Murder House, Part 1 by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473535978
Publisher: Random House

14

NO, PLEASE DON’T make me, I don’t wanna—

Childish giggles, pressure on my throat, darkness, then light—

A bird, an angry bird with a hooked nose, standing upright—

Please don’t make me—

I wake with a gasp, my head coming off the pillow, sucking in air, the sounds of giggling and desperate cries slowly fading, the pressure removed from my chest, hands no longer gripping my throat.

“Shit.” My breathing finally slows. The clock says it’s two minutes to seven. Who needs an alarm clock when you have nightmares every day?

I grab my iPhone and scroll through photos, spotting the picture I took of that little monument on the lawn at 7 Ocean Drive, that gray-and-black bird with the hooked beak and long tail feather. Yep, that was it, the same one from the nightmare. Great.

I shower, eat some toast and fruit, and chug two glasses of water to work off my hangover, courtesy of the two bottles of wine Matty and I had last night as a send-off, my last night of forced vacation before I resume my job. Matty is long gone, having left my apartment around five this morning to head back to Manhattan; I have a brief memory of his aftershave and a kiss good-bye.

I go to work for the first time in thirty days. I feel like a tourist stepping onto foreign soil, the uncertainty of it all, especially of the reception I’ll get from the natives when I show my face.

The Southampton Town Police substation in Bridgehampton is not exactly an intimidating place, nestled in the corner of an outdoor shopping mall called Bridgehampton Commons off Main Street, filled with chain shops like the Gap, Staples, Panera, a King Kullen grocery store, Victoria’s Secret, and yes, a Dunkin’ Donuts (I know, the jokes write themselves). The black patrol vehicles park in the south corner next to a row of tall recycling bins for clothes and shoes.

I park my beater in the back and walk into the substation, my bag over my shoulder and a general wariness in my gut. I get some mock applause from a couple of detectives who welcome me back after my one-month vacation. Isaac Marks isn’t there, the weasel. He probably has his nose up the chief’s ass right now.

Somebody tidied up my desk during my absence. Not that there’s much to it, other than a photograph of my parents, and one of my brother, Ryan. There was a particularly nice shot of the entire family with Uncle Langdon and Aunt Chloe at Coney Island that I used to have on my desk at the NYPD, but I didn’t want to emphasize the familial relationship here, with my uncle being the top dog. There’s some resentment already, some whispers of nepotism about my hiring, though nobody could accuse the chief of favoritism after my suspension.

“Chief wants to see you, Murph.” One of the administrative assistants, Margaret, drops a bunch of papers on my desk, mail and assorted paperwork.

“The chief’s here?” Lang doesn’t usually spend time at the substation, generally working out of headquarters on Old Riverhead Road.

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