ll take a quick power nap. Maybe I’ll have a Red Bull after all. Maybe I’ll—

  “Shit, Andy!” Gina exclaims, punching me hard in the shoulder. “Look!”

  Chapter 2

  Gina and I watch with surprise as Michael Pierson exits his front door.

  That might not seem like anything special. But over the past nineteen days we’ve spent surveilling this guy, his behavior has been so predictable, you could set your watch by it—as long as you didn’t fall asleep first. Pretty much all Gina and I have seen him do is drive to and from school, drive to and from the supermarket, pick up some dry cleaning, do some yard work, and go to bed early. (As far as I can tell, he also hasn’t made love to his wife once this whole time—which is criminal in my book, but not according to the California Penal Code.)

  Tonight, Pierson has finally changed up his routine. In a very big way.

  He was wearing pajamas less than an hour ago. Now he’s got on jeans, a gray sweater, and a blue Golden State Warriors baseball cap, the brim pulled low. He’s also carrying a small black duffel bag and speaking nervously on a cell phone, although we’re much too far away to hear him.

  “That’s new,” I say.

  “Yup. I always thought he’d be an Angels fan.”

  I roll my eyes. My partner has two modes: sarcastic and very sarcastic.

  “I mean his cell. Pierson has an iPhone. That’s an old flip phone.”

  “Damn, you’re right. Gotta be a burner. But who’s he talking to?”

  No idea. But the real question is, where’s he going?

  We watch as Pierson finishes his conversation, hangs up, then gets into his silver Honda Civic parked in his driveway. As he begins pulling out, I glance at my watch. It’s 11:26 p.m. This is by far the latest we’ve ever seen him awake, let alone outside his house—let alone going somewhere. Something is most definitely up.

  After his Honda passes us, I count to five, then start my engine. Keeping my headlights switched off, I pull a gentle U-turn. And follow.

  San Luis Obispo—or SLO, as a lot of us locals call it—is a lovely place to live. But it isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis. This late on a weeknight, the streets are empty, and I have to keep a good distance between my car and Pierson’s. The last thing I want to do is spook him.

  “He’s making a left on Conejo Avenue,” Gina says.

  I don’t tell her she’s stating the obvious. If he continues straight, it’s a dead end.

  I simply nod and make a left up that hilly street myself, then keep an eye on the Honda as it continues to snake through this sleepy patch of residential homes.

  Pierson soon makes a left onto Andrews Street, the road that leads into town…but then he hooks another left, looping back around.

  “What’s he doing?” Gina asks.

  I have no idea. But soon, we find ourselves back on Pierson’s block.

  “Damnit!” I exclaim, pounding my fist against the steering wheel. “He’s going home. He must’ve seen us. Shit.”

  “Or maybe he just wanted to take a little drive,” Gina says. “Go in circles for a while. Clear his head.”

  “Or maybe…this is his ritual,” I say. “He’s psyching himself up before he strikes again.”

  Gina and I let that lie there as Pierson’s car nears his driveway and starts to slow. It looks like he was taking a spin around the neighborhood after all. False alarm.

  Except—he doesn’t stop. He continues past it, then makes another left on Conejo, then heads down Andrews again.

  And this time, he keeps going.

  Gina rubs her hands together in excited anticipation. “Okay, we’re back in business.”

  I’m a little antsy myself. This is uncharted territory—for Pierson and us, too.

  The Honda heads east along Monterey Street, one of SLO’s main thorough
fares. We pass a few shopping centers. A video rental store, shuttered long ago. A greasy taco joint right across from a hip new green-juice bar. (That’s California for you.)

  Pierson approaches an empty intersection with a stale yellow light. Instead of slowing, he accelerates. It turns red—but he speeds right through.

  “Let’s pull this asshole over,” Gina suggests. “Maybe see what’s in that duffel.”

  I slow down but don’t stop as I reach the same quiet intersection, to make sure the coast is clear. Then I speed through the red light myself.

  “No, not yet. This is our chance. I don’t want to blow it.”

  After a few blocks, Pierson turns off the main road and stops in front of a modest two-story apartment complex, the color of burnt coffee. I stealthily pull over about a block farther down, a discreet distance away but with a decent line of sight on him.

  Maybe thirty seconds later, a woman exits one of the second-floor apartments and scurries down the stairs. She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt with the hood up.

  “Here comes company,” Gina says. “But I can’t get a look at her. Can you?”

  I can’t, either. Not from this angle. Damn. Her face is totally obscured.

  Until she opens Pierson’s passenger-side door.

  “Jesus…” I mutter.

  As the woman turns to get in, the dome light casts an eerie glow across her face.

  I see now that she’s just a girl. A teenager. Bright-eyed and apple-cheeked.

  I also get a glimpse of the writing on her sweatshirt.

  SAN LUIS OBISPO HIGH SCHOOL

  Chapter 3

  “Now we gotta pull this asshole over,” Gina pleads. “She could be his next—”

  “You don’t think I know that?” I snap, surprised and a little embarrassed by the edge in my voice. “But if we collar him now…”

  I trail off, because Gina knows exactly the classic police dilemma we’re in.