James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

I glanced down to see the badass blade that I was ready to throw at her like some ninja warrior. Yeah, real badass. Way to go, O’Hara. It was a three-inch paring knife.

I shrugged. “Not too impressive, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen smaller,” she said. “Besides, it’s not the size but how you use it, right?”

She was funny, too. “Do women actually believe that?” I asked.

“No, not really.”

“Ouch,” I said. “So you really are here to hurt me.”

“Ah, there it is,” she said, pointing.

“What’s that?”

“False modesty. Self-deprecating humor. Your file says you’re an expert at it.”

“Really? What else does it say?” I asked.

“Tons of really interesting stuff, at least the parts I’m cleared to read,” she said. “In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

“To discuss my file?”

“No. To help you.”

“The Bureau already has me seeing a shrink.”

“I know. But he can’t do for you what I can,” she said.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Keep you alive.”

I stopped and stared into those green eyes of hers. “Okay. I think we’ve just hit on a common interest we have.”

Chapter 69

THE NEWS REPORT? The fact she was now here in my house? It would’ve been flat-out redundant to ask what division she was with at the Bureau.

Still, “I’m assuming the BAU isn’t making house calls to everyone named John O’Hara in this country, are they?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s just you, I’m afraid.”

More afraid than I should be?

We sat down at the kitchen table, and I watched as she reached for her shoulder bag and pulled out items as though it were the first day of school. Notepad. Pen. Folder. There was one thing I knew she wouldn’t have on her, however.

“My file…DNR?” I asked.

“DNC, too,” she answered. “You’re quite famous.”

“Infamous is more like it.”

“Self-deprecating, see?”

When your file is marked both “do not remove” and “do not copy,” chances are you’ve managed to FTU a few times over the years.

Fuck things up.

“So you’ve obviously seen the