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  THIS HOUSE WILL COST YOU … YOUR LIFE.

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  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 owed in part to Melanie’s local popularity, and in part to the media interest, given Zach Stern’s notoriety in Hollywood.

  It is also due, I am told, to the fact that the murders occurred at 7 Ocean Drive, which among the locals has become known as the Murder House.

  Now we’ve moved to the burial, which is just next door to the church. It allows the throng that couldn’t get inside the church to mill around the south end of the cemetery, where Melanie Phillips will be laid to rest. There must be three hundred people here, if you count the media, which for the most part are keeping a respectful distance even while they snap their photographs.

  The overhead sun at midday is strong enough for squinting and sunglasses, both of which make it harder for me to do what I came here to do, which is to check out the people attending the funeral to see if anyone pings my radar. Some of these creeps like to come and watch the sorrow they caused, so it’s standard operating procedure to scan the crowd at crime scenes and funerals.

  “Remind me why we’re here, Detective Murphy,” says my partner, Isaac Marks.

  “I’m paying my respects.”

  “You didn’t know Melanie,” he says.

  True enough. I don’t know anyone around here. Once upon a time, my family came here every summer, a good three-week stretch straddling June and July, to stay with Uncle Langdon and Aunt Chloe. My memories of those summers—beaches and boat rides and fishing off the docks—end at age seven.

  For some reason I never knew, my family stopped coming after that. Until nine months ago when I joined the force, I hadn’t set foot in the Hamptons for eighteen years.

  “I’m working on my suntan,” I say.

  “Not to mention,” says Isaac, ignoring my remark, “that we already have our bad guy in custody.”

  Also true. We arrested Noah Walker yesterday. He’ll get a bond hearing tomorrow, but there’s no way the judge is going to bond him out on a double murder.

  “And might I further add,” says Isaac, “that this isn’t even your case.”

  Right again. I volunteered to lead the team arresting Noah, but I wasn’t given the case. In fact, the chief—my aforementioned uncle Langdon—is handling the matter personally. The town, especially the hoity-toity millionaires along the beach, just about busted a collective gut when the celebrity agent Zach Stern was brutally murdered in their scenic little hamlet. It’s the kind of case that could cost the chief his job, if he isn’t careful. I’m told the town supervisor has been calling him on the hour for updates.

  So why am I here, at a funeral for someone I don’t know, on a case that isn’t mine? Because I’m bored. Because since I left the NYPD, I haven’t seen any action. And because I’ve handled more homicides in eight years on the force than all of these cops in Bridgehampton put together. Translation: I wanted the case, and I was a little displeased when I didn’t get it.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, gesturing across the way to an odd-looking man in a green cap, with long stringy hair and ratty clothes. Deep-set, creepy eyes that seem to wander. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still.

  Isaac pushes down his sunglasses to get a better look. “Oh, that’s Aiden Willis,” he says. “He works for the church. Probably dug Melanie’s grave.”

  “Looks like he slept in it first.”

  Isaac likes that. “Seriously, Murphy. You’re looking for suspects? With all you know about this case, which is diddly-squat, you don’t like Noah Walker for the murders?”

  “I’m not saying that,” I answer.

  “You’re not denying it, either.”

  I consider that. He’s right, of course. What the hell do I know about Noah Walker or the evidence against him? He may not have jumped out at me as someone who’d just committed a brutal double murder, but when do public faces ever match private misdeeds? I once busted a second-grade schoolteacher who was selling heroin to the high school kids. And a candy striper who was boning the corpses in the basement of the hospital. You never know people. And I’d known Noah Walker for all of thirty minutes.

  “Go home,” says Isaac. “Go work out—”

  Already did this morning.

  “—or see the ocean—”

  I’ve seen it already. It’s a really big body of water.

  “—or have a drink.”

  Yeah, a glass of wine might be in my future. But first, I’m going to take a quick detour. A detour that could probably get me in a lot of trouble.

