“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Noah demands, unable to conceal the fear choking his voice.
“Be happy to,” says the chief. “Noah Walker, you’re under arrest for the murders of Melanie Phillips and Zachary Stern.”
3
THE FUNERAL for Melanie Phillips is heavily attended, filling the pews of the Presbyterian church and overflowing onto Main Street. She was all of twenty years old when she was murdered, every day of which she lived in Bridgehampton. Poor girl, never got to see the world, though for some people, the place you grew up is your world. Maybe that was Melanie. Maybe all she ever wanted was to be a waitress at Tasty’s Diner, serving steamers and lobster to tourists and townies and the occasional rich couple looking to drink in the “local environment.”
But with her looks, at least from what I’ve seen in photos, she probably had bigger plans. A young woman like that, with luminous brown hair and sculpted features, could have been in magazines. That, no doubt, is why she caught the attention of Zach Stern, the head of a talent agency that included A-list celebrities, a man who owned his own jet and who liked to hang out in the Hamptons now and then.
And that, no doubt, is also why she caught the attention of Noah Walker, who apparently had quite an affinity for young Melanie himself and must not have taken too kindly to her affair with Zach.
It was only four nights ago that Zachary Stern and Melanie Phillips were found dead, victims of a brutal murder in a rental house near the beach that Zach had leased for the week. The carnage was brutal enough that Melanie’s service was closed-casket.
So the crowd is due in part to Melanie’s local popularity, and in part to the media interest, given Zach Stern’s notoriety in Hollywood.
It is also due, I am told, to the fact that the murders occurred at 7 Ocean Drive, which among the locals has become known as the Murder House.
Now we’ve moved to the burial, which is just next door to the church. It allows the throng that couldn’t get inside the church to mill around the south end of the cemetery, where Melanie Phillips will be laid to rest. There must be three hundred people here, if you count the media, which for the most part are keeping a respectful distance even while they snap their photographs.
The overhead sun at midday is strong enough for squinting and sunglasses, both of which make it harder for me to do what I came here to do, which is to check out the people attending the funeral to see if anyone pings my radar. Some of these creeps like to come and watch the sorrow they caused, so it’s standard operating procedure to scan the crowd at crime scenes and funerals.
“Remind me why we’re here, Detective Murphy,” says my partner, Isaac Marks.
“I’m paying my respects.”
“You didn’t know Melanie,” he says.
True enough. I don’t know anyone around here. Once upon a time, my family came here every summer, a good three-week stretch straddling June and July, to stay with Uncle Langdon and Aunt Chloe. My memories of those summers—beaches and boat rides and fishing off the docks—end at age eight.
For some reason I never knew, my family stopped coming after that. Until nine months ago when I joined the force, I hadn’t set foot in the Hamptons for eighteen years.
“I’m working on my suntan,” I say.
“Not to mention,” says Isaac, ignoring my remark, “that we already have our bad guy in custody.”
Also true. We arrested Noah Walker yesterday. He’ll get a bond hearing tomorrow, but there’s no way the judge is going to bond him out on a double murder.
“And might I further add,” says Isaac, “that this isn’t even your case.”
Right again. I volunteered to lead the team arresting Noah, but I wasn’t given the case. In fact, the chief—my aforementioned uncle Langdon—is handling the matter personally. The town, especially the hoity-toity millionaires along the beach, just about busted a collective gut when the celebrity agent Zach Stern was brutally murdered in their scenic little hamlet. It’s the kind of case that could cost the chief his job, if he isn’t careful. I’m told the town supervisor has been calling him on the hour for updates.
So why am I here, at a funeral for someone I don’t know, on a case that isn’t mine? Because I’m bored. Because since I left the NYPD, I haven’t seen any action. And because I’ve handled more homicides in eight years on the force than all of these cops in Bridgehampton put together. Translation: I wanted the case, and I was a little displeased when I didn’t get it.
