“Don’t hurt her!” Noah says. “She didn’t do any—”
“Noah, you resist me again and I’ll put you in the hospital.” The redhead puts her foot on his chest. Despite his predicament, and the pain drumming through his head, and the fear gripping his heart, he registers this cop for the first time, her striking ice-blue eyes, her shiny red hair pulled back, her confidence.
“What—what is this?” he manages. His initial reaction of relief—nobody’s going to kill him—is short-lived, especially with the crew of cops flooding in from the back now. Ten officers, he guesses, all wearing bulletproof vests and heavily armed.
Why?
“You don’t have the right to do this!” Paige shouts from the other room. It comes out as half protest, half lecture, the kind of thing a person with money would say, someone who doesn’t shrink in the face of the cops like others might.
About the only thing Noah can see, through his blurred vision, is the female cop staring down at him. He’s in his underwear, flat on his back with her foot on his chest and a pretty good shiner developing from the kick to his face. But hearing Paige’s cry sets off something within him.
“This is my home,” he hisses, his hands forming into fists. “You have a problem with me, knock on my door and tell me.”
“We have a problem with you, Noah,” she says. “Feel better?”
Noah’s eyes catch Detective Isaac Marks, whom Noah has known for years, going back to school days. Marks doesn’t give much of a reaction, save for a small shrug of one shoulder.
The redhead orders Noah to roll over. She cuffs him and yanks him to his feet. The sudden movement, coupled with the concussive effects from the kick to his face, leaves Noah’s legs unsteady.
“This is ridiculous,” he says. “Does Dr. Redmond say I took his Rolex again? Tell him to look in the couch cushions.” It wouldn’t be the first time one of the gazillionaires misplaced something and accused the help of pilfering it. A movie producer once had Noah arrested for stealing his golf clubs, only to realize later he’d left them in the trunk of his car. “And do you think you brought enough cops?”
“Is that why you rushed me with a knife?” asks the redhead. “Because you thought I wanted to question you about a watch?”
“He knows this isn’t about a Rolex.” Noah recognizes the voice before he sees Langdon James swagger into the house. He’s been the chief of the Southampton Town Police Department for over fifteen years. His jowls now hang over his collar, his belly over his belt, and his hair has gone completely gray, but he still has the baritone voice and thick sideburns.
What the hell is the chief doing here?
“Detective Murphy,” the chief says to the redhead, “take him to the station. I’ll handle the search of his house.”
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Noah demands, unable to conceal the fear choking his voice.
“Be happy to,” says the chief. “Noah Walker, you’re under arrest for the murders of Melanie Phillips and Zachary Stern.”
3
THE FUNERAL FOR Melanie Phillips is heavily attended, filling the pews of the Presbyterian church and overflowing onto Main Street. She was all of twenty years old when she was murdered, every day of which she lived in Bridgehampton. Poor girl, never got to see the world, though for some people, the place you grew up is your world. Maybe that was Melanie. Maybe all she ever wanted was to be a waitress at Tasty’s Diner, serving steamers and lobster to tourists and townies and the occasional rich couple looking to drink in the “local environment.”
But with her looks, at least from what I’ve seen in photos, she probably had bigger plans. A young woman like that, with luminous brown hair and sculpted features, could have been in magazines. That, no doubt, is why she caught the attention of Zach Stern, the head of a talent agency that included A-list celebrities, a man who owned his own jet and who liked to hang out in the Hamptons now and then.
And that, no doubt, is also why she caught the attention of Noah Walker, who apparently had quite an affinity for young Melanie himself and must not have taken too kindly to her affair with Zach.
It was only four nights ago that Zachary Stern and Melanie Phillips were found dead, victims of a brutal murder in a rental house near the beach that Zach had leased for the week. The carnage was brutal enough that Melanie’s service was closed-casket.
So the crowd is due in part to Melanie’s local popularity, and in part to the media interest, given Zach Stern’s notoriety in Hollywood.