James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

The reason Jason Hawthorne and his sandwich-eating entourage were in the room was due to everyone’s boss.

The president.

That was the second bell that went off in Sarah’s head.

The president’s brother-in-law was named John O’Hara.

Chapter 33

“SARAH, CAN I see you in my office?” asked Driesen as the conference room emptied after the briefing. He was in the middle of a good-bye handshake with Hawthorne, which was clearly not a mutual-admiration moment.

“Sure,” Sarah answered, as if it were no big deal. But it was a very big deal.

There were two levels of briefings that took place at the BAU. Both were classified, but only one was completely unfiltered. That briefing was the one that took place in Driesen’s office. Like the original Lucky Strike cigarettes, Driesen gave it to you straight.

With Hawthorne gone, Sarah followed Driesen past his secretary, Allison, and into his corner office, which looked out over a large marine training field.

“Close the door behind you,” he said, heading behind his desk.

She did, then sat down in one of the two chairs facing him. He stared at her for a moment. Then, of all things, he let go with a chuckle.

Sarah did the same.

There was nothing funny about a serial killer and the fact that there were three innocent people dead, but sometimes battlefield humor was the only way to stay sane. In this case, the implied joke was about the president. Specifically, what he might have been thinking in the far—and definitely off-the-record—reaches of his mind when he was first briefed about the John O’Hara Killer.

I’ve got one target you can have for free, buddy. Take him, he’s yours.

John O’Hara, the president’s brother-in-law, was a major-league screwup. If he wasn’t being caught by the TMZ cameras stumbling out of a Manhattan bar at 3:00 a.m., he was on cable television—at about the same time—starring in his own infomercial selling “authentic” presidential sheets and pillowcases. “Just like they have in the Lincoln Bedroom!”

Probably because he’d stolen them.

The guy was a Billy Carter–size embarrassment. And a late-night comedian’s dream come true.

“Do you think it’s somehow connected to him?” asked Sarah. “I can’t imagine…”

Driesen shrugged. “It wouldn’t make much sense. Then again, going around killing people with the same name doesn’t exactly scream ‘logical,’ now, does it?”

“But of all names to choose…”

“I know. Hawthorne, as you saw, is already at DEFCON 1. He placed a detail on the brother-in-law starting last night.”

“Was O’Hara told why he was getting protection?” Sarah asked. She thought she already knew the answer.

“No. That’s the other tricky thing about this,” said Driesen. “O’Hara’s big mouth aside, this can’t go public. We can’t have a nationwide panic involving every poor son of a bitch out there named John O’Hara, at least not yet.”

“Is that why Hawthorne was here and not Samuelson?” asked Sarah.

Driesen smiled as if to say, “Good for you.” He appreciated that his young agent had grown quite adept at recognizing political implications. Cliff Samuelson, Hawthorne’s boss, was director of the Secret Service.

“I didn’t ask, but it’s safe to assume. They need as much separation from the president as they can get,” said Driesen.

“God, I can see the headline already: PRESIDENT PROTECTS BROTHER-IN-LAW O’HARA BUT NONE OF THE OTHERS.”

“Needless to say, that headline can never be written.”

“But at some point—”

“Yes, at some point we’ll have to go public with the killings, blast it from every rooftop. But between the first and third dead O’Hara, there are over forty John O’Haras on the map that the killer didn’t kill. The point being we can’t pretend to think we can protect them all.”

“So in the meantime?”

“That only makes your job harder,” he said.

Sarah cocked her head. “ My job?”

“You didn’t think you were in here to hear about my fly fishing plans for the weekend, did you? You leave tomorrow morning.”

Sarah didn’t need to ask where he was sending her. The first rule of catching serial killers? Always start with the warmest dead body.

“I hear Park City’s nice this time of year,” she deadpanned.

He smiled. “Listen, I realize you’re just back from Florida and that your suitcase is sitting in your office. So take the night off, will you? And by that I don’t mean go home and do laundry.”

“Okay, no laundry,” she said with a chuckle.

“I’m serious,” he retorted. “Go do something fun, kick up your heels. Lord knows you probably need it.”

He was right about that.

“Any suggestions?” she asked.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Chapter 34

SARAH RANG THE doorbell to Ted’s penthouse apartment for a second time, waiting in the hallway of the Piermont Residences in downtown Fairfax and wondering why he wasn’t answering. She knew he was there.

Only minutes earlier, she’d called his number from her own apartment four floors below, dialing *67 first to block her name from coming up on his caller ID.

It was all pretty funny, she thought, worthy of a giggle. The last time she called a boy and hung up as soon as he answered, she was probably in junior high school, listening to Bananarama on her Sony Walkman and wearing acid-washed Guess jeans.

Now here she was listening for Ted behind his door while wearing a long navy blue raincoat. And nothing else. Not a stitch underneath.

Kick up my heels? Go and have fun? If only Driesen could see me now. On second thought, that’s probably not a good idea.

If only Ted would answer the door. C’mon, honey, I’m starting to feel a draft underneath this coat. Not to mention the fact that I’m a tad bit embarrassed.

They’d only been dating for five months, after all. Then again, that was two months longer than her last relationship, and three months longer than the one before that.

With Ted, things seemed to be different, though. And much, much better. He was a successful D.C. attorney, “high-powered and even higher-charging,” according to a profile of him in the Washington Post . He knew all about the long hours and the strains of a professional career. Sure, maybe he had one too many macho photos of himself hanging in the apartment—white-water rafting, skiing the back bowls of Vail—but Sarah was willing to overlook a touch of vanity. He wasn’t the possessive type; he didn’t need to own her. That was nice; very nice.

Of course, the fact that he was totally smokin’ hot was a bonus.

Sarah pressed her ear tight against the door. She thought she could hear music coming from inside the apartment, but it didn’t seem loud enough to cover up the sound of the doorbell.

Then it dawned on her. It was just a hunch, but her hunches had been pretty good of late. Turning around, Sarah reached under the fire-hose cabinet attached to the wall opposite Ted’s door, her hand blindly feeling for a small magnetic box.

The definition of trust in a fledgling relationship? When he tells you where he keeps his spare key.

Maybe after tonight, she’d tell him where she kept hers.

Chapter 35

SARAH LET HERSELF into the apartment, standing still in the foyer for a moment to determine the source of the music. It was coming from Ted’s bedroom, at the end of the hall.

She was hardly a jazz aficionado, but within two steps she easily recognized Gerry Mulligan’s baritone saxophone. Ted was a huge fan who listened almost religiously to Mulligan’s recordings, especially the live ones. Carnegie Hall, Glasgow, the Village Vanguard.