Chapter 60
NORA NEEDED TO GET out of New York for at least a few days. Fortunately, she had somewhere she could go.
The traffic was light heading due north on I-95. About half an hour south of Boston, though, that all changed. A jackknifed tractor trailer had backed everything up for miles, and Nora was reminded why she always chose to fly.
Still, she didn’t care.
After the cemetery and her dinner with Brian Stewart—the Don Juan wannabe with no real dinero—what Nora wanted was a little stability in her life. Wheels to the ground. Taking the day to drive up to Boston was good for her. So was spending the night with her hubby.
“Boy, did I ever miss you!” Jeffrey said, greeting her in the foyer of the Back Bay brownstone. He held her in his arms, kissing her lips, then her cheeks, her neck, and starting all over again.
“I’m almost tempted to believe you,” teased Nora. “Here I thought you’d forget all about me after your book festival and those adoring Virginia women.”
“How could I forget about this, and these, and this?” asked Jeffrey.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Nora.
They continued to kiss and kid each other all the way up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Their clothes littered on the floor and their bodies sweating, they made love that afternoon and again in the early evening. The farthest either of them strayed from bed was when Jeffrey ran to meet the delivery guy with their Vietnamese takeout.
They ate wakame salads, Cuu Long chicken, and lemongrass beef while cuddling and watching North by Northwest. Nora adored Hitchcock, who was one of the kinkiest bastards ever. By the time Cary Grant was dangling off Mount Rushmore, though, Jeffrey was asleep.
Then Nora waited patiently. When she finally heard that little nose-whistling sound he made, she slid out of bed and down the hall. Into the library and behind the computer.
Everything went very smoothly indeed. Nora got into his offshore account easily, took the tour, and saw what Jeffrey had put away for a rainy day. Nearly $6 million.
The moment of truth was fast approaching, certainly faster than the arrival of that New York magazine photographer.
But first things first. A few loose ends that needed tying in Briarcliff Manor. All having to do with a certain insurance man and some test results. What would old Alfie Hitchcock have done with that? He certainly would have raised some hackles with that scene at the cemetery, Nora thought, and couldn’t hold back a smile.
Chapter 61
THE TOURIST—ah, the poor Tourist—was feeling restless and frustrated and bent out of shape. There were at least a hundred other places he’d rather have been, but this place—his temporary home away from home—was where he needed to be.
He still hadn’t figured out the list of offshore accounts. Obviously, the people in the file were evading taxes, right? But who were they? What was the price of admission to the list? And why had the file been worth someone’s life?
He’d already read the newspaper, and finished off a fat Nelson DeMille novel about Vietnam. Now he was sitting on the couch, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. While he was in the middle of an article on the Boston Red Sox’s fading pennant hopes for the year, the silence of the living room was broken.
Someone was at the door.
Quietly, he grabbed the Beretta by his side and stood. He walked to the window, pulling back the drawn shade for a peek at the front stoop. To make things worse, it was pouring outside, turning everything to mud.
Standing there was some guy with a flat, square box in his hand. Behind him, in the driveway, was a Toyota Camry with the engine running.
The Tourist smiled. Dinner is served.
Tucking the gun behind his back and underneath his shirt, he opened the door and greeted yet another delivery guy from Pepe’s House of Pizza. He’d already ordered half a dozen times from there since he arrived.
“Sausage and onion?” asked the delivery guy. He looked college-aged, maybe a little older. Tough to tell under the brim of his Yankees baseball cap.
“Yep. How much?”
“Sixteen-fifty.”
“You’d think I’d know that by now,” the Tourist muttered to himself. He reached into his trouser pocket. His hand came up empty. “Wait a minute, let me get my wallet.” He was about to turn around when he noticed that the delivery guy was being rained on. “Why don’t you come on in,” he offered.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
The guy stepped inside while the Tourist headed toward the kitchen for his wallet. “It looks pretty wet out there,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Wet means we’re busier than usual.”
“I bet. Why go out for dinner in the rain when you can have someone bring it to you, right?”
The Tourist returned with a twenty in his hand. “Here you go,” he said. “Call it even.”
The delivery guy handed over the pizza and took the twenty. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He reached inside his raincoat and smiled. “Only we’re not quite even yet.”
The Tourist frantically swung a hand behind his back, but it was too late, too slow. His gun was a distant second to the one pointed at his chest.
“Don’t move!” said the pizza guy. He walked around and relieved the Tourist of the Beretta tucked into his jeans. “Now place both hands against the wall.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna make you wish you’d ordered Chinese, O’Hara.”
Chapter 62
FEELING INCREDIBLY STUPID, John O’Hara, the Tourist, allowed himself to be patted down. He couldn’t believe he’d been suckered by this kid, this young pup, this whelp.
“Okay, turn around slowly.”
O’Hara did a 180. Very slowly.
“Now, where is it?” the guy asked. “The suitcase. What’s inside. Whatever you’ve got.”
“I don’t know. Honest, man.”
“Bullshit. Man.”
“Hey, I’m telling you the truth. I handed it off as soon as I got it. A garage in New York.”
The delivery guy pressed the barrel of his gun to O’Hara’s forehead. Hard, so it hurt. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to talk about.”
“You kill me and you’re dead within twenty-four hours. You. Personally. That’s the way it works.”
“I don’t think so,” Pizza Guy said, and cocked the gun.
O’Hara tried to read the kid’s eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. Coldness and confidence. This guy probably worked for the file’s original seller. Maybe he was the seller. “Okay, okay, hold on. I know where it is.”
“Where?”
“I have it here. I had it all the time.”
“Show me.”
O’Hara led him down the hallway to the bedroom. He could hear the faint sound of a neighbor’s stereo. Thought about screaming for help. “Under the bed,” he said. “I’ll get it. It’s in my duffel bag.”
“You just stay where you are. I’ll look under the bed for both of us.”
The delivery guy bent down to take a peek. Sure enough, there was a black duffel. He grinned. “You don’t know what it is, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because if you did, I don’t think you’d be sleeping here with it.”
“Then I guess I should be happy to give it back to you.”
“That’s right. Now, pull it out. Nice and easy.”
“What’s your part in this? You the seller? Or are you another messenger?”
“Just pull out the bag. I’m a messenger, by the way. Like my friend. Guy you shot at Grand Central Station. He was like a brother to me.”
The Tourist knelt and slowly began to reach under the bed.
“Keep one hand on top of the bed,” said Pizza Guy.
“Whatever you say.” With his left hand perched on the bedsheets, the right disappeared, looking for the duffel bag.
And the gun taped to the side.
“You
got it?” asked the delivery guy. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“Yeah, I got it. Relax a little, huh? We’re both pros, right?”
“One of us seems to be.”
O’Hara swung out his arm and fired two shots, the bullets ripping through the guy’s chest. He fell to the floor, dead. Actually, there were two of the dead guy in the double-mirrored closet door, which was doubly creepy.
O’Hara checked for ID. He wasn’t surprised that he didn’t find any. Not even a wallet.
He went out to the kitchen and made the requisite phone call. They’d come and remove the body, even clean up the bloodstains on the carpet. They were very efficient. Until then, there was only one thing to do.
He opened the pizza box and grabbed a slice of sausage and onion. The first bite is always the best. And now, as he chewed his food, came the questions for the ages, the only ones that counted. Who had sent Pizza Guy after him? Who knew he was there? Who wanted him dead?
And how could he use any of this to his advantage in the future?
Oh yeah, and did he have a future?
Chapter 63
“WHAT HAVE YOU been up to, O’Hara?”
“Oh, this and that. You know me, I keep myself busy. How about our little test on the late Connor Brown?”
“Nothing… nada… zip,” said Susan, disappointed.
After two days of waiting at my temporary apartment, I got a call from her late in the afternoon. Connor Brown’s second autopsy report had just landed on her desk. Susan told me that the more comprehensive tests showed basically the same result. The guy died of cardiac arrest. No sign of foul play. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
“Was there anything this time around that the first autopsy didn’t show?” I asked.
“Only a pretty nasty ulcer,” she said. “Of course, with a guy working in finance who dies of a heart attack at forty, there’s no real big surprise there.”
“No, I suppose not. That was it, nothing else?”
“Oh, you mean, besides the abrasions from the body falling out of the coffin?”
“Shit, the kid from the pathology lab squealed, didn’t he?”
“No, actually it was the cop who’s still throwing up three days later, thanks to you.”
I found myself smiling at an old image in my memory file.
“It was a dirty job and somebody had to help do it.”
“Somebody besides you, naturally.”
“Hey, the guy didn’t laugh at my jokes.”
“Say no more.”
“So, I guess it’s time to give Nora a call.”
“I had a thought on that,” she said. “Maybe you should stall on the test results, see if she starts to get shaky.”
“Were it anybody else, I’d say yes. Not with Nora, though. The only thing she’d get is more suspicious. I’m afraid she’d pull back.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sure as I can be. I think if there’s a break to be had with her, it comes when she believes everything is hunky-dory.”
“As in, the money is on its way?”
“Right. Let her know for a fact she’s about to become one point nine million dollars richer.”
“That would make me feel hunky-dory.”
“You and me both.”
“This means you’re going to have to work faster,” Susan said. “As excuses go, ‘the check is in the mail’ buys you only so much time.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Craig Reynolds has built up a lot of goodwill with her. Even more so when I call with the good news.”
“Just remember one thing,” said Susan. There’s always “one thing” more with her.
“What’s that? Today’s ‘one thing more’?”
“While you’re working to get Nora to drop her guard, make sure you don’t drop yours.”
Chapter 64
I DIDN’T WASTE any time. After I hung up with Susan I dialed Nora on her cell. She didn’t answer. I left a message and was sure to mention I had some good news for her.
Nora didn’t waste any time, either. She called me back almost immediately. “I could use some good news,” she said.
“I thought you probably could. That’s why I called you right away.”
“Is it regarding…” Her voiced trailed off.
“Yes, the results came back from the second autopsy,” I said. “While I’m not sure if ‘good news’ is the way to put it, you’ll be glad to know all the follow-up tests confirmed the conclusion of the original autopsy.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Nora, are you there?”
“I’m here,” she said before another patch of silence. “You’re right. ‘Good news’ isn’t really the way to describe it.”
“How about ‘relieved’?”
“Maybe that’s it,” she answered, her voice starting to choke up. “Now Connor can finally rest in peace.” Nora began to cry softly, and I must admit that she sounded convincing. With a last sniffle, she apologized.
“No need to be sorry. I know how hard this has been for you. Well, I guess I don’t.”
“It’s just that I still can’t get the thought out of my mind. Actually digging up a coffin.”
“It was easily one of the most unpleasant experiences I’ve had on this job,” I said.
“Does that mean you were there?”
The truth will set you free. “I’m afraid so.”
“What about the guy responsible for all this?”
“You mean that psycho O’Hara?”
“Yes, something tells me he’d actually enjoy being on hand.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But he’s still back in Chicago. Between you and me, he’s not the type to get his hands dirty. The good news, though—and I think we can rightly think of this as good news—is that O’Hara is finally ready to put an end to his little inquisition.”
“He’s no longer suspicious, I take it?”
“Oh, he’ll always be suspicious,” I said. “Of everyone and everything around him. In this case, however, I think even he realizes the facts are what they are. Centennial One will make the payout. One point nine million dollars to the penny.”
“When will it happen?”
“There’s some processing—you know, routine paper shuffling. I’d say I’ll have a check for you in a week. Does that sound okay?”
“More than okay. Is there anything I need to do in the meantime? Anything to fill out?”
“There’s a release form to sign, but you do that once you have the money in hand. Other than that, there’s only one thing you have to do.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Allow me to buy you lunch, Nora. For everything I’ve put you through, it’s the least I could do.”
“That’s really not necessary. Besides, it wasn’t you who put me through anything. You’ve been very sweet. I mean it, Craig.”
“You know something, you’re right,” I said with a laugh. “If there was ever a meal that should be expensed to the company, this is it.”
“Amen,” she said with a laugh of her own. The free and easy kind. Relaxed. Uninhibited.
Music to my ears.
Like the sound of someone’s guard beginning to drop.
Chapter 65
AT LUNCHTIME SUSAN walked into Angelo’s, one of the oldest and best restaurants in Little Italy and not that far from the FBI offices. Dr. Donald Marcuse was waiting for her at a secluded booth in back.
“Susan. Such an honor. Imagine, getting you out of the office.”
Susan found herself smiling. Donald Marcuse always knew how to put her at ease: sarcasm. He was mainly a forensic psychiatrist, who often worked with the Bureau, but she’d seen him for about six months after the breakup of her marriage.
“Your hair looks great, by the way,” he said. She was wearing it in a short bob these days and had started to touch up the brown lately, which just killed her, slayed her.
“Just for informational purposes,” Susan said, “not that I re
ally give a shit, but is that considered a sexist remark these days?”
The doctor shrugged. “Here’s my theory: if a woman can say it, then so can a man. I don’t know if the theory holds up to scrutiny.”
“Probably not. It sounds too logical.”
They ordered lunch, then talked about current affairs and the wicked ways of New York until Susan glanced at her watch.
“Enough fun for the day, huh?” Marcuse said, and smiled pleasantly. “What’s really on your mind?”
For the next few minutes, Susan told the psychiatrist what she knew about Nora Sinclair. Then she asked him to fill in as many blanks as he possibly could. She wanted to know what had turned Nora into a killer and what kind of killer she was.
As was her style, Susan took notes as Marcuse talked. She would review the notes back in her office and possibly share them with O’Hara.
According to Marcuse, a “black widow” was a woman who systematically murdered spouses, sexual partners, and occasionally other family members. An alternative to the “widow” was a “for-profit crime” killer. With this type of killer, everything was just business. The primary motive was profit.
“Almost all female serial killers kill for profit,” said Marcuse, and he would know.
The doctor continued, pleasantly and matter-of-factly. Nora probably had a firmly implanted belief that men are not to be trusted. Possibly she was hurt herself.
Even more likely, her mother was hurt by a man, or men, when Nora was young.
“Maybe Nora was abused as a child. Most of my peers would say so. I don’t much care for that kind of easy answer myself. Takes all the fun out of it.”
Donald Marcuse finally stopped talking about Nora and looked at Susan. “She’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t she? It’s not like you.”
Susan looked up from her notes. “She’s so dangerous, Donald. I don’t give a shit if she was abused. She’s pretty and charming, and she’s a murderer. And she isn’t going to stop.”
Chapter 66
THE PHONE IN the Westchester house rang the next morning at about eleven. Nora picked up, thinking Craig was confirming their lunch date for later that afternoon.
Honeymoon h-1 Page 12
