The Murder House

  “The defendant told Melanie he loved her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he asked Melanie to give him another chance?”

  “Yeah, he said, ‘Give me another chance.’ And she said it was over.”

  “She said it was over?” The prosecutor leans in, like the testimony is just getting interesting. “Did the defendant say anything else that you heard?”

  “Yeah, he said, ‘You don’t just walk away from me.’ He, like, grabbed her when he said it.”

  “He…grabbed her where?”

  “Like, by the arm. She dropped a dish when he done it, too.”

  “He grabbed her arm and said, ‘You don’t just walk away from me’?”

  “Right.”

  “And this took place just two days before Melanie was found dead?”

  “Yeah, it sure did.”

  Sebastian Akers shakes his head, as if he’s hearing this testimony for the first time and can’t believe how damning it is. “No further questions,” he says.

  17

  WEEK TWO of the Noah Walker murder trial. My first day attending, but it’s packed wall-to-wall, as it’s apparently been every day since it began. The Suffolk County Sheriff’s Office has started a lottery for the general public’s admission and a separate one for the media, though if you’re a reporter, not drawing a lucky ticket just means you go to a spillover room down the hall to watch the trial on a closed-circuit television. Even coppers like me have a hard time getting in, but I know Rusty the bailiff—that’s a good name for a bailiff, Rusty—so I got a spot in the fourth row, jammed between an older guy and a young woman wearing too much perfume.

  I have a couple of days off after we completed our nine-week sting operation on the heroin trafficking, taking down over twenty people throughout Long Island, most notably a school principal at a private school in Montauk. I didn’t have anything else to do, so after my five-mile run this morning, I decided to clean up and come see “Surfer Jesus” for myself.

  There he is at the defense table, scratching his beard and whispering to his defense lawyer. The press was initially intrigued with the story because Zach Stern was a victim and it happened in the Hamptons, but Noah himself has now become as interesting as anything else to the talking heads on the evening cable channels—his swarthy good looks, for one, and also his rebellious attitude, refusing to wear a suit to court, opting instead for the desert-islander look with a white shirt and blue jeans.

  Taking the stand is a man named Dio Cornwall, an African American in his midtwenties with a long skinny neck and braids pulled tight against his head. He’s awaiting trial for armed robbery and had the pleasure of sharing a cell with Noah Walker during the week following Noah’s arrest, before Noah bonded out.

  “It woulda been the second, maybe third night,” says Cornwall. “Guy just starts talkin’, is all. Didn’t need to ask him or nothin’. Just started talkin’.”

  “And what exactly did he say about it?” asks the prosecutor, Sebastian Akers, who could double as a Ken doll.

  “Says she got hers.” Cornwall shrugs. “Says the woman got hers.”

  “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  “Yeah. He says, ‘No bitch gonna leave me.’ He says, ‘I cut her up good. Can’t be no movie star now.’”

  Oof. That’s not good for Noah. But then, nothing’s gone that well for Noah, from what I’ve read and heard on TV.

  I look at him, huddling with his lawyer, and again feel something swim in my stomach. When I met him, I made him for a guy who’d grown up rough, and who didn’t hold the police department in high esteem, and yeah, someone I might like for a B-and-E or maybe an assault-and-battery. But a brutal killer? He just didn’t ping my radar that way.

  But it doesn’t matter what I think anymore. It matters what twelve jurors think. The opening witness had Noah hounding Melanie at the restaurant where she worked, begging her to take him back and threatening her when she wouldn’t. The forensics came next. The knife found in Noah’s kitchen had traces of both Zach’s and Melanie’s DNA. A forensic pathologist testified that the knife had a slight jag in the tip that matched some of the cuts found on the victims.

  There was no doubt, in other words, that the knife they found in Noah’s house was the murder weapon.

  And now this guy, Cornwall, the second person to attribute incriminating statements to Noah.

  “When he said ‘No bitch gonna leave me,’ and that she ‘can’t be no movie star now,’ did the defendant identify this woman by name?”

  “Melanie,” says Cornwall. “He said her name was Melanie.”

