James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“Were there?”

“No. Not in Dublin, not in Joyce, not in Bloom.”

Sarah looked at Hummel, deflated. His theory got an A for imagination but an F for outcome. Why is he telling me all this? There’s got to be a reason. A good one, I hope.

“Are there other towns?” she asked. She knew Bloom’s wife in the novel was named Molly. “Is there a Molly, Nebraska, for instance? A Molly, Wyoming?”

“No, but there is a Bloomfield, New Mexico,” he said.

Sarah frowned. “That’s kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it was a lark, all right. But there’s one John O’Hara living there, so I called anyway and spoke to Cooper Millwood, the chief of police. Turns out they haven’t had a murder in that town for seventeen years. But then he said it was funny that I called.”

“Funny?”

“Not the ha-ha kind,” said Hummel. “Chief Millwood told me that he’d just spoken with his cousin, who’s the sheriff over in Candle Lake, a nearby town. They haven’t had a murder there for over twenty-one years. Just this morning, though? They got a report of a missing person.”

Sarah straightened up in her chair. “You’re kidding me.”

“What are the odds, right? Candle Lake resident John O’Hara hasn’t been seen for over twenty-four hours.”

Hummel was right. Sarah was only passing through. The first rule of catching a serial killer? Always go where the warmest body is.

Good-bye, Park City. Hello, Candle Lake.

All courtesy of the second rule of catching a serial killer.

If at all possible, get lucky.

Chapter 40

GATE B20, TUCKED into the corner of the Delta terminal at Kennedy Airport, was stuffed to the gills with would-be tourists, all of them waiting—and waiting and waiting—to board their flight to Rome, which had been delayed at first for two hours and then again for an additional hour that Sunday afternoon.

Tempers were running a bit high.

Meanwhile, batteries were running low. No wonder every outlet at the free charging station in the corner was spaghetti-jammed with cords for a slew of phones and MP3 players.

Some kilowatt-slurping fool had even brought his own power strip to provide some additional outlets for five iPads, one for each member of his family.

Perhaps the only two passengers not the least bit bothered by the delay were newlyweds Scott and Annabelle Pierce, who were camped out all lovey-dovey at one of the small tables in front of the Starbucks located a stone’s throw from the gate.

The two caffeine junkies had actually first met at a Starbucks. It was the one on East 57th Street between Lexington and Park Avenues in Manhattan—not to be confused with the Starbucks diagonally across the street, on the north side.

Annabelle had picked up what she thought was her grande chai latte with double foam only to realize that she had mistakenly grabbed Scott’s grande nonfat cappuccino, served extra hot.

“I’ll try yours if you try mine,” Scott said.

Annabelle smiled, even blushed a little. “Deal.”

It was love at first sip, and within minutes they had exchanged phone numbers. Almost two years later to the day, they exchanged wedding vows.

Now here they were, young and blissfully in love, about to start their honeymoon in Rome. Who cares if the flight’s delayed? What’s a few more hours?

“Let’s look at them again!” gushed Annabelle, still glowing from the ceremony and reception, held at the New York Botanical Garden. “Start from the beginning.”

They’d received a gazillion gifts, many of them ridiculously expensive, thanks to the friends of their well-to-do parents, but so far the very best gift of all had been a small digital camera. A used one, no less.

Oh, but how it was used.

Scott’s best man, Phil Burnham—Phil B. for short—had christened a new Canon PowerShot by taking pictures with it throughout the wedding. After the reception he slapped a bow on the camera and gave it to Scott and Annabelle as they got into their limo. Pretty darn clever.

Timely, too. While the official wedding photographer was still weeks and weeks away from delivering her fancy black-and-white shots in a customized silk-covered album, Scott and Annabelle, huddled behind the Canon camera’s three-inch screen, were already able to relive their big day over and over.

That is, until everything suddenly went flying. Their table, their boarding passes, their two coffees. Everything, crash and splat all over the ground.

“Oh, my God!” said the clumsy stranger who had tripped over a carry-on bag that was leaning against a nearby chair. “I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Scott, picking up the table. Annabelle, meanwhile, was checking to see if anything had spilled on her white capri pants.

“Oh, and look, I’ve knocked over your coffees,” said the stranger. “Please, let me buy you new ones.”

“Really, it’s okay, don’t worry about it,” said Scott, who looked a little like Colin Hanks, the son of Tom Hanks.

“No, I insist. It’s the least I could do.”

Scott and Annabelle exchanged glances, as if asking each other, “How do you want to play this?” One of the neatest things about them as a couple, according to their friends, was that they could have entire conversations without saying a word.

Scott raised an eyebrow. Annabelle pursed her lips. They both nodded in agreement.

“Okay, if you insist,” Scott politely told the stranger. “Thank you.”

“No; thank you . Just tell me what you were drinking.”

Scott obliged, completely unaware that he and his beautiful new bride were about to learn one of the most valuable lessons in life.

Never let a serial killer buy you coffee.

Chapter 41

“OKAY, HERE WE go, good as new…one grande chai latte with double foam and one grande nonfat cappuccino, extra hot,” said the stranger, who had quickly and oh so smoothly morphed from clumsy to kind in the eyes of Scott and Annabelle. “But I have to ask—how do you drink it when it’s so hot?”

“I guess I have a high threshold for pain,” said Scott jokingly as the stranger handed him his new cappuccino. As if to prove his own assertion, he promptly took a sip and smiled.

Oh, the irony.

The stranger smiled back—wide, real wide—before turning to Annabelle. “How about yours? Is there enough foam for you?”

“Let’s see,” she said, lifting the lid of her chai latte and putting the cup to her lips. She quickly gave it a thumbs-up. “Plenty of foam.”

“Are you sure, honey?” Scott deadpanned.

Annabelle was sporting a cute little foam mustache. She looked like a model for the “Got Milk?” ad campaign.

“Excuse me for a second,” Scott told the stranger. He promptly leaned over and kissed the mustache off Annabelle’s upper lip. She blushed, he laughed.

The stranger nodded knowingly, pointing at them. “I thought so. You two are newlyweds, aren’t you? I had a feeling. Am I right?”

“Spot-on,” said Scott. “We were married last night.”

“And with any luck we’ll leave for our honeymoon before our first anniversary,” said Annabelle with a wry smile.

“Are you on this flight?” Scott asked the stranger. “You going to Rome?”

“Yes,” the stranger lied. “If it ever actually—”

“Wait,” said Annabelle, craning her neck to peek at the gate area. “I don’t believe it! I think we’re finally boarding.”

Sure enough, Delta flight 6589 to Rome was finally going to take off.

“I guess I’ll see you two on board,” said the stranger. “First I’ve got to buy some gum for my ears. They pop like crazy when I fly.”

“I know what you mean. Mine, too,” said Scott. “Hey, thanks again for the coffee.”