“Who’s that?” I ask, gesturing across the way to an odd-looking man in a green cap, with long stringy hair and ratty clothes. Deep-set, creepy eyes that seem to wander. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still.
Isaac pushes down his sunglasses to get a better look. “Oh, that’s Aiden Willis,” he says. “He works for the church. Probably dug Melanie’s grave.”
“Looks like he slept in it first.”
Isaac likes that. “Seriously, Murphy. You’re looking for suspects? With all you know about this case, which is diddly-squat, you don’t like Noah Walker for the murders?”
“I’m not saying that,” I answer.
“You’re not denying it, either.”
I consider that. He’s right, of course. What the hell do I know about Noah Walker or the evidence against him? He may not have jumped out at me as someone who’d just committed a brutal double murder, but when do public faces ever match private misdeeds? I once busted a second-grade schoolteacher who was selling heroin to the high school kids. And a teenage volunteer who was boning the corpses in the basement of the hospital. You never know people. And I’d known Noah Walker for all of thirty minutes.
“Go home,” says Isaac. “Go work out—”
Already did this morning.
“—or see the ocean—”
I’ve seen it already. It’s a really big body of water.
“—or have a drink.”
Yeah, a glass of wine might be in my future. But first, I’m going to take a quick detour. A detour that could probably get me in a lot of trouble.
4
LANGDON JAMES closes his eyes for just a moment and raises his face to the sun shining down on the backyard cocktail party. In these moments, with a slight buzz from the gin and the elite of Southampton surrounding him, he likes to pretend he is one of them, one of the socialites, the mega-wealthy, the trust fund babies and personal injury lawyers, the songwriters and tennis pros, the TV producers and stock speculators. He is not, of course. He wasn’t born with a silver spoon, and he was always more street-savvy than book-smart. But he has found another route to power, through a badge, and most of the time, that is enough.
There are at least a hundred people in the sprawling backyard, most of them blue bloods, all of them here to support the reelection of Town Supervisor Dawn McKittredge and her slate, but really here to be seen, to eat elaborate hors d’oeuvres served by waiters in white coats and talk about their latest acquisition or conquest. They don’t live here year-round, and the only relevance the governing authorities of the town hold for them is the rare zoning issue that may arise—water rights, land use, and the like—or in Chief James’s case, the occasional drug bust or DUI or dalliance with prostitutes from Sag Harbor.
“Nice day, Chief.”
Langdon turns to see John Sulzman. He’s had a place on the ocean in Bridgehampton, a tiny hamlet incorporated within Southampton, for over a decade now. Sulzman made his money in hedge funds and now spends half his time in DC and Albany, lobbying legislatures and cutting deals. His net worth, according to a New York Post article Langdon read last year, is upwards of half a billion. Sulzman’s on his third marriage—to the lovely Paige—and what appears to be his third or fourth Scotch, judging from the slurring of his words. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the collar open and white slacks. He is overweight, with a round weathered face and a full head of hair if you count the toupee, one of the better ones Langdon has seen, but still—don’t these guys realize eve
rybody knows?
“John,” says the chief.
“I understand Noah Walker is in custody,” says Sulzman, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “I understand you were there, personally.”
“I was.” The chief takes a sip of his gin. No lime, no tonic, no stirrer. To all appearances, he could be drinking ice water, which is the point.
“I saw the police report,” says Sulzman. “What was in it, and what was not.”
His wife, he means. The chief didn’t mention Paige in the police report, thus concealing her presence from the media. John Sulzman probably thinks he did it to curry favor, but he didn’t. There was no need to include her. She had nothing to do with the arrest, other than being a bystander.
But if Sulzman sees it as a favor—well, there are worse things.
“It’s not a well-kept secret that you have your eyes on the sheriff’s job, Chief.”
Langdon doesn’t answer. But Sulzman is right. The Suffolk County sheriff is retiring, and it would be a nice cap-off to Langdon’s law enforcement career.