  Sebastian Akers nods and looks over at the jury box. Strong testimony for the prosecution, no doubt, but still—this guy Cornwall is no different than the first witness, a jailhouse snitch who’d probably sell out his grandmother to shave some time off his sentence.

  Which makes the final witness all the more crucial for the case. The witness being my uncle, Chief Langdon James, the one who found the knife in Noah’s kitchen, and the one to whom Noah Walker confessed his guilt. Without the chief, there’s the knife and two cons who’d say just about anything.

  After the chief’s done testifying, Noah Walker will be toast.

  18

  LANGDON JAMES takes a hit off his joint and squints through the smoke at the cable news show, where four well-dressed lawyers are talking over one another, arguing about the merits of Dio Cornwall’s testimony and the overall strength of the prosecution’s case against “Surfer Jesus.”

  “If I’m Noah Walker’s lawyer, my argument is that the prosecution’s case is bought and paid for,” says one. “Remy Handleman and Dio Cornwall are criminals who would say or do anything to save their own necks.”

  “But the case isn’t over, Roger. The chief of police will testify tomorrow—”

  With that, the chief sees his image on TV, a stock photograph taken of him over ten years—and forty pounds—ago, walking outside headquarters, his sunglasses on, hands on his hip, head profiled to the right.

  God, where did the years go? That was a different time, in so many ways. That was before Chloe left. That was back when the job was still new to Lang, when he still considered it an honor, even a thrill, to wear the badge.

  That was back when his niece, Jenna, still looked up to him, following his career path into law enforcement. He remembers all those nights when Jenna was still a young girl, after her father and brother died, when she would sit with Lang, how her eyes would widen as she listened to his tales of cops and robbers, good guys and bad, fighting for truth and justice. He remembers the swell of pride he felt on Jenna’s first day at the academy, when he looked at her, eager to one day don a uniform and make the world a safer place.

  The chief clicks off the TV and rubs his eyes. She’s a good kid, Jenna. He wishes they hadn’t clashed over Noah Walker. After all, she did what any good cop should do—pick up a scent and follow it—and he shot her down when she started to question Walker’s guilt.

  He hated doing it, dousing her flame that way. But as good a cop as she is—she has more instinct in her pinkie finger than most cops will ever have in their whole bodies—she doesn’t always see the bigger picture. Noah Walker is guilty. He’s sure of it. Rules and procedure and evidence aside, at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.

  Is the dead hooker’s murder in the woods linked to the murders at 7 Ocean Drive? He doubts it. Hell, Jenna didn’t even know for sure—it was just a hunch, an itch she was scratching. But he makes himself this promise: He will follow that lead—soon. Just not now. Not when Noah’s defense attorney could play with it. After Noah is convicted, he’ll personally check it out.

  “Oh, Jenna,” he mumbles to himself. Maybe she never should have come back here. The nightmares, the drinking—yes, he’s noticed how much she drinks—it all kicked in since she came back here. Is that just a coincidence?

  No, it can’t be a coincidence.

  Seven hours. He remembers it well. If
there were seven hours in all the world he could remove, erase completely, it would be those seven hours from Jenna’s life.

  Seven hours of hell.

  And her mother never let Jenna set foot in the Hamptons again.

  Until she came back as an adult, to be a cop.

  And he let her do it. He thought he was helping her, after she got run out of Manhattan. He thought he was doing a good thing.

  He pushes away his notes on tomorrow’s testimony. He’s testified a hundred times in court. He knows the drill, the flow of the questioning, the way to frame his answers, the phrases to avoid, the importance of maintaining the appropriate demeanor. He stamps out the remainder of the joint, feeling a little stoned but not wanting to take it too far tonight, with the big day tomorrow. Seems like these days, he’s always seeking some kind of lubricant to get through the evenings.

  He kicks his feet off the bed and heads for the kitchen, for a glass of Beefeater. Just one glass tonight, no more, especially after smoking so much—

  Something…something is wrong.

  A shudder runs through him. He reaches the threshold of the kitchen before he realizes that the something—a change in the pressure, a creak in the floor, a foreign heat source—is behind him, not in front.

