The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2021 by James Patterson
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First Edition: March 2021
The Palm Beach Murders was first published as Let’s Play Make-Believe by Little, Brown in August 2016
Stingrays was first published as an ebook by Little, Brown in June 2017.
Nooners was first published as an ebook by Little, Brown in July 2017.
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ISBN 978-1-538-74998-2 (paperback) / 978-1-538-70445-5 (large-print paperback) / 978-1-538-75407-8 (hardcover library) / 978-1-538-75004-9 (ebook)
E3-20210224-NF-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
The Palm Beach Murders
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Nooners
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Stingrays
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
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The
Palm Beach
Murders
James Patterson
with James O. Born
Prologue
The young reporter tried to keep her eyes on the camera as it tracked past her to the mansion facing South Ocean Boulevard and the Atlantic on the island of Palm Beach. She thought back to all her journalism and broadcast classes and tried to keep calm. Even with that effort, her voice cracked when the studio anchors cut to her live.
She said, “I am here in the town of Palm Beach as the police try to sort out what has occurred at this South Ocean residence. We know that at least one person has been shot to death, and the killer is believed to be still inside, possibly with a hostage.” The young reporter threw in a few improvised lines, then hit the points the producers wanted her to make. “Police have closed this section of South Ocean, and early-morning traffic is backing up as far as the Southern Boulevard Bridge, as we wait to hear exactly what has led to the tense standoff with police on the island of Palm Beach.”
Someone off-camera was directing her to step to the side so that the early-morning sun didn’t reflect off the lens. As the camera panned to follow the young reporter, there was a growing crowd of neighbors gawking at the scene. Nothing like this had ever happened east of the intracoastal. Police activity of this nature was much more common in West Palm Beach or Riviera Beach. Most of the locals thought Palm Beach was immune to serious crime.
The reporter motioned for the camera to focus back on her and said, “We’ve heard reports that the town police chief has asked for assistance from the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office in case they have to make a forced entry into the house.”
In the background, near the front of the house, a police officer started to speak into a megaphone. The reporter stopped talking so the camera operators could pick up the audio and show the police officer crouched behind a cruiser.
“Martin Hawking, come out of the front door with your hands up and empty. No one will hurt you if you do it now.” There was about a twenty-second break. Then the police officer said, “Come out right now, Mr. Hawking.”
Chapter 1
I somehow managed to slide onto a stool at one of the prime high-top tables near the front door of the Palm Beach Grill. From here you could see the bar, get waited on easily, and keep an eye out for anyone of note who wandered through the main entrance. Landing this high-top was close to a miracle on a Friday evening at seven o’clock, when the place was clogged with Palm Beachers. Julie, the sweet and personable maître d’, stopped by, and I gave her a hug.
I needed a night out and a few laughs with my friend Lisa Martz. Like me, Lisa was going through a rough divorce, but she’d hit the ground running and never looked back. The whole thing had struck me a little harder, mainly because it had come out of left field. Lisa was happy to be out of her prison, whereas I’d never thought I was in one.
Lisa signaled to the waitress that we needed another round of margaritas.
I laughed and said, “That’ll be my third drink tonight! I’ll have to run twenty miles to burn it off tomorrow.”
Lisa put her hand on my forearm and said in her sweet Alabama accent, “Don’t even talk to me about losing weight. You look fabulous. When
