Private: #1 Suspect by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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agreed, Tommy and I, that only one of us could have the girl. April set the terms, a kissing contest. She would be blindfolded. The best kisser would win. And there was the implied promise that the winner would take all .
We were testosterone fueled and cocky. The idea of a “kiss off” was delicious. We both thought we would win, and we never considered the consequences. It never occurred to either of us to just walk away.
The competition was on for a Saturday morning, and a dozen kids showed up at the beach behind the juice bar to cheer us on in this wicked and daring contest.
April kissed Tommy, then she kissed me. I put my whole heart into that kiss, as if I would never kiss a girl again. April picked me.
Then, best two out of three, she picked me again.
Tommy didn’t forgive April and he didn’t forgive me. Our dispute was encouraged by our father, who would favor one of us, then, for no reason we could see or understand, favor the other. He was unpredictable and cruel.
Our bitterness escalated, got dirty, got physical, and lived on after April Lundon was in college, married, a mother of four. Continued even after my father gave me fifteen million dollars and the keys to Private.
Continued even after he was dead.
So there was bad history between Tommy and me, but could he, would he, get revenge by committing murder?
I thought he was capable of it.
But I didn’t know if he had done it.
I stared through Sci and Justine, thinking that I’d go to his office, drag him out, do whatever it took to get him to talk.
I called to Cody, “I need Del Rio and Cruz. Now.”
But Justine reached across my desk and put a hand on my arm.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait until you have enough evidence to box Tommy in.”
CHAPTER 45
JACK MORGAN’S multimillion-dollar crime lab took up the entire lower level of Private: twenty thousand square feet of cutting-edge forensic laboratory, regarded as one of the top independent labs in the country. A service for Private clients, Private’s lab was also a profit center, hired by police departments across the country when they needed fast results and only the most advanced technology would do.
Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, Private’s own Dr. Sci, was the proud head of this lab, but right now he and Mo-bot were in Mo’s office, a dark cave of a room that Mo liked to call her “cozy hole.” She was burning incense, had scarves draped over the lamps, and photos of her husband and kids saved screens on the dozen computer monitors banked above her desktop.
The local news was on video six, tight close-up of a talking head reporting on the sensational “Murder in Malibu.”
Sci reclined and rocked in a swivel chair, but Mo was on the edge of her seat, visibly angry and agitated. An accomplished warrior on a multilevel, real-time online combat game, Mo sometimes felt the lines blur between game and reality.
The feeling was coming over her, that rush of being in a warrior frame of mind.
As she watched the reporter speak to the camera, Mo assumed her avatar’s personality, thought about weapons in her arsenal, and assembled her virtual army.
The reporter staring back through the screen was Randi Turner, who had been a fixture on Channel 9 for the past couple of years. Turner said to the camera’s eye, “Jack Morgan, CEO of Private Investigations, is widely viewed as the prime suspect in the murder of his former lover and personal assistant Colleen Molloy.”
Pictures of Jack flashed on the screen, and then shots of Jack, his arm around Colleen, running through rain from a restaurant marquee to his car. After that, there was a film clip of them at a Hollywood party, whispering and laughing.
Turner spoke throughout the slide show.
Turner said, “Jack Morgan’s father was the late Thomas Morgan, convicted of extortion and murder in 2003, died in prison in 2006. Like his father, Jack Morgan is said to have links to organized crime.”
Mo had had enough.
She sprang up from
We were testosterone fueled and cocky. The idea of a “kiss off” was delicious. We both thought we would win, and we never considered the consequences. It never occurred to either of us to just walk away.
The competition was on for a Saturday morning, and a dozen kids showed up at the beach behind the juice bar to cheer us on in this wicked and daring contest.
April kissed Tommy, then she kissed me. I put my whole heart into that kiss, as if I would never kiss a girl again. April picked me.
Then, best two out of three, she picked me again.
Tommy didn’t forgive April and he didn’t forgive me. Our dispute was encouraged by our father, who would favor one of us, then, for no reason we could see or understand, favor the other. He was unpredictable and cruel.
Our bitterness escalated, got dirty, got physical, and lived on after April Lundon was in college, married, a mother of four. Continued even after my father gave me fifteen million dollars and the keys to Private.
Continued even after he was dead.
So there was bad history between Tommy and me, but could he, would he, get revenge by committing murder?
I thought he was capable of it.
But I didn’t know if he had done it.
I stared through Sci and Justine, thinking that I’d go to his office, drag him out, do whatever it took to get him to talk.
I called to Cody, “I need Del Rio and Cruz. Now.”
But Justine reached across my desk and put a hand on my arm.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait until you have enough evidence to box Tommy in.”
CHAPTER 45
JACK MORGAN’S multimillion-dollar crime lab took up the entire lower level of Private: twenty thousand square feet of cutting-edge forensic laboratory, regarded as one of the top independent labs in the country. A service for Private clients, Private’s lab was also a profit center, hired by police departments across the country when they needed fast results and only the most advanced technology would do.
Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, Private’s own Dr. Sci, was the proud head of this lab, but right now he and Mo-bot were in Mo’s office, a dark cave of a room that Mo liked to call her “cozy hole.” She was burning incense, had scarves draped over the lamps, and photos of her husband and kids saved screens on the dozen computer monitors banked above her desktop.
The local news was on video six, tight close-up of a talking head reporting on the sensational “Murder in Malibu.”
Sci reclined and rocked in a swivel chair, but Mo was on the edge of her seat, visibly angry and agitated. An accomplished warrior on a multilevel, real-time online combat game, Mo sometimes felt the lines blur between game and reality.
The feeling was coming over her, that rush of being in a warrior frame of mind.
As she watched the reporter speak to the camera, Mo assumed her avatar’s personality, thought about weapons in her arsenal, and assembled her virtual army.
The reporter staring back through the screen was Randi Turner, who had been a fixture on Channel 9 for the past couple of years. Turner said to the camera’s eye, “Jack Morgan, CEO of Private Investigations, is widely viewed as the prime suspect in the murder of his former lover and personal assistant Colleen Molloy.”
Pictures of Jack flashed on the screen, and then shots of Jack, his arm around Colleen, running through rain from a restaurant marquee to his car. After that, there was a film clip of them at a Hollywood party, whispering and laughing.
Turner spoke throughout the slide show.
Turner said, “Jack Morgan’s father was the late Thomas Morgan, convicted of extortion and murder in 2003, died in prison in 2006. Like his father, Jack Morgan is said to have links to organized crime.”
Mo had had enough.
She sprang up from
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