James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

No, the next morning was okay. I didn’t need to press him. Besides, more important than the “when” was the “who,” as in, Who else would know he was doing me this favor? No one, I hoped.

“So this is just between the two of us, right?” I asked, wanting to make sure.

“That’s what Tiger Woods said,” he shot back.

He laughed while I wondered if that was actually a yes or a no. Finally, he assured me that I had nothing to worry about. No one would know.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t sweat it. Any friend of Larry’s is a friend of mine,” he said. Then, of all things, Dimitri winked. “And if you actually ever meet Larry, you can tell him I said so.”

Chapter 48

HURRY UP AND WAIT.

That was pretty much the feeling I had as I returned home to Riverside for an overnight holding pattern, my next move at the mercy of a ham-sandwich-eating Greek pathologist who didn’t like to be rushed.

In the meantime, I still owed Warner Breslow an update. After dialing his office, I was told by his secretary that he was out. “But let me patch you into his cell,” she quickly added.

Clearly, I was on the guy’s short list.

“What’ve you got?” he asked right off the bat. There was no polite chitchat upfront. Hell, there wasn’t even a hello.

My update covered everything I knew on what I said was “our Chinese angle,” including the fact that I was waiting on a full background check on the one Chinese passport holder who’d stayed at the Governor’s Club.

What I didn’t say a word about, though, was my trip to the Queens medical examiner’s office and the possible connection—or lack thereof—between Ethan and Abigail’s murder and the death of those honeymooners out at the airport. Until I got my answer back on the cyclosarin question, there was no point getting into it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call my friends at our embassy in Beijing?” Breslow asked. “You know, maybe expedite that background check?”

The impatience in his tone wasn’t so much with me as it was with the general concept of waiting, something billionaires never seemed to be very good at. My only play was to make clear what exactly he was waiting on.

“With all due respect to your friends at the embassy,” I said, “the kind of background check we’re talking about doesn’t exactly come through official channels.”

That wasn’t me at my most subtle, but sometimes less isn’t more. More is more. Especially with a guy like Breslow.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Call me as soon as you know anything else.”

“Will do.”

I hung up the phone, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and quickly flipped through the mail that I’d brought in. There was no second coming of a Bible or any other mysterious package.

In fact, bills and catalogs notwithstanding, the only actual “mail” was a postcard from Marshall and Judy, who were on their Mediterranean cruise. On the front was a picture of Malta. On the back, in Judy’s handwriting, was a brief essay on the history of Malta. Of course. The only thing not Malta-related was her postscript. “Don’t forget to water my garden!”

Oops.

Beer in hand, I went out back and turned on the sprinkler, not a minute too soon. Judy’s garden was in dire shape. Droopy petunias and begonias everywhere.

After waiting a minute to make sure the sprinkler was reaching them all, I took a seat on a nearby chaise. Stretching my legs out, it occurred to me that this was the first time in days that I actually had a moment to relax. I drew a deep breath, closing my eyes. Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible thing, having a little time to kill.

Suddenly I opened my eyes.

“John O’Hara?” came a voice behind me.

Chapter 49

THE BAD FEELING engulfed me well before I turned my head. When I saw who it was, the feeling only got worse.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

It was far from a Christian welcome, but I couldn’t help it. Hit your thumb with a hammer and you’re going to scream. Step barefoot on a piece of glass and you’re going to bleed. See the lawyer for the guy who killed your wife standing uninvited in your backyard?

You’re going to be pissed off.

“I tried ringing the doorbell,” said Harold Cornish. “I think it might be broken.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” I said.

Harold Cornish, perpetually tan and perfectly coiffed, stood before me wearing a three-piece suit and a tie with a Windsor knot. It was late June, hovering in the mideighties, and there wasn’t even a suggestion of sweat anywhere on him. Amazing. He was as cool out of the courtroom as he was in it.

I hated the guy.

And that’s what really pissed me off. Because deep down I knew that I was being completely irrational.

I didn’t hate Cornish for representing McMillan. Due process; I get it. Even the biggest pricks in the world deserve a lawyer.

No, I hated Cornish because he was a good lawyer. Facing a maximum sentence of ten years or even more, McMillan basically got the minimum. Three years. All because of Cornish.

“You certainly don’t owe me any favors, but I want to ask you something,” he said. “You’re aware that my client will be released from prison in a couple of days, right?”

I nodded. Nothing more. I wasn’t about to let on that McMillan’s release had preoccupied me to the point of near self-destruction.

“So this is what I’d like to ask you,” continued Cornish. “McMillan very much wants to apologize to you.” He immediately raised his palms. “Now, before you react, please let me finish.”

“Did I react?” I asked calmly.

“No, you didn’t, and I appreciate that,” he said. “I know my client apologized to you and your family in court, but after doing his time he wants to apologize again, in person. Privately. Would you consider that?”

I immediately thought of Dr. Kline and all the great strides I was making with him. I could even hear his voice inside my head, telling me to keep my cool, stay under control. No more Agent Time Bomb.

But I couldn’t help it. Cornish had lit the fuse and there was no stopping me. I got up, walked straight over to him, and stood facing him toe to toe. Then, at the top of my lungs, I gave him my answer.

“TELL YOUR FUCKING CLIENT TO GO TO HELL!”

Cornish blinked slowly, took one step back, and nodded. “I understand,” he said.

Whether he really did or not, I didn’t know and I didn’t care. He turned and left without saying another word.

I waited until he disappeared around the corner, heading toward the front of the house. There was still half a beer left in my hand, and I polished it off with one long swig.

Then, without thinking, I added something else to my to-do list: clean up the broken glass from the patio.

Smash!

I heaved the bottle against the house so hard my shoulder nearly popped out of its socket.

Apparently, I hadn’t made the great strides that I’d thought.

In fact, I still had a long, long way to go.

Book Three

“Oh, the Places You’ll Go”

Chapter 50

“YOU MUST BE Agent Brubaker,” said the officer greeting Sarah outside the sheriff’s office in Candle Lake, New Mexico.

“Yes.” And you must still be in high school, Sarah thought as she shook the young man’s hand. Seriously, I have food in my refrigerator that’s older than you.

“Sheriff Insley asked that I bring you out to the lake as soon as you arrived,” he said. “He’s there now. You ready to go?”

“Is that where you’re looking for John O’Hara?”

“Yeah. O’Hara’s wife thought he’d gone either drinkin’ or fishin’, and there was no one who saw him at any of the bars in town.”