  He turns back just as the figure steps into the hallway from the bathroom. A man wearing a full mask, though Halloween is still weeks away.

  “Wait,” the chief says as he sees the weapon rising, training on him. “Wait, just hold on, let’s—”

  He feels the sharp pinch, the pure heat in his left upper thigh, an instant before he hears the thwip from the gun’s suppressor. He doubles over but keeps his balance, yells, “Wait!” before another bullet tears through his left biceps. The momentum spins him around, and this time he loses his balance, falling to his hands and knees, crawling like a wounded dog away from his predator, who takes slow, deliberate steps behind him, tracking him.

  The chief makes it into the kitchen, pushing off with his good arm and good leg. Another bullet blows through the bottom of his foot, ricocheting off the tile, and this time the cry he lets out is gargled, and he collapses to the floor. He tells himself to keep breathing, to avoid shock, and when he finally manages a push-up, his right elbow explodes from another bullet and he’s down for good.

  The floor is spinning, everything is upside down. The intruder now casts a shadow over the chief, seeming to be in no particular hurry for this ordeal to come to an end. The chief can do nothing but hope—hope that this man just wants to hurt him and not kill him.

  The next bullet drills through his right calf. Langdon can no longer bring himself to scream.

  Silence follows, a pause. For just that moment, the chief feels a surge of hope. He’s been shot in the limbs, not the head or torso, no vital organs. Maybe the man will let him live. Maybe—

  The chief feels a foot in his ribs, a gentle nudging. And then he hears the man’s voice, slow and deliberate, icy-calm.

  “I…need a few minutes,” the man with the mask says. “Your fireplace…is really old.”

  19

  I CUP the badge in one hand and slam through the double doors with the other. There are other officers already in the emergency room, who register who I am and point down the hall with looks of apology, sympathy on their faces. The hallway feels narrow and too bright, full of people in police uniforms or surgical scrubs. Someone tries to stop me and I say, “I’m next of kin.”

  There are rooms to the left, all covered with gray-blue curtains. A gurney pops through one of them, several doctors and nurses jogging alongside it, holding bags of fluids and calling out stats to one another.

  An arm grabs me. Isaac Marks says, “They’re taking him to surgery, Murphy. He—”

  “Call Aunt Chloe,” I tell him.

  “I did already.”

  I pry my arm free and follow the doctors. “I’m his niece,” I say when they object, and I position myself between them and the elevator so they can’t stop me.

  Uncle Langdon looks foreign, ancient, a mask over his face for oxygen, a bulge in the covers by his lower torso. I take his right hand in mine. “I’m here, Lang,” I manage, yelling over the commotion.

  His hand squeezes back. The elevator opens and we all go inside. I angle between two medics who don’t resist, allowing us as private a moment as they can possibly give us.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I whisper, my face close to his.

  Lang slowly raises his arm, like he’s doing a difficult biceps curl, his hand finally reaching the oxygen mask. He pulls it down to his chin. “Jenna Rose,” he says, the words thin and whispery.

  “I’m here,” I choke out.

  “You’re…a good cop.”

  “I learned from the best.” I place my hand delicately on the top of his head, tears streaming down my face, my throat hot and full. “I’m so sorry I questioned you and said all—”

  “No.” His eyelids flutter, and his head turns ever so slightly back and forth. “Don’t ever stop…questioning…look up…Chloe…look…”

  “I will—Chloe’s on her way—”

  “Okay, we have to go!”

  The elevator doors part. I press my lips against his forehead. “You’re my favorite uncle.” I squeeze out the words through a sob.

  One side of his mouth curves just for a moment; a tear slides down his temple into his ear. “I’m your…only uncle,” he whispers.

  And then we are separated, a tug on my arm holding me back, my uncle wheeled off to surgery, my view of him narrowing as the elevator doors move toward each other and then shut.

  Not Lang, I think. Not Lang, too. No. Please, no.

  When the elevator doors open again, I hear Isaac Marks’s voice, talking to another cop. “Five gunshot wounds to his extremities,” he says. “And then he heated up a fireplace poker and drove it through his kidney.”