Sulzman raises his glass in acknowledgment. “Ambition is what makes the world go round. It’s what drives men to excel at their jobs.”
“I always try to do my best,” says the chief.
“And I try to reward those who do.” Sulzman takes a long drink and breathes out with satisfaction. “If Noah Walker is convicted, I’ll consider you to have excelled at your job. And I’ll be eager to support your next endeavor. Are you familiar with my fund-raising efforts, Chief?”
It so happens that the chief is. But he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I can raise millions for you. Or I could raise millions for your opponent.”
“And who would my opponent be?” The chief looks at Sulzman.
Sulzman shrugs and cocks his head. “Whoever I want it to be.” He taps the chief’s arm. “And do you know who else is familiar with my fund-raising efforts? Our town supervisor. Your boss.”
Chief James takes another sip of his gin. “Would that be a threat?”
“A threat? No, Chief. A promise. If Noah Walker goes free, there will be people in this community—maybe I’ll be one of them—who will call for your head.”
John Sulzman is not known for his subtlety. When you’re worth five hundred million dollars, you probably don’t have to be. So if Noah is convicted, the chief is a lock to be the next sheriff. If Noah walks, the chief can kiss his current job, and any future in law enforcement, good-bye.
“Noah Walker is going to be convicted,” says the chief, “because he’s guilty.”
“Of course he is.” Sulzman nods. “Of course.”
This conversation should be over. It never should have started, but it should definitely end now. A guy like Sulzman is smart enough to know that.
And yet Sulzman hasn’t left. He has something else to say.
“There’s a…new officer on the case?” he asks. “A woman?”
The chief whips his head over to Sulzman.
“Your niece,” says Sulzman, clearly pleased with himself for the knowledge he’s obtained, and happy to throw it in the chief’s face. “Jenna Murphy.”
“Jenna’s not on the case,” says the chief. “She handled the arrest, that’s all.”
“I only mention it because I understand she had some issues with the NYPD,” says Sulzman.
“The only ‘issue’ she had is she’s an honest cop,” Langdon snaps. “Truth is, the day she arrived, she was the best cop on our force. She’s as smart as they come, and she’s tough and honest, and she wouldn’t put up with corruption she found in Manhattan. She wouldn’t go along with dirty cops, and she wouldn’t look the other way.”
Sulzman nods and purses his lips.
“It’s not her case, John,” says the chief.
Sulzman appraises the chief, looking him up and down, then square in the eye. “I just care about the result,” he says. “Make it happen. Make sure Noah Walker goes into a very deep hole. Or there will be…consequences.”
“Noah Walker is going into a hole because—”
“Because he’s guilty,” says Sulzman. “Yes, I know. I know, Lang. Just…don’t forget this conversation. You want me as a friend, not an enemy.”
With that, John Sulzman makes his exit, joining some acquaintances under the shade of the tent. Chief Langdon James watches him leave, then decides he’s had enough of this party.
5
AS THE funeral for Melanie Phillips ends, I say good-bye to my partner, Detective Isaac Marks, without telling him where I’m going. He doesn’t need to know, and I don’t know if he’d keep the information to himself. I’m not yet sure where his loyalties lie, and I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with the NYPD.
I decide to walk, heading south from the cemetery toward the Atlantic. I always underestimate the distance to the ocean, but it’s a nice day for a walk, even if a little steamy. And I enjoy the houses just south of Main Street along this road, the white-trimmed Cape Cods with cedar shingles whose colors have grown richer with age from all the precipitation that comes with proximity to the ocean. Some are bigger, some are newer, but these houses generally look the same, which I find comforting and a little creepy at the same time.
As I get closer to the ocean, the plots of land get wider, the houses get bigger, and the privacy shrubs flanking them get taller. I stop when I reach shrubbery that’s a good ten feet high. I know I’ve found the place because the majestic wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway, which are slightly parted, are adorned with black-and-yellow tape that says CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.
