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

will have long fled the island. That’s if I’m lucky. If I’m not, I’ll end up under the sand, just like Paige Ryerson.

“It’s right over here.”

We’re at an empty stretch of beach that nobody’s gotten around to developing yet. Good palm tree cover, and an empty shack. No other inhabited buildings within shouting distance. If I’m going to be jumped and dumped, this would be the ideal place to do it.

Question is, how many punks am I going to be fighting? I’m counting on Paolo being either cheap (and hiring only one or two people) or not having many friends.

Paolo stops to turn around. “You coming, or what?”

Gradually I realize that this is not a trap, and that this lifeguard may actually know something. Paolo scans the beach, which is littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts and plastic cups—the aftermath of a party.

Paolo points at the one beer bottle that’s upside-down and sticking perfectly straight out of the sand.

“She’s here.”

Which instantly depresses me. A beer bottle for a grave marker on a strip of dirty sand? A sweet girl like Paige Ryerson didn’t deserve this. Quinn’s voice is in my head: Imagine she’s your sister. I make a silent vow to avenge her, no matter what.

Paolo looks at me expectantly. As if I’m just going to say, Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll take it from here. You go on back to the bar and have a few cold ones for me.

“I need confirmation, Paolo.”

“You didn’t say anything about digging her up.”

“Considering the number of uncut diamonds I’ve just given you, I was hoping you might throw in that service for free.”

Paolo sighs, then drops to his knees and begins to reluctantly claw at the sand with his bare hands. He’s in no hurry to dig up whatever is down there, so I get down there, too, and start helping. The sand is rough and burns my skin. But I don’t care. The faster I dig, the faster Paolo digs—he’s the kind of guy who can’t help being competitive.

We’re only a foot deep when the smell hits me. There’s no doubt—there’s a corpse right below us.

Chapter 24

THEO (continued)

She’s beneath a plastic tarp, about three feet under. The stench is overwhelming. I take shallow breaths. I’m endlessly creeped out by the knowledge that smell is transmitted by tiny microbes flying through the air and attaching themselves to the olfactory cells in my nose.

In short: I have microscopic pieces of Paige Ryerson’s dead body in my sinuses. I may never forgive Quinn for this.

After I blink the tears out of my eyes, I hold up the flashlight app on my smartphone to take a better look. (Though I would really, really rather not.) Mentally I try to compare the picture of Paige Ryerson to this…being under the tarp. I have a hard time reconciling the two. The girl has been under the sand for over a week now and the elements have not been kind.

“So…we good?” Paolo asks.

“This could be anybody,” I say.

“What, do you think I’d bring you to some random dead body? This is the girl, I’m telling you, man!”

I don’t say anything because I want to see what Paolo does next. Is he going to stick around to see what we learn about the body? Or is he going to flee the island like the guilty little jerk that he is?

I also use my phone to take a series of quick photos and text them to Quinn. (Hey, why should I be the only one having fun?) Quinn must have been waiting by his phone with breathless anticipation, because he pings me back almost instantly.

Need confirmation, he texts.

OK. Tell me how, I reply. After all, I’m no forensic science expert. I’m barely qualified to tell someone if the milk in the fridge has gone bad. Dead bodies are Jana Rose’s weird little hobby.

Look for jewelry, Quinn texts. Specifically a watch and a ring, given to Paige by her parents.

As I peel back the clear plastic tarp, Paolo starts to fidget. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be touching her, should you? I mean, if it’s a crime scene?”

“You watch too much TV, buddy.” The plastic is cold and clammy under my fingertips. I do wish I’d brought plastic gloves, just like the ones on those TV crime shows I was mocking. But on the corpse’s left wrist is indeed a sensible Marc Jacobs watch—the kind of watch proud, middle-class parents might buy for their daughter at the end of an outstanding academic year. I snap a photo and text it to Quinn.

And on the ring finger of her right hand is a petite platinum ring with a ruby heart at its center. I think about how happy and proud she must have been when she first slipped it on.

And then I think about the human monster who choked the life out of her, dragged her to this cold stretch of beach, and then chose to mark her grave with a dead soldier.

Within seconds of my sending the second photo, Quinn responds: Got your location on my phone. We’ll be right there.

The anger must be showing on my face, because Paolo is looking increasingly nervous. He’s brushing the sand from his hands and knees, slowly backing away from the scene of the body dump.

“So we’re all done here…right, man?”

“Why? Are you in a hurry, sport?”

Emotion is getting the best of me, I know. Quinn definitely wouldn’t approve. But you know what? Quinn’s not here right now. He’s not staring at Paolo, who’s been more than happy to profit from this young girl’s death. I want to take the same raw, sandy, bare hands I used to dig up Paige’s grave and squeeze his neck until his head pops off.

“Don’t look at me that way,” Paolo says. “We had a deal.”

I point at the grave. “And she had a life.”

Paolo realizes that sticking around isn’t the smartest option at this point. He jogs away, looking over his shoulder every few yards to