  AS THE FUNERAL for Melanie Phillips ends, I say goodbye to my partner, Detective Isaac Marks, without telling him where I’m going. He doesn’t need to know, and I don’t know if he’d keep the information to himself. I’m not yet sure where his loyalties lie, and I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with the NYPD.

  I decide to walk, heading south from the cemetery toward the Atlantic. I always underestimate the distance to the ocean, but it’s a nice day for a walk, even if a little steamy. And I enjoy the houses just south of Main Street along this road, the white-trimmed Cape Cods with cedar shingles whose colors have grown richer with age from all the precipitation that comes with proximity to the ocean. Some are bigger, some are newer, but these houses generally look the same, which I find both comforting and a little creepy.

  As I get closer to the ocean, the plots of land get wider, the houses get bigger, and the privacy shrubs flanking them get taller. I stop when I reach shrubbery that’s a good ten feet high. I know I’ve found the place because the majestic wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway, which are slightly parted, are adorned with black-and-yellow tape that says crime scene do not cross.

  I slide between the gates without breaking the seal. I start up the driveway, but it curves off to some kind of carriage house up a hill, which once upon a time probably served as a stable for the horses and possibly the servants’ quarters. So I take the stone path that will eventually lead me to the front door.

  In the center of the wide expanse of grass, just before it slopes dramatically upward, there is a small stone fountain, with a monument jutting up that bears a crest and an inscription. I lean over the fountain to take a closer look. The small tablet of stone features a bird in the center, with a hooked beak and a long tail feather, encircled by little symbols, each of which appears to be the
letter X, but which upon closer inspection is a series of crisscrossing daggers.

  And then, ka-boom.

  It hits me, the rush, the pressure in my chest, the stranglehold to my throat, I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I’m weightless. Help me, somebody please help me—

  I stagger backward, almost losing my balance, and suck in a deep, delicious breath of air.

  “Wow,” I say into the warm breeze. Easy, girl. Take it easy. I wipe greasy sweat from my forehead and inhale and exhale a few more times to slow my pulse.

  Beneath the monument’s crest, carved into the stone in a thick Gothic font, are these words:

  Cecilia, O Cecilia

  Life was death disguised

  Okay, that’s pretty creepy. I take a photo of the monument with my smartphone. Now front and center before the house, I take my first good look.

  The mansion peering down at me from atop the hill is a Gothic structure of faded multicolored limestone. It has a Victorian look to it, with multiple rooflines, all of them steeply pitched, fancy turrets, chimneys grouped at each end. There are elaborate medieval-style accents on the facade. Every peak is topped with an ornament that ends in a sharp point, like spears aimed at the gods. The windows are long and narrow, clover-shaped, with stained glass. The house is like one gigantic, imperious frown.

  I’ve heard some things about this house, read some things, even passed by it many times, but seeing it up close like this sends a chill through me.

  It is part cathedral and part castle. It is a scowling, menacing, imposing structure, both regal and haunting, almost romantic in its gloom.

  All it’s missing is a drawbridge and a moat filled with crocodiles.

  This is 7 Ocean Drive. This is what they call the Murder House.

  This isn’t your case, I remind myself. This isn’t your problem.

  This could cost you your badge, girl.

  I start up the hill toward the front door.

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  Version 1.0

  Private Sydney

  9780857987105

  First published by Century Australia in 2015

  Copyright © James Patterson, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A Century book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  Random House Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com/offices.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: (ebook: epub)

  Patterson, James, 1947- author.

  Private Sydney/James Patterson, Kathryn Fox.

  ISBN 978 0 85798 710 5 (ebook: epub)

  Missing persons – Investigation – Fiction.

  Detective and mystery stories.

  Other Creators/Contributors: Fox, Kathryn, 1966- author.

  813.54

  Cover photography © iStock/Getty Images/Blue Cork

  Cover design © blacksheep-uk.com

  Ebook by Firstsource