“Hello?”
“Great news, honey,” she said.
“You got out of it?”
“I did. So I’m all yours this weekend.”
“Fantastic!” said Jeffrey. “I’m dying to see you.”
Chapter 88
IT WAS EERILY QUIET as the three of us walked toward our very special campsite for the evening. This was going to be great. It was going to be perfect.
“Are we gonna get in trouble, Daddy?”
I looked back at Max, the younger of my two boys. At the age of six, he was just beginning to grasp the notion of accountability. Meanwhile, it was his father who perhaps needed the refresher course. Though not in this particular instance.
“No, we’ve got special permission to be here tonight,” I explained.
“Yeah, dumbhead,” blurted John Jr. “Dad wouldn’t take us here without asking first. Right, Dad?”
At the age of nine, John Jr. had long since discovered the obnoxious joy of being the older brother.
“Cool it, J.J.,” I told him. “Max asked a good, smart question. You did, Max.”
“Yeah!” said Max. “Smart!”
I smiled to myself and picked up the pace. “C’mon, guys, we’re almost there.”
On some of our past trips together, I’d taken them to Bear Mountain and the Mohawk Trail. I’d even taken the boys out to Yellowstone for a week. Now I felt the need to do something really different. Or maybe it was guilt about Nora that I was trying to ease. Either way, I had one night with the boys and I was determined to make it a great one.
I turned to them as we came to a dead stop. “So, what do you guys think?”
Max and John Jr. stared with wide eyes and dropped jaws. For once, they were speechless… and I was loving it. There aren’t that many campsites in the Bronx, but I was pretty sure I’d found the best.
“Welcome to Yankee Stadium, boys.”
The two of them immediately dropped their knapsacks and sprinted for the field. It was late afternoon and there wasn’t a soul around. Nobody but us. Derek Jeter and company were in the middle of a West Coast road trip and we had the place to ourselves. The House That Ruth Built! Just lock up when you leave, said my friend in the front office. He could do worse than to have an FBI guy in his debt.
I opened up my duffel and broke out all the necessary equipment. Bats, gloves, caps, jerseys, about a dozen scuffed-up balls.
“All right, who wants to hit first?”
“Me, me, me!”
“No, me, me, me!”
Until the very last rays of sunlight slanted behind the massive scoreboard and soaring stands, my two sons and I had the time of our lives in Yankee Stadium.
“Do we really get to sleep here?” asked John Jr. in amazement.
“Of course we do, dumbhead!” chirped Max, turning the tables on his older brother. “Daddy said so.”
“That’s right, I did.” I walked over to the duffel and grabbed the tent kit. “Now which way should we face?”
I had one finger pointing toward center field, and another in the direction of home plate.
“Tell you what, we’ll compromise and face third base. That’s where my favorite Yankee played when I was growing up.”
“Yeah, mine too,” yelled John Jr. “A-Rod!”
The boys and I set up our pup tent. Actually, I set it up as Max and John Jr. continued to run amok on the infield dirt. They were still bursting at the seams with excitement, and it was incredible to watch them. Maybe I was finally getting my priorities in order.
Chapter 89
THEY EMBRACED AND KISSED like a couple of overheated teenagers in the foyer of the house in Back Bay. Nora had just arrived.
“What a treat,” said Jeffrey, holding her tight in his arms, stroking her hair. “I’ve got you for an entire long weekend. Imagine that.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, now. I feel bad, though, about keeping you from your novel,” she said. “I know how close you are to being done.”
“Actually, I’m not close at all.”
She looked at him, confused, and then he broke into a grin.
“You finished?”
“Yesterday, after a marathon all-night session. I must have been channeling my frustration over not hearing from you.”
“See?” she said with a playful poke at his chest. “I should leave you hanging more often.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The hanging part. I changed the ending; that’s how my main character dies now.”
“Really. Let me read it.”
“I will, except first I want to show you something. Come.”
“Yes, master. Anywhere.”
He took her hand and led her upstairs. They passed his library, heading toward the master bedroom.
“If you’re about to show me what I think you’re going to show me, I’ve already seen it,” she quipped.
He laughed. “Such a one-track mind!”
Steps before the doorway to the bedroom he stopped and turned. “Now close your eyes,” he whispered.
Nora obliged and he guided her into the room.
“Okay, you can open your eyes now,” he said.
Nora did. Her reaction was immediate. “Omigod.”
She looked at Jeffrey and then back above the fireplace again. She walked toward it, slowly. An oil painting—of her.
“Well?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said before realizing how that might sound, since it was her portrait. “I mean—”
“No, it’s beautiful, all right.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, rested his head on hers. “How could it not be?”
She continued to stare, and finally tears welled in her eyes. He really did love her, didn’t he? The painting represented how he felt, how he saw her.
Jeffrey gave her another squeeze. “See, it wasn’t a mattress. It was a canvas.” He glanced over his shoulder at the mahogany four-poster. “Of course, now that we’re up here…”
Nora turned around to face him. “You really know how to get a girl into bed, don’t you?”
He flashed a grin. “Whatever it takes.”
“I love it.”
“And I love you.”
They kissed and undressed, making their way toward the bed. He lifted her gently, a feather in his strong arms. He laid her down on top of the duvet and paused before joining her. His eyes unblinking, he simply wanted to enjoy the view. And Nora let him. He deserved to look at her naked; he was so good to her.
They made love slowly at first. Then feverishly, holding nothing back. Their legs and arms intertwined like a fuse. Until, finally, they exploded. At least Jeffrey did—and Nora played her part to perfection, at least as good as Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, though not to comic effect.
A minute passed as they embraced, neither saying a word. With a deep exhale, Jeffrey finally rolled to one side. “I’m hungry,” he said. “How about you?”
Nora propped up her head with the pillow. She couldn’t help seeing her portrait on the wall, and for a moment she stared into her own eyes. She wondered if there was any woman in the world quite like her.
“Yes,” Nora finally answered, softly. “I’m hungry, too.”
Chapter 90
NORA WAS STANDING over the polished stainless-steel Viking stovetop, looking like a dream, when Jeffrey joined her in the kitchen. “You were right,” he said. “A shower did feel good.”
“See, I told you. Nora knows best.”
He peeked over her shoulder at the skillet. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do in here?”
“Not a thing, darling. I’ve got everything under control.”
She reached for the spatula. There really was nothing he could do, was there? She’d made up her mind. As he sat down she gave his omelet one last flip.
There’s no turning back. I have to do this. Tonight’s the night.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Th
at magazine photographer is coming up next weekend. He’ll be here Saturday afternoon to take the shots of us for the article.”
“I guess that means you’ve thought it through and made your decision?”
“About telling the world what a truly lucky guy I am? Yes. Jeffrey Walker and Nora Sinclair are a blissfully married couple. If anything, I feel even more strongly about going public.”
She stifled a laugh.
“What?”
“You make it sound like a stock offering,” she said. “Like business.” Nora turned back to the burner and scooped up Jeffrey’s omelet, putting it on a plate.
For a silent minute she sat at the table with him and watched as he swallowed bite after bite. He looked happy and content. And why not?
“So tell me more about the novel,” she eventually said. “It ends with a hanging?”
He nodded. “I’ve written guillotines, sword duels, and firing squads, but never a good old-fashioned hanging.” Suddenly he lifted his hands up to his neck and made a choking noise before giving way to a laugh.
Nora tried her best to smile, too.
“You know, Nora, we should talk about—”
“What’s wrong?”
Jeffrey slowly opened his eyes. “Nothing,” he said with a catch in his throat. He cleared it. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah… we should talk about the—”
Again he stopped. Nora watched his face carefully. The drug was having some effect, but she worried she’d measured short on the dosage. He should be further along by now. Something must be wrong.
“What was I saying?” he asked, his voice straining for composure.
No sooner did he ask the question than he began to teeter in his chair. Then he started to sound like a broken record. “We should talk about… talk about… the honeymoon.” He grabbed his stomach, gasping in pain. He looked helplessly into Nora’s eyes.
She stood and went to the sink, filling a glass with water. With her back turned, she quickly poured in the powder, a heaping overdose of neostigmine, or, as her first husband, Tom the cardiologist, liked to call it… the kicker. Combined with the chloroquine phosphate Nora had mixed with the omelet, it would speed up the respiratory collapse and, ultimately, the cardiac failure. All while being completely absorbed into his system.
“Here, take this,” she said to Jeffrey, handing him the glass.
He coughed and sputtered. “Wha—what’s this?” he asked, barely able to focus on the fizzy concoction.
“Just drink it,” Nora said. “It will take care of everything. Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz.”
Chapter 91
HE WANTED ANSWERS; he needed to make the right connection. He had to make sense out of the puzzle pieces.
Suddenly this was very personal with O’Hara—the Tourist.
The mysterious file he’d rescued outside Grand Central Station.
The list of names, addresses, bank accounts, amounts.
A pizza delivery guy who had tried to kill him.
But who was behind that? The original seller, the blackmailer?
His own people?
What did they want? Did they know he’d copied the file? Did they only suspect it? Or were they simply taking out insurance in case he had?
They don’t trust me. I don’t trust them.
Isn’t that cozy and nice.
Way of the world these days.
So anyway, every free moment he got—like after his big day with the boys in Yankee Stadium—he worked with the names on the file, trying to figure it out. The truth, though, was that he wasn’t exactly a genius at this sort of thing.
He’d gotten this far, though.
All the individuals in the file were keeping money illegally in offshore bank accounts.
Over a billion dollars.
He had contacted a few of the banks on the list, but that probably wasn’t the way in.
He’d called the homes of a few of the tainted individuals. But that was a bad way to go, too. What did he expect them to admit to?
Then late on Sunday night, he was reading the New York Times, the Style section. For other reasons, actually. Nora Sinclair reasons. Things he could talk to her about.
And there it was!
Pow!
Bingo!
Three, four, five, nine, eleven names from “the list,” all of them at the same bigwig party held at the Waldorf-Astoria.
And he finally got it—the blackmail, the scam, the panic about it, even why he’d been called in to make sure everything went just right. And then, why somebody might want to kill him, just because he might know something.
Which, as it turned out now, he definitely did.
O’Hara knew a lot more than he wanted to.
About both of his undercover cases.
Chapter 92
CHOP, CHOP, O’HARA. Get a move on. Susan wanted an arrest, and that meant I was in hurry-up mode and presumably it would be okay if I bent a few rules. At least, that was my interpretation. Of course, sometimes I hear what I want to hear.
Sitting in a chair opposite Steven Keppler, I couldn’t help noticing a few things right away. First, the attorney had a really bad comb-over. Way too much surface area for way too little hair. Second, Nora’s tax guy was nervous.
Of course, a lot of people get nervous around an FBI agent—most of them for no reason.
I dispensed with any small talk and pulled a photograph out of my suit jacket. It was a print of one of the digitals I’d taken that first day in Westchester.
“Do you recognize this woman?” I asked, holding it up to him.
He leaned over his desk and answered quickly. “No, I don’t believe so.”
I extended my arm so he could see better. “Here, take a closer look. Please.”
He took the picture and did a B-movie actor’s job of studying it: furrowed brow, prolonged squint, finally an exaggerated shrug and a head shake. “No, she doesn’t look familiar,” he said. “Pretty lady, though.”
Steven Keppler handed back the picture, and I scratched my chin. “That’s really odd,” I said.
“Why is that?”
“How this pretty woman would have your business card and not know you.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Perhaps someone gave it to her,” he said.
“Sure, I suppose. Except that wouldn’t explain why this woman would tell me she knew you.”
Keppler went to his tie with one hand while simultaneously adjusting his comb-over with the other. His fidget factor was now officially off the charts.
“Let me take another look at the picture. May I?”
I handed it to him and watched, certain I was about to see some more classic bad acting. Sure enough.
“Oh, wait a minute! I think I do know who this is.” He tapped the photograph a few times with his forefinger. “Simpson… Singleton?”
“Sinclair,” I said.
“Of course, Olivia Sinclair.”
“Actually, it’s Nora.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure her name is Olivia.”
This coming from a guy who a minute ago claimed he didn’t know who she was.
“I take it she’s a client, then?” I asked. “Pretty, as you say. I’m surprised you didn’t remember.”
“I did some work for her, yes.”
“What kind of work?”
“Agent O’Hara, you know I can’t divulge that.”
“Sure you can.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I? The only thing I know is that you’ve claimed not to recognize one of your own clients, who happens to be the subject of my investigation. In other words, you’ve lied to a federal agent.”
“Need I remind you that you’re talking to an attorney?”
“Need I remind you that I can be back here in an hour with a search warrant to turn your office upside down.”
I stared at Keppler, expecting him to cut his losses and fold. Instead, the guy showed some real spunk. Actual
ly, he went on the offensive.
“Your absurd threats might work in some quarters,” he said with a raised chin, “but I protect the privacy of my clients. You may leave now.”
I stood from my chair.
“You’re right,” I said with a deep sigh. “You’re entitled to your client privilege and I’m way out of line. I apologize.” I reached into my jacket. “Listen, here’s my card. If you change your mind or if you’d like to arrange for police protection, give my office a call.”
His face soured. “Police protection? Are you telling me this woman’s dangerous? Olivia Sinclair? What exactly is she being investigated for?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Keppler. But, hey, I’m sure if she entrusted you with her business, she must be convinced that you’d never divulge anything about your dealings.”
His voice notched up an octave. “Wait a minute—where is Olivia Sinclair now? I mean, you’re following her, right?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “We were, but we don’t know where she is now. Mr. Keppler, I can’t tell you everything about this case, but I will tell you this. It involves murder. And possibly more than just one.”
So much for the lawyer’s spunk and his protection of his client’s privacy. When he was finally able to put a few words together, he asked me to sit down again.
“With pleasure,” I said.
Chapter 93
THE BOOK ON Jeffrey was closed. His numbered account was all but cleaned out, and there wasn’t a hint of suspicion from any of the authorities. The photographer from New York magazine never got his shots, and the interview itself was scrapped. All in all, Nora knew she should’ve been pleased with the way things had gone in Boston. But as she returned to New York, she knew that everything was wrong.
She was thinking about O’Hara.
She paused before reaching for her cell phone. She cautioned herself: she couldn’t let on what she knew.
Finally she dialed and hit SEND.
“Hello?” Well, well, it’s the bad boy himself.
“Is this my phone-sex partner?” Nora asked.
He let go with a chuckle. “Mom, is that you?”
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