Honeymoon

by James Patterson

  Instead of calling his name, Nora quietly walked toward the back of the brownstone. Between his deep concentration and the background music, there wasn’t a chance he’d hear her.

  She opened the door beyond the butler’s pantry and stepped out onto the private patio. With its tall fleur-de-lis trellises covered in ivy and other strategic plantings, the cozy area offered seclusion.

  It took her only a minute to get ready. Reclining on a cushioned wicker chaise, she reached for her cell phone and dialed.

  Seconds later she could hear the phone ringing inside.

  Jeffrey finally picked up.

  “Honey, it’s me,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t even tell me you’re not coming.”

  She laughed. “Not yet I’m not.”

  “Wait a minute, where are you?”

  “Take a peek out back.”

  She looked up as Jeffrey appeared in the window of his library. His strong jaw dropped, then he started to laugh, which she could clearly hear over the phone.

  “Oh… my…,” he said.

  Nora was naked on the chaise lounge, except for her sling-backs. She purred into the phone. “See anything you like?”

  “As a matter of fact, I see a lot that I like. I don’t see anything I don’t like.”

  “Good. Don’t hurt yourself running down the stairs.”

  “Who said anything about using the stairs?”

  Jeffrey opened the window, climbed out, and shinnied down the copper-plated downspout. Very athletic, actually. All to the delight of Nora.

  Whatever the world record was for a man shedding his clothes, it was promptly broken. Then Jeffrey slowly crawled up to her on the chaise lounge. He dug his hands deep into the seat cushion and wrapped his muscular arms around her back. He was a sexy man once you tore him away from his computer.

  Nora closed her eyes. She kept them shut the entire time they made love. She wanted to feel something for Jeffrey. Anything. But she felt nothing.

  C’mon, Nora. You know what has to be done. You’ve been here before.

  The voice inside her head didn’t sound like an old friend now. More like an unwelcome stranger, someone she almost didn’t know. She tried to ignore it. It was no use. That just made it louder. More insistent. More controlling.

  Jeffrey climaxed, then rolled off her, out of breath. “What a terrific surprise. You’re the best.”

  Ask him if he’s hungry, Nora.

  She wanted to cry out against the little voice inside. But that would just be a waste of time. There was only one way to make it stop.

  And she knew it.

  “Where are you going?” Jeffrey asked.

  Nora had risen from the chaise without a word. She was already heading inside the house. “The kitchen,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m going to see what I can make you for dinner. I want to cook for you.”

  Chapter 44

  OH, BROTHER—what to do, what to do? This is a disaster so far.

  The Tourist sat alone in the small, dingy room with another Heineken. He’d already had four. Or was it five? At this point, keeping count didn’t strike him as being very important. Neither did the Yankees game droning on his TV. Or eating the sausage-and-onion pizza getting cold on the table in front of him.

  On the table were newspaper clippings about the shoot-out in New York. There were easily a dozen articles about the “Sidewalk Showdown.”

  The story had legs, which didn’t exactly surprise the Tourist. He’d left behind a host of unanswered questions. A lot of ink was being devoted to conjecture and speculation; some of it credible, most of it wacky. The short note that came with the clippings summed it up. The circus is in town. Keep your head down, Tourist. Will be in touch.

  He smiled and re-read the conflicting eyewitness accounts. How was it, wrote a columnist from the Daily News, that the same event could be seen so differently by people who were no more than twenty feet away?

  “How indeed?” the Tourist said out loud. He sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. He had every confidence that his identity would remain a secret. He’d taken the necessary precautions, covered his tracks. He might as well have been a ghost.

  There was only one thing bothering him now, and it bothered him a lot.

  What was the list he’d copied off the flash drive all about? All those offshore accounts.

  One point four.

  Billion.

  What about it?

  Was it worth some poor schmuck’s life outside Grand Central?

  Apparently so.

  Was it worth somebody else’s life?

  Like his?

  Definitely not.

  Was it part of a bigger picture that might make sense eventually?

  Who could tell? But he sure as hell hoped so.

  Chapter 45

  JEFFREY PEERED ACROSS the candlelit dinner table at Nora. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Of course I am,” she said.

  “I don’t know, you seemed a little put-off when I suggested we go out instead of eating in.”

  “Don’t be silly. This is wonderful.” Nora tried to match her body language to her words. That took some serious acting. She was supposed to be back at his brownstone, busy preparing his last meal. She had made up her mind.

  Now here they were at Jeffrey’s favorite restaurant. Nora had never been more on edge. She felt like a racehorse at a starting gate that refused to open.

  “I love this place,” said Jeffrey, looking around. They were at La Primavera in the North End of Boston. The decor was simple and elegant with white linen tablecloths, gleaming silverware, soft lighting. When you sat down it was assumed you wanted regular water, not bottled. And frankly, Nora could have cared less.

  Jeffrey had the osso buco, Nora the risotto with porcini mushrooms. But she had zero appetite. The wine was a Poggio dell’Oliviera Chianti Classico, the ’94 Reserve. The wine, she needed. When the plates were cleared, Nora steered the conversation to the following weekend. Her unfinished business was weighing heavily on her mind.

  “You forgot,” said Jeffrey. “I’m traveling, darling. That book festival down in Virginia.”

  “You’re right, I did forget.” Nora felt like screaming. “I can’t believe I’m letting you loose with hundreds of your adoring female fans.”

  Jeffrey folded his hands in front of him and leaned on the table. “Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said. “It’s about the way we’ve treated our marriage. Or, really, the way I’ve treated it—the secrecy. I think I’ve been unfair to you.”

  “Have you sensed that it’s bothering me? Because—”

  “No, actually, you’ve been so understanding. It’s made me feel worse. I mean, I’ve got the most wonderful wife in the world. It’s time the world knew it.”

  Nora smiled, as she should have, but inside, the warning lights were flashing. “What about your fans?” she asked. “All those women next week in Virginia who want to see one of People magazine’s sexiest and most eligible bachelors?”

  “Screw ’em.”

  “That’s kind of what they’re hoping for, honey,” said Nora.

  Jeffrey reached for her hands, clasping them lightly. “You’ve been understanding and I’ve been incredibly selfish. But no more.”

  Nora sensed there was no talking him out of it. At least not right then. He was such a typical guy. He had his mind made up about what was best for her, and there was no changing his mind.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Do your book fair, wow the ladies with your looks and charm and erudition, and then we’ll talk about it when you get back.”

  “Sure thing,” he said in a tone that suggested otherwise. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” Nora asked. You want to propose to me again, in the middle of this crowded restaurant?

  “Yesterday, I did an interview for New York magazine. I came clean and told them about you. The wedding in Cuernavaca. You
should have seen the reporter, she couldn’t wait to put the scoop in her article. She asked if the magazine could get shots of the two of us. I said sure.”

  Nora’s poker face finally folded. “You did?”

  “Yes,” he said, clasping her hands tighter. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

  “No, it’s not a problem.”

  Not at all, she thought. It’s a big problem.

  Chapter 46

  NORA RETURNED to Manhattan late the following afternoon. She missed her loft apartment, the comfort and quiet of it, the things she’d bought for herself over the years. She missed what she considered her real life.

  While she drew herself a bath, she listened to her messages. She’d been checking them periodically while away. There were four new ones. The first three were work-related, bitchy clients. The final one was from Brian Stewart, her first-class companion to Boston, the Brad Pitt look-alike.

  The message was short and sweet, the kind she liked. Brian expressed how much he enjoyed meeting her and how he looked forward to seeing her again. “I should be back in the city by the end of the week and I’d love to take you out for a night on the town. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

  If you insist, Brian.

  Nora took her hot bath. Afterward, she ordered in Chinese and sorted through her mail. Before the eleven o’clock news ended, she was sound asleep on the couch, sleeping like a baby. And she slept late.

  Just before noon the next day, Nora strolled into Hargrove & Sons on the Upper East Side. Personally, she thought the place was beyond stuffy, with many of the sales staff seemingly older than the antiques they were peddling. But the store was a favorite of her client, longtime film producer Dale Minton, and he had insisted on meeting her there.

  Nora browsed on her own for a few minutes. After walking by yet another plaid sofa, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “It is you, Olivia!”

  The overly excited man standing before her was Steven Keppler—middle-aged, midtown tax attorney with a bad comb-over.

  “Uh… hi,” said Nora. She quickly flipped through her mental Rolodex and came up with his name. “How are you, Steven?”

  “I’m great, Olivia. You know, I was calling out your name. You didn’t hear me?”

  She played it cool. “Oh, that’s so typical of me. The more I shop, the less I can hear what’s going on around me.”

  Steven laughed and let it go. As he launched into his “fancy meeting you here” small talk, Nora remembered his ogling tendencies. How could she forget? Sure enough, his eyes were beginning to drool. Do eyes drool? Well, Keppler’s did. Meanwhile, she was keeping one eye on the entrance for Dale. This could be a disaster in the making.

  “So, Olivia, are you shopping for yourself, or a client?” asked Steven.

  “A client,” she said, looking at her watch.

  That’s when she saw him. Dale Minton was waltzing through the front door that very second, looking as if he owned the place. He certainly could have, if he wanted to.

  “Oh, there he is now,” she said. She tried not to panic, but the image of Dale calling her Nora with Steven looking on, and vice versa, was fraying her nerves.

  “I’ll let you do your business,” he said. “Just promise me I can take you out to dinner sometime.” The guy certainly was an opportunist. He knew what she knew, that yes was a much quicker answer. No would’ve required making an excuse.

  “Yes,” said Nora. “That would be nice. Call me.”

  “I will. I’m on vacation beginning next week, but when I get back, I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

  Steven Keppler turned to go with Dale still a few feet away. It was close, but she dodged a bullet. Then…

  “It was good seeing you, Olivia,” called Steven loudly.

  Nora gave him a weak smile and glanced at Dale, who looked thoroughly confused. “Did that man just call you Olivia?” he asked.

  Nora prayed to the goddess of quick thinking. She delivered. Nora leaned into Dale with a whisper. “I met him at a party a few months back. I told him I was Olivia—for obvious reasons.”

  Dale nodded, no longer confused, and Nora smiled. Her two lives remained safely apart.

  For now, anyway.

  Chapter 47

  A BLOND WOMAN drifted from one piece of old furniture to another, her eyes shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses. She was playing detective and feeling slightly ridiculous, to tell the truth. But she needed to watch Nora Sinclair.

  Had this been anywhere but New York, she would’ve stood out. But this was the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Here, she blended in. Simply another browsing customer at Hargrove & Sons.

  The blonde stopped at an oak hallstand with shiny brass hooks and pretended to look at the price. Her eyes and ears remained fixed on Nora.

  Or was it Olivia Sinclair?

  She didn’t know what to make of the exchange with the balding guy. Anyone who answers to two names is probably guilty of something.

  She continued to watch Nora—now joined by an older man. Just to be careful, she wandered away from them a couple of times. Still, she managed to overhear some of the conversation.

  The older man was a client. Accordingly, Nora was actually an interior decorator. Her comments and suggestions, the jargon—she definitely knew how to talk the talk.

  Nora’s profession was never really in doubt, though. It was the rest of her life that was in question. Her two lives, her secrets. But there was no proof of anything yet. Which was why the blond woman had decided to have a look-see for herself.

  “Excuse me, do you need any help? May I be of assistance in any way?”

  The blonde turned to see an elderly sales clerk hovering close behind. He was wearing a bow tie, a tweed jacket, wire-rimmed eyeglasses that looked as old as he was.

  “No, thank you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m just looking. But I don’t see anything I like.”

  Chapter 48

  AFTER I LOST Nora up in Boston that Saturday, the rest of the weekend could be summed up in one word: shitty.

  On my list of spontaneous dumb things to do, squaring off with a rental-car window scored pretty high. Thankfully, I hadn’t broken my hand, at least according to my extensive medical self-evaluation. The epitome of rigor, it consisted of one question: Can you still move your fingers, you idiot?

  When Monday morning finally rolled around, I swung by Connor Brown’s house to see if Nora had returned. She hadn’t. After making the same trip, with the same result, in the late afternoon, I decided it was time to try her cell phone.

  I took out my notepad, where I’d written the number Nora had given me, and dialed from my car.

  A man answered.

  “I’m sorry, I may have the wrong number,” I said. “I was trying to reach Nora Sinclair.”

  He didn’t know anyone by that name.

  I hung up and checked my notepad against the log my cell phone kept of outgoing calls. Nope. I’d definitely dialed the right number. It just wasn’t Nora’s.

  Huh.

  I stared at my steering wheel for a moment before grabbing the phone again and dialing. This time a young, pleasant-sounding female voice.

  “Good morning, Centennial One Life Insurance.”

  “Very convincing, Molly,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a nail file in your hand.”

  Molly was my new receptionist. After Nora followed me to work, it was decided that the “field office” could no longer be a one-man operation.

  “Do me a favor, will you?” I asked. “Run a cell phone check on Nora.”

  “The number’s not already in her folder?”

  “It may be, but I want to make sure she hasn’t changed it recently.”

  “Okay. Give me ten minutes.”

  “I’ll give you five.”

  “Is that any way to treat your new receptionist?”

  “You’re right,” I
said. “Make it four minutes.”

  “No fair.”

  “Tick, tick, tick…”

  Molly had been out of school for only two years. While still a little green, according to Susan, and prone to the occasional lapse in judgment, she was proving to be a quick study. No surprise then when she called me back in three minutes.

  “It’s still the same number we have for her,” said Molly. She read it to me, and I checked it against the number Nora had given me.

  I had to smile. The only difference was the last two digits. They were flip-flopped.

  Interesting.

  Maybe I was the one who mixed them up. Or maybe that was what Nora wanted me to think. Or, at least allow for.

  “Anything else you need?” asked Molly.

  “No, I’m all set. Thanks.”

  I said good-bye, putting down the phone in favor of my notepad. On purpose or not, Nora had managed to elude me once again. Now what?

  I’d learned early in my career that sometimes there is a difference between information you have and information you can use. This was one of those times. I had Nora’s correct cell phone number but had to act as though I didn’t.

  With my banged-up hand I wrote her a note and left it at the front door of Connor Brown’s house. I was fairly sure she’d get it. The question was when.

  Chapter 49

  IT WAS THE NEED for closure that had Nora back in Briarcliff Manor a couple of days later. Despite Connor’s sister’s offering her the use of the house for as long as she wished, Nora wanted to move on. Actually, she hoped never to see the bitch from California again.

  The offer she was going to take Elizabeth Brown up on was possession of the furniture. All 11,000 square feet of it. As the interior decorator, Nora knew what everything cost—and everything cost a lot. A small fortune, really. One she was all too pleased to pocket in the name of assuaging Lizzie’s guilt, or whatever it was.

  All she needed was a little help.