Natural Suspect (2001)

  Natural Suspect

  A Collaborative Novel

  William Bernhardt

  Leslie Glass

  Gini Hartzmark

  John Katzenbach

  John Lescroart

  Bonnie MacDougal

  Phillip Margolin

  Brad Meltzer

  Michael Palmer

  Lisa Scottoline

  Laurence Shames

  Presented by William Bernhardt

  Book Cover:

  What Carl Hiaasen and a host of South Florida's finest authors did for Sunshine State crime capers in the New York Times bestseller Naked Came the Manatee, William Bernhardt now does for legal thrillers--with the help of a "Dream Team" of today's hottest suspense writers. Like a literary game of Telephone, Natural Suspect begins with a chapter from Bernhardt. Then each writer contributes a chapter and passes it along to the next. The result is a completely inventive, brilliantly plotted novel of suspense. Can you guess who wrote which chapter?

  Arthur Hightower made a name for himself and a vast fortune in the oil business. But when the volatile tycoon decides to disinherit his spoiled children and cheating wife, he makes the biggest mistake of his life--and the last After declaring his intentions, Hightower turns up on Thanksgiving Day . . . clubbed to death and stuffed in a meat locker, clutching a frozen asset--his wife's precious pearl necklace. Now Julia Hightower stands charged with the cold-as-ice crime of murdering for millions. While the sensational trial has New York in a frenzy, a curious cast of characters face off in and out of the courtroom.

  Devin McGee, a small-time lawyer about to hit the big-time defending Julia Hightower--if her intimate encounter with the prosecutor doesn't catch up with her . . . Trent Ballard, the quirky assistant D. A., who owns a huge pet rabbit and thinks his tryst with Devin will help him get a conviction . . . Patrick Roswell, a wannabe reporter sitting on a scoop that could turn the trial upside-down, unless a scalpel-wielding clown decides to kill the story--and Patrick . . . Sissy Hightower, Julia's sex-crazed, airheaded daughter-in-law, who has a suitcase full of secrets . . . Robert S. Rutledge, a powerful Wall Street warrior with a lot riding on the Hightower verdict--and a lot to learn about messing with the wrong people . . . and Cordelia, the mystery woman that everyone seems to know.

  All are in for the trial of their lives--but who among them is the true natural suspect?

  All author royalties will be donated to The Nature Conservancy.

  Chapter 1.

  Sunday afternoon. A time when families all across the country spend quality time together--breaking bread, acknowledging how important they are to one another, sharing secrets. And the Hightower family, one of the richest broods on Long Island, was no exception.

  "Who made the martinis?" Marilyn said as she sipped the drink she had just poured out of the tumbler.

  "Mummy," Morgan replied, not looking up from his magazine. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because as far as I can tell, its straight gin."

  Morgan nodded. "That's our Mummy." Morgan and Marilyn were brother and sister. Morgan was six feet tall, underweight, and carried himself with an air of determined dissipation. Marilyn was almost as tall and was often described as having "steely good looks," which meant both that she was uncommonly attractive and that her beauty was encased in a titanium shell no one had yet managed to penetrate. Morgan was a year older; they were both well into their thirties.

  Marilyn poured her drink into the sink, took a tall glass, and reached for a Coke bottle. "That was a bit strong for the first drink of the day."

  "Mummy's first drink of the day came shortly after breakfast. What you sampled would be the--oh, I don't know--third or fourth batch of the day. Which might explain why she didn't detect any subtle variations in flavor."

  "Toodle-doo, Morgan. Can I come in?" The voice in the hallway came from Cecilia, better known as Sissy, Morgans well-proportioned wife. She was not generally considered nuclear scientist material, but what she had downstairs compensated Morgan for what she didn't have upstairs, or so everyone assumed, anyway.

  Sissy snuggled up beside Morgan, who wrapped his arm around her. "What's my little Morgy doing?"

  Morgan had the look of supreme boredom down cold. "Reading, obviously."

  She pressed against him. "Could I interest Morgy in doing something a little more . . . athletic?"

  "I'm reading, dear."