I slide between the gates without breaking the seal. I start up the driveway, but it curves off to some kind of carriage house up a hill. So I take the stone path that will eventually lead me to the front door.
In the center of the wide expanse of grass, just before it slopes dramatically upward, there is a small stone fountain, with a monument jutting up that bears a crest and an inscription. I lean over the fountain to take a closer look. The small tablet of stone features a bird in the center, with a hooked beak and a long tail feather, encircled by little symbols, each of which appears to be the letter X, but which upon closer inspection is a series of crisscrossing daggers.
And then, ka-boom.
It hits me, the rush, the pressure in my chest, the stranglehold to my throat, I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I’m weightless. Help me, somebody please help me—
I stagger backward, almost losing my balance, and suck in a deep, delicious breath of air.
“Wow,” I say into the warm breeze. Easy, girl. Take it easy. I wipe greasy sweat from my forehead and inhale and exhale a few more times to slow my pulse.
Beneath the monument’s crest, carved into the stone in a thick Gothic font, are these words:
Cecilia, O Cecilia
Life was death disguised
Okay, that’s pretty creepy. I take a photo of the monument with my smartphone. Now front and center before the house, I take my first good look.
The mansion peering down at me from atop the hill is a Gothic structure of faded multicolored limestone. It has a Victorian look to it, with multiple rooflines, all of them steeply pitched, fancy turrets, chimneys grouped at each end. There are elaborate medieval-style accents on the facade. Every peak is topped with an ornament that ends in a sharp point, like spears aimed at the gods. The windows are long and narrow, clover-shaped, with stained glass. The house is like one gigantic, imperious frown.
I’ve heard some things about this house, read some things, even passed by it many times, but seeing it up close like this sends a chill through me.
It is part cathedral and part castle. It is a scowling, menacing, imposing structure, both regal and haunting, almost romantic in its gloom.
All it’s missing is a drawbridge and a moat filled with crocodiles.
This is 7 Ocean Drive. This is what they call the Murder House.
This isn’t your case, I remind myself. This isn
’t your problem.
This could cost you your badge, girl.
I start up the hill toward the front door.
6
I’M TRANSPORTED back hundreds of years, to a time when you rode by horseback or carriage, when you lived by candlelight and torches, when you treated infections with leeches.
When I close the front door of the house at 7 Ocean Drive, the sound echoes up to the impossibly high, rounded ceiling, decorated with an ornate fresco of winged angels and naked women and bearded men in flowing robes, all of them appearing to reach toward something, or maybe toward one another.
The second anteroom is as chilling and dated as the first, with patterned tile floors and more of the arched, Old Testament ceilings, antique furniture, gold-framed portraits on the walls of men dressed in ruffled shirts and long coats, wigs of wavy white hair and sharply angled hats—formalwear, circa 1700.
The guy who built this place, the patriarch of the family, a guy named Winston Dahlquist, apparently didn’t have a sense of humor.
My heels echo on the hardwood floor as I enter the airy foyer rising up three stories to the roof. Every step I take elicits a reaction from this house, fleeting coughs and groans.
“Hello,” I say, like a child might, the sound returning to me faintly.
The stairs up to the second floor are winding and predictably creaky. The house continues to call out from parts unseen, aches and hiccups and wheezes, a centuries-old creature drawing long, labored breaths.
When I reach the landing, it seizes me again, stealing the air from my lungs, pressing against my chest, blinding me, No, please! Please, please, stop—
—high-pitched childlike squeals, uncontrollable laughter—
Please don’t, please don’t do this to me.
I grasp the banister so I don’t fall back down the stairs. I open my eyes and raise my face, panting for air, until my heartbeat finally decelerates.
“Get a grip, Murphy.” I pass through ornate double doors to the second-floor hallway, where the smell greets me immediately, the coppery odor of spilled blood, the overpowering, putrid scent of decay. I walk along a thick red carpet, the walls papered with red and gold, as I approach the bedroom where Zach Stern and Melanie Phillips took their last breaths.