Read Online Natural Suspect (2001) by Phillip Margolin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Phillip Margolin
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hard into Patrick's eyes. "Don't pass out, Patrick. Your life depends on it."
Patrick was in more pain than he'd ever known in his life. But the agony took a backseat to the fear that washed over him. He nodded.
"They can do wonders with microsurgery, if you want the toe back . . . ," the clown said. "Do you remember John Wayne Bobbitt? Who had his, shall we say, unit, severed by his angry wife. They reattached that. This should make you think about the possibilities, Patrick." He held up his hand, stopping any response from Patrick, then reached down into his briefcase. He came up with a plastic bottle of hospital disinfectant, which he opened and squirted onto Patrick's maimed foot. "Now, Patrick," the clown said slowly, "I want you to calmly and carefully describe for me everything you did and heard leading up to your arrival at the Sweeney Hotel. Leave nothing out. Then I want you to pay special attention to accurately reporting what the half-drunk and extremely indiscreet attorney, Mr. Kellogg, so inappropriately told you at the Sweeney Hotel Bar. Think of this as your first real reporting assignment, Patrick. Who, what, where, when, and how. The mantra of the news profession. Safety is in the details, Patrick. Safety and what little chance you have to live through the next few minutes. Do you understand?"
Patrick nodded. He swallowed as much of the pain and fear as he could, and then carefully began to relate everything he'd heard and done that had brought him so close to death at the hands of a clown.
"Morgan?"
No answer.
"Morgy-Worgy?"
No answer again, except a deep, satisfied snore.
Sissy Hightower rose naked from the bed, leaving her husband asleep. She stepped away, turning back to stare down at Morgan the painters nude form. He had pasty, white skin, which looked to her as if it could use some time outdoors, and an unpleasantly flaccid paunch. She looked at the arms that had held her a short time earlier, and for a moment wondered if her husband had ever lifted anything heavier than a paintbrush. It was a good thing, she thought, that she had not demanded that he try to carry her over the threshold on their wedding night, because the weakling might have had a stroke. She thought the same might be true if he ever managed to extend the time of their love-making beyond thirty seconds.
She walked briskly across the bedroom, pausing only to pick up a red silk robe from a crumpled heap on the floor where her husband had tossed it in a paroxysm of sexual excitement, part of the grand total procedure of two minutes that he'd managed that particular night. She pulled the robe tightly around her near-perfect form, pausing briefly to examine herself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that did nothing but remind her that she was beautiful in every inch, nook and cranny.
"Mirror, mirror," she whispered, "on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"
She smiled, and thought: Don't answer that question. No need to.
At the door to the bedroom, she turned one more time to examine her husband. "At least you're rich," she said out loud. She took note of the empty brandy snifter that had been tossed aside, and the thick oriental carpet of their bedroom preventing it from breaking. Morgan Hightower let out another long, unpleasant snore, and shifted position. "Out like a light," she said. "A couple of drinks, a little bit of the old in-and-out, a shot-in-the-dark, and you're gone for ten, maybe twelve hours." It always astonished her how long the rich could sleep. It was as if having money made them tired. People with ambition, she thought, need less sleep.
She closed the door behind her and walked through the artist's studio, pausing only briefly to examine the portrait of her on which Morgan was working. "Can't even get my tits right," she thought. She shook her head and kept walking. There was a small, spare bedroom down the hallway, which she entered. She walked immediately to the closet and removed a battered old leather
Patrick was in more pain than he'd ever known in his life. But the agony took a backseat to the fear that washed over him. He nodded.
"They can do wonders with microsurgery, if you want the toe back . . . ," the clown said. "Do you remember John Wayne Bobbitt? Who had his, shall we say, unit, severed by his angry wife. They reattached that. This should make you think about the possibilities, Patrick." He held up his hand, stopping any response from Patrick, then reached down into his briefcase. He came up with a plastic bottle of hospital disinfectant, which he opened and squirted onto Patrick's maimed foot. "Now, Patrick," the clown said slowly, "I want you to calmly and carefully describe for me everything you did and heard leading up to your arrival at the Sweeney Hotel. Leave nothing out. Then I want you to pay special attention to accurately reporting what the half-drunk and extremely indiscreet attorney, Mr. Kellogg, so inappropriately told you at the Sweeney Hotel Bar. Think of this as your first real reporting assignment, Patrick. Who, what, where, when, and how. The mantra of the news profession. Safety is in the details, Patrick. Safety and what little chance you have to live through the next few minutes. Do you understand?"
Patrick nodded. He swallowed as much of the pain and fear as he could, and then carefully began to relate everything he'd heard and done that had brought him so close to death at the hands of a clown.
"Morgan?"
No answer.
"Morgy-Worgy?"
No answer again, except a deep, satisfied snore.
Sissy Hightower rose naked from the bed, leaving her husband asleep. She stepped away, turning back to stare down at Morgan the painters nude form. He had pasty, white skin, which looked to her as if it could use some time outdoors, and an unpleasantly flaccid paunch. She looked at the arms that had held her a short time earlier, and for a moment wondered if her husband had ever lifted anything heavier than a paintbrush. It was a good thing, she thought, that she had not demanded that he try to carry her over the threshold on their wedding night, because the weakling might have had a stroke. She thought the same might be true if he ever managed to extend the time of their love-making beyond thirty seconds.
She walked briskly across the bedroom, pausing only to pick up a red silk robe from a crumpled heap on the floor where her husband had tossed it in a paroxysm of sexual excitement, part of the grand total procedure of two minutes that he'd managed that particular night. She pulled the robe tightly around her near-perfect form, pausing briefly to examine herself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that did nothing but remind her that she was beautiful in every inch, nook and cranny.
"Mirror, mirror," she whispered, "on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"
She smiled, and thought: Don't answer that question. No need to.
At the door to the bedroom, she turned one more time to examine her husband. "At least you're rich," she said out loud. She took note of the empty brandy snifter that had been tossed aside, and the thick oriental carpet of their bedroom preventing it from breaking. Morgan Hightower let out another long, unpleasant snore, and shifted position. "Out like a light," she said. "A couple of drinks, a little bit of the old in-and-out, a shot-in-the-dark, and you're gone for ten, maybe twelve hours." It always astonished her how long the rich could sleep. It was as if having money made them tired. People with ambition, she thought, need less sleep.
She closed the door behind her and walked through the artist's studio, pausing only briefly to examine the portrait of her on which Morgan was working. "Can't even get my tits right," she thought. She shook her head and kept walking. There was a small, spare bedroom down the hallway, which she entered. She walked immediately to the closet and removed a battered old leather
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