  She brushed her lips against his cheek. "I can think of something more fun than reading."

  A pained expression crossed Morgan's face. "Not now, dear. My sinuses are acting up."

  "Please?" She traced a line up his neck with her finger, ending at his mouth. "I'll make it worth Morgy-Worgy s time."

  "Morgan," Marilyn said sternly. "Be a dear and take your nymphet bride to your bedroom. If I have to listen to any more of this, I'm going to vomit."

  "Oh, all right." He laid his magazine down and sighed heavily. "Back to the salt mines."

  Before he could move, however, he heard galumphing footsteps signaling that his father was on his way. And that he wasn't in a good mood.

  "Has anyone seen Julia?" Morgan and Marilyns father, Arthur Hightower, was an overweight bear of a man. He was blunt, gruff, and willfully unvarnished. He'd made a fortune in the oil business while the boom was on and managed to keep it when the boom was over. "How long must a man go on searching for his own wife?" He throttled up the volume. "Julia!"

  The blanket on the sofa beside Sissy moved. Sissy let out a short, high-pitched cry.

  Morgan attempted concern. "What's wrong, dearest?"

  "The blanket moved!"

  The blanket did move. And then it moved again. And a few moments later, a head peered out over the top. "Did someone call me?"

  It was Julia, Morgan and Marilyn's mother. Her hair was mussed, and what they could see of her clothes looked as if she'd been wearing them for days.

  "Mummy!" Morgan said. "How long have you been there?"

  She took a long time before answering. "What time is it?"

  "Almost seven."

  Her head bobbed slowly. "Where did the afternoon go?"

  Morgan crouched beside the sofa and helped her sit upright. "Are you all right, Mummy? It's nearly time for dinner."

  "Forget dinner." Her voice was harsh and raspy. "Where's my martini?"

  Morgan rushed to the wet bar to fix it.

  "Well, I'm glad I've found you all gathered together in one place," Hightower said. "I've got something on my mind and I want you all to hear it."

  "Could it possibly wait, Daddy?" Marilyn asked. "It's time for dinner. And I'm famished."

  Hightower made a hmmph'mg noise. "And I suppose we'll be having the usual twelve-course meal. You children don't know how lucky you are. There were no big face feeds when I was a boy, that's for certain."

  Morgan's eyelids drooped. "Here we go . . ."

  "When I was growing up on that hardscrabble farm in Omega County in a family of nine, we were poor, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Poor, that's the only word for it. Dirt poor, if you don't mind my saying so. We never had enough to eat. Most nights, I went to bed hungry."

  "You've certainly compensated for it in the intervening years," his wife observed.

  He didn't hear her, or at any rate, didn't let it check his monologue. "We only had meat once a week. Can you imagine? Only once a week--if we were lucky. For Sunday dinner, my poor mother would fix a chicken. One scrawny little chicken. To be split by the nine of us. You know what piece I always got?"

  Marilyn's long lashes fluttered. "Would that perhaps be . . . the feet?"

  "That's right," Hightower said. "The feet. I'll bet you didn't even know the feet were edible."

  "Only since I was two."

&nb
sp; "There's not much meat on the feet, I don't mind telling you. Not much meat at all. But I didn't complain. No, sir. I was glad to get it."

  "I've heard that in Paris," Marilyn said, just to be evil, "chicken feet are all the rage. They're considered quite a delicacy."

  Hightower repeated his hmmphmg. "Perhaps in Paris, where they'll eat anything if it has enough sauce poured on top of it. But not in Omega County. No, sir. Not a bit of it."

  "I've never had chicken's feet," Sissy said, giggling. "But I had frog's legs once. And they tasted like chicken."

  Marilyn bit down on her lower lip, struggling to maintain control.

  "You children don't appreciate how privileged you are. Never learned the value of money, that's what it is. You're spoiled. Spoiled rotten. I don't know how it happened, but that's what it amounts to. Spoiled."

  Marilyn decided the time had come to add some rum to her Coke. "I think that's a bit harsh, Daddykins."

