Private: #1 Suspect by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page B

me?
    Had Tommy caught her by surprise, backed her into the house, made her lie down on the bed? Maybe Colleen went for my gun—she knew where it was. But she wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. The gun was snatched out of her hand. And she was shot three times.
    Did Tommy really do that?
    Another set of images spooled out in my mind’s eye.
    In this scenario someone had been tailing me .
    Say he was watching when I left Colleen’s hotel room the week before. He knew me. He knew Colleen. He wished me harm, and he’d come up with a plan.
    I saw Tommy.
    Let’s just say he’d kept his eye on Colleen while I was in Europe. At some point in that four-day period, he’d kidnapped her, and an hour before I was due to land at LAX, he’d restrained her somehow and driven her to my house. He’d used her gate key, pressed her finger to the biometric lock…
    My thoughts were interrupted by a car door slamming behind me. I heard the cop walking back to my car.
    The flashlight beam was pointed at my face again as he handed me my identification.
    “Mr. Morgan, do you know why I stopped you?”
    “No. I live here. You know that, right? This is my house.”
    “This is a crime scene. Why are you here?”
    “I need a change of clothes.”
    “That’s not happening, Mr. Morgan.”
    “Okay,” I said. I started up the engine. It roared.
    But the cop wasn’t letting me go. Not yet. He scrutinized my face from behind his light.
    I understood why he’d stopped me.
    The cops were watching my house in case the killer came back to the scene of the crime.
    The cop looked at me as if that was just what I’d done.

CHAPTER 47
     
    JINX POOLE’S FLAGSHIP hotel was set like a diamond tiara at the top of the intersection of South Santa Monica and Wilshire.
    I drove my Lambo around the generous, curving driveway to the front doors of the Beverly Hills Sun, handed my car keys to the valet, and went directly through the busy marble-lined lobby to the elevator bank.
    A gang of partygoers broke around me, and when they had dispersed, I got into the elevator. I leaned against a cool stone-paneled wall as it rose to the fifth floor, where Marcus Bingham had been strangled to death and where I was staying until my house was mine again.
    I headed toward my room, but instead of going in, on impulse I opened the fire door and walked up a flight of stairs to the bar on the roof.
    The air was cooling down, and looping strands of pin lights twinkled like stars, illuminating a scene rich with possibilities of sex with a stranger or maybe even romance.
    A jazz trio was playing “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” at the far end of the deck, the music wafting across the swimming pool. Couples flirted at the bar, leaned toward  each other on the chaises around the pool. Flaps were closed on the white canvas cabanas.
    I stood at the edge of all this hazy, hedonistic optimism, then took a seat at the freestanding bar. I asked the bartender, “What am I having?”
    He looked at me, then answered by pouring me a double Chivas straight up.
    I’m not a big-time drinker. But if I ever needed hard liquor, this was the night.
    I lowered my head so that there was no mistaking my purpose at the bar. I didn’t want company. I wanted oblivion.
    But I felt someone’s eyes on me. When I looked up, a woman at the end of the bar was staring at me intently. She was in her late twenties, dark hair tied back into a ponytail, the lines of her slight frame camouflaged by loose clothing that was too dark for California and too big for her.
    The woman looked familiar, but I didn’t know her. I looked away, got the bartender’s attention, and ordered another double.
    When I looked up from my drink a few minutes later, the woman was gone.

CHAPTER 48
     
    TWO YOUNG BUSINESS guys in neon-colored shirts sat down in the empty seats at the end of the bar. They ordered screwdrivers, talked about the stock market and their shrinking expense accounts that wouldn’t cover a free