The Palm Beach Murders James Patterson (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

I check one game—nothing. Another—nothing. But the third box feels heavy. I lift the lid and check under the little cardboard insert that keeps the cards and tokens and whatnot in place. And yep, there it is.

Our “good faith” money.

You’ve got some brains after all, Mr. Playboy Lifeguard.

I shove the money into my jacket pockets, knowing that without it, Paolo will be staying put for the foreseeable future. Now, the other thing on my must-find list.

The clothes he was wearing the night Paige Ryerson disappeared.

From the looks of this place, our man’s not much for the Laundromat or dry cleaner’s. So they must be here somewhere.

My reference is a photo posted on social media from the night of the party. The light wasn’t very good, so I can’t tell if I’m looking for an off-white or a light-blue button-down shirt. But the swimming trunks are unmistakable: pink, with silver tarpons all over them. As if to subliminally tell the ladies that he’s a real catch?

After a few minutes of methodical searching, I start to wonder if Paolo has been as clever about his garments as he was with the good faith money. Maybe he thought ahead and threw them away or had them destroyed.…

I hear footsteps in the hall. Time’s up.

Chapter 10

QUINN

Matthew Quinn approaches the reception desk, where he finds a bored security guard who’s making $13.50 an hour to protect a billion-dollar skyscraper.

The guard glances at Quinn’s forged ID card, then up at Quinn’s face. He sees exactly what Quinn wants him to see—a white guy in his early forties, tired eyes, not exactly looking forward to a long day of hanging from a harness while he squeegees the grime off a pane of glass thirty stories above the pavement.

The guard nods. Quinn walks through.

He heads to the service elevators, because right now he’s dressed like one of the service people nobody notices. A few hours ago Quinn scoped out a blind spot not covered by security cameras and studied its dimensions until he could imagine them as clearly as his own living room.

He slips into that blind spot and begins to shed his khaki skin, walking as he transforms, swiftly and expertly. The khaki uniform goes into a black satchel that’s already strapped across his torso. It’s a Montblanc—most businessmen around here carry them or something just like them. The messy hair beneath his work cap is smoothed and parted neatly into a fashionable rakish look. Quinn’s posture changes from that of a slight, exhausted workingman to a confident, broad-shouldered businessman.

This takes all of seven seconds, tops. Quinn’s moves are as polished as a stage magician’s. Truth is, Quinn doesn’t even think about any of it very much at this point. His movements are hardwired into his nervous system.

On the other side of the blind spot, Quinn emerges as a completely different man—a handsome up-and-comer who’s got a very nice suit and even nicer bag and probably a spectacular dinner reservation somewhere this evening. He also looks nothing like the real Matthew Quinn.

Up on the thirty-sixth floor, the office suites of Paul Clee & Partners are modern and hip. There’s a falling-water display in the lobby, which is both pleasing to the eye and the source of a comforting white noise that practically forces visitors to keep their voices hushed and respectful, as if they were in church.

Somewhere down the hall Paul Clee himself is expecting Quinn, but Quinn is not going to see him.

Not yet.

He glides past the receptionist, who’s actually not a receptionist but a college intern filling in during the lunch break, which is why he chose this particular time to meet. The intern has only been here a week, so employee faces are still a little fuzzy. Quinn nods confidently and waves as if he works here; the intern nods and thinks, Crap, I should know that guy’s name, but I can’t remember.…

Quinn places himself in the conference room and dials Paul Clee’s extension.

“Mr. Clee? This is Matthew Quinn.”

“Where are you…wait—are you calling from our conference room?”

Quinn hangs up and waits. He learned a long time ago to keep his movements secret. To disguise his true identity. A person like Paul Clee may present himself as a potential client only to lure Quinn into a death trap. Better to keep them guessing at all times.

Clee appears in the doorway a few seconds later. “How did you get in here?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Clee. Have a seat.”

Mr. Clee, to his credit, does. “I wasn’t sure you would ever respond to my message. Friends told me you and your team were…picky.”

“Why reach out to us in the first place?”

“I was worried for Hannah and Brooke—they’re still in shock over the whole thing. And I was extremely fond of Paige. We just want to know what happened to her.”

“So does the FBI,” Quinn says.

“And they seem to be dragging their feet. Look, I’m not a man who’s used to waiting. If you want something done, you hire the best and get it done.”

Quinn stares at Clee. No visible emotion on his face, no reaction to the ham-handed attempt at flattery.

“Well?” Clee asks after a few uncomfortable seconds. “Are you going to take the case or not?”

“Yes. My team is already engaged.”

“Hey, that’s great!” he says, clapping his manicured hands together. “But, uh, we haven’t discussed terms or anything. How does this work?”

“We’ll take care of the details later. If you couldn’t afford our services, you would have never heard from me. But I am curious about one thing, Mr. Clee.”

“What’s that?”

“Why were you so fond of Paige? I mean, you’ve never actually met her.”

Clee stiffens. “She is a close friend of my girls, Mr. Quinn. They’re absolutely heartbroken. What father wouldn’t want to do everything possible to get to the bottom of this tragedy?”

Chapter 11

KATE (THE SOLDIER)

Matt, things are moving fast and I’m 95 percent certain that Jamie Halsey, the trust fund kid with the yacht, killed Paige Ryerson. And if that 5 percent