William Bernhardt - Natural Suspect: A Collaborative Novel

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

W hat 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

S unday afternoon . A time when families all across the countr y s pend 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 o f t he 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."

"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."