  I turn in Isaac’s direction, not looking at him, the words echoing between my ears. Shot in the extremities and speared with a poker.

  Tortured. Just like Zach Stern. Just like Melanie Phillips. Just like the prostitute impaled on the tree stump in the woods.

  “Oh, Murphy.” Isaac’s hand rests on my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t speak.

  “It’s going to be hours before he’s out of surgery, Murph. Maybe—maybe get some fresh air. Get away from this place for a while. But take the back exit. The press is gathered out front. The chief was supposed to testify tomorrow against Noah Walker.”

  Noah Walker.

  I stagger toward the rear exit, into the humid night air, where I finish the long hard cry that I started in the elevator. I don’t cry much, but when I do, it’s a heaving, gasping avalanche. I fall to my hands and knees and let it all out, the images from my childhood rushing back, Langdon holding me in his arms after Dad and Ryan died, showing up on weekends at our house in the Bronx, always with a little toy or gadget for me, always ready with stories about the bad guys he put away.

  Not Lang. Please, God, I know I’ve doubted you, but I’ll do anything now, anything at all, just please, please don’t take him away.

  And then, after some amount of time I can’t quantify, it stops. I get up and brush myself off. The soft tide of sorrow running through my chest turns hard. My senses readjust, back to alert, cop-alert. My vision clears. My nose stops running. My muscles tense.

  Noah Walker.

  I check my magazine for bullets, then reholster the weapon.

  Hours, Isaac said. That will be more than enough time. Noah Walker’s house is only a half hour away.

  I shove my star deep in my pocket. I won’t need a badge tonight.

  20

  NOAH WALKER’S house is dark. If he’s home, he’s pretending to be asleep. But he won’t have to pretend much longer, and this time he’ll never wake up.

  The night is sticky but peaceful, nothing but some stray insect sounds. I trot gingerly over the gravel driveway on the balls of my f
eet and cross around to the back of his house. There is a small yard that borders on heavy woods, an afterthought of a concrete slab with a barbecue grill covered by a hood. The back door is less secure than the front, especially after we busted through it during the arrest.

  The door comes open with minimal noise. I shine my Maglite into the back room—a couple of motorcycle helmets, an old Corona typewriter, an easel with a canvas of a seascape, boxes stuffed with clothes and knickknacks, an antique desk in the corner, some framed artwork resting against a wall.

  I move into the hallway, my flashlight and gun at eye level, moving them in tandem while I shuffle forward along the tile, surveying room after room—the kitchen, the foyer, the living room.

  I stop. Listen. The house groans. The wind outside plays with the trees.

  Now the attic bedroom. The only room left.

  I try my weight on the first stair and it complains to me. I take every other step, crouched low, slowly transferring my weight onto each new stair like a spider approaching prey, keeping the light beam down.

  My eyes are now level with the second floor, my body still below it. I listen for any sounds. There is no such thing as silence in a house. But this house, suddenly, is silent.

  I take a step up into the attic, a large open space. I throw the beam of light onto a bed right in front of me, with the covers pulled back and a pillow indented in the middle. I swing to my left when something strikes me, sharp and violent, cracking me in the cheek, knocking me sideways to the right, sending fluorescent stars through my eyelids. The Maglite skitters across the floor, sending a crazy pattern of rolling circles of light against the wall. I remain standing but unbalanced, staggering, disoriented, and all I can think is—

  Duck.

  I drop to a crouch as a force propels itself at me, over me. Noah’s lunging tackle misses me, worthy of a SportsCenter highlight, but as he sails over me, his knees connect with my shoulder and we fall awkwardly. Noah’s momentum carries him to the corner, slamming him against the wall, while I land hard on my back, my head bouncing on hardwood, the gun no longer in my hand. Everything is dancing, but there’s no time. I get to my feet just as he does. He’s like a shadow, in a fighter’s stance in a dark room, the only illumination coming from the far corner, where the Maglite has rolled to rest and shines a wide yellow circle against the back wall.