  "Maybe it is, but I'm just a poor boy from a hardscrabble farm in Omega County, and I never learned to put on airs or mince words. I call 'em like I see 'em. And when my children are spoiled, I'm not afraid to say so. Not a one of you has ever worked a day in your life."

  "Now, Father," Morgan said, "that's not true. I take my work very seriously."

  Marilyn snorted into her glass. "Your work? Puh-leese."

  The bridge of Morgan's nose crinkled. "Marilyn, you know I've always been very dedicated to my art."

  "Art? Goopy watercolors of sunrises are not art."

  Morgans chin rose. "There are certain critics who would differ with you. May I remind you that my art has had a private showing in an important gallery?"

  "Yes, a gallery that Daddy owns. When was the last time you completed a painting, anyway? The Carter administration?"

  "Every great artist goes through a difficult period."

  "More like a difficult decade."

  "Enough," Hightower proclaimed. "If this bickering is supposed to impress me, it doesn't."

  "Daddy," Marilyn said, "I'm just trying to bring Morgan around to reality."

  "You're just trying to be nasty, Marilyn. You were a nasty baby and you haven't improved much in the last thirty years."

  "Daddy!"

  "It's painful for a man like me to admit it, but the fact is you're all a worthless, heartless pack of wretched refuse, and the thought that I've worked so hard all my life to create a gigantic fortune to be passed on to the likes of you just makes me sick."

  "Daddy!"

  "Don't think I don't intend to do something about it, either. I'm leaving tonight for an important business trip in Washington, but I'll be back by Thanksgiving, and as soon as I am, I'm having a long talk with my lawyer. I'm not going to let my fortune be squandered on watercolors and trips to Paris for . . . fancy chicken's feet!"

  This last bit definitely attracted Marilyn and Morgan's attention. "Daddy!"

  "All right, Arthur," Julia chimed in, "that's about enough." The latest martini was sinking in. She was too expert a drinker to slur her words, but the effect was still noticeable in her watery eyes and extravagant gestures. "You've had your fun. I know how you love to play the bogeyman and instill fear in their hearts. Haven't you terrorized them enough?"

  "No, damn you, I've hardly begun. And don't think you're going to escape my notice, you drunken waste of time."

  "Daddy!" Morgan said. "That's Mummy you're talking about."

  "As if I didn't know. Be quiet, you trust-fund troglodyte. Julia, you were a good woman once, but I don't know what's happened to you."

  Her voice was deep and throaty. "You happened to me, Arthur, dear."

  "Typical. Blame your failings on someone else."

  "You haven't exactly been the most attentive husband."

  "I've built a successful business out of nothing, if that's what you mean. I've dedicated myself to making a huge pile of money you've been more than happy to squander."

  "Oh, yes. Money. Well, that's certainly made us all happy, hasn't it?"

  "All I ever asked in return was your affection and fidelity. But did I get it? No, sir. Not even that."

  "You haven't got many brownie points in the fidelity department yourself, dear."

  Hightower drew himself up like a hot-air balloon. "I never claimed to be flawless. No one who grew up the way I did ever could." He leaned forward, over-pronouncing every word. "But at least I've never carried on with the gardener!"

  Marilyn let out a little shriek. "Mother! No!"

  "Oh, don't act so self-righteous, Marilyn," Hightower bellowed. "You've slept with every man you've been alone with for more than five minutes since you were fourteen. Not to mention the entire Springdale High class of '91."

  "Daddy!"

  "But I damn sure never expected to find my wife dancing the hokey-pokey in my own bedroom with the gardener!"

  Julia's face flushed bright red, and not from the alcohol, either. "Arthur, please. The children."

  "The children. What about the children? For all I know, they've slept with the gardener, too."

  Sissy giggled. "Who's the gardener? I didn't know we had a gardener."

  "Daddy," Morgan said, "I think you're forgetting yourself. I'm a boy, remember? Er, a man." He chuckled awkwardly. "I couldn't sleep with the gardener."

  Hightower arched a bushy eyebrow. "Couldn't you, Morgan?"

  Morgan took a deep swallow of his martini.

  "Arthur," Julia said, "I think your high blood pressure is getting to you. Why don't you go have a soak in the hot tub? You know that always calms you." She paused. "If you'd like, I could join you ..."

  "Don't disgust me, woman. I'm trying to tell all of you there are going to be some changes made around here. Big changes. Julia, I'm divorcing you."

  "Arthur!"

  "In fact, I'm divorcing all of you. Cutting you loose. You won't get a cent from me from now on. You'll have to work for a living, for the first time in your miserable existences. It'll do you a world of good."

  Julia's martini hand began to shake. "Arthur, you can't mean . . . you don't mean . . . me--"

  "Indeed I do, woman."

  "Arthur, you can't do that."

  "But I can, dear. Have you forgotten that little prenup you signed all those years ago?"

  The color drained out of her face. "Arthur ..."

  "I'm taking it all back, woman. Every last cent." He reached toward her throat. "Starting with that triple-A imported cultured pearl Mikimoto necklace."

  "Arthur--no!" She clutched the necklace, refusing to let go.

  "Julia! Give it up!"

  "I won't!"

  Sissy screamed. Marilyn and Morgan stared at one another, then back at the horrible tableau, unsure of what to do. Hightower continued to struggle with his wife, grunting and straining. Sweat flew off his brow. But Julia would not release the necklace.

  "Fine!" he snapped, finally relinquishing his hold. "Keep the damn thing. For now, anyway." He wiped his forehead. "I'll get it soon enough."

  Julia fell back against the sofa, breathless. "I need a drink."

  "That's right," Hightower bellowed, "get drunk. All of you. Get perfectly potted. Enjoy it while you can. Because first thing after I return, you're going to enter a whole new world. And I rather suspect you're not going to like it very much."

  He stormed out of the room, leaving them all in killing silence.

  At long last, Marilyn walked to the bar, helped herself to a couple of ice cubes, and rattled the glass. "Well, I'm certainly looking forward to the holidays. How about you?"

  Thanksgiving Day. A time when families all across the country spend quality time together delighting in one another's company, an occasion for love, laughter, and prayerful thanks. But at the Hightower mansion, the residents were having a difficult time coming up with blessings for which to give thanks.

  Morgan, Marilyn, and Sissy sat at the formal dining-room table staring at an array of expensive Wedgwood china--with nothing on it.

  "Lovely
dinner," Morgan said sharply. "Is there any food?"

  "One can only hope," Marilyn answered. "Where's Mother?"

  "Three guesses." He made a tippling gesture with his hand.

  "Martinis?"

  "Except without the vermouth. Or the olive."

  Sissy giggled. She placed her hand over her husband's and squeezed affectionately. "I hope she comes soon, lover boy, and brings the food with her. I always work up an appetite when we--" She giggled again, then covered her mouth with her hand. "You know."

  "Speaking of appetites," Marilyn said, "I just lost mine. I'm going to look for Mother."

  She didn't have to. At that moment, the Hightower matriarch wobbled into the room.

  "Has anyone seen my pearl necklace? I haven't been able to find my pearl--" She glanced at the barren tabletop. "What, you ate without me?"

  "No, Mummy," Morgan answered. "No ones eaten anything. There's no food."

  "Oh." She lowered herself into her seat. "Well, your father always arranges for the Thanksgiving meal."

  "Father? I haven't seen him in weeks. Where is he?"

  "How should I know?" Julia hiccuped. "Ask Marilyn."

  "I certainly don't know," Marilyn said, pressing her hand to her gown. "I haven't seen him since . . . well, I'm sure we all remember."

  "/remember," Morgan said solemnly.

  "Me, too," Sissy echoed. "I still haven't gotten to try chicken's feet."

  Morgan rolled his eyes. "While we're on the subject, dear sister of mine, let me tell you something that will chill your heart. I bumped into Joe Kellogg yesterday. That's Father's lawyer. He told me Father had made an appointment to see him right after Thanksgiving."

  Marilyn's face fell. "Then he really meant it."

  "He did. Either that, or he's giving us one hell of a good scare."

  "I've already had a good scare today," Julia said, weaving sideways a bit. "I can't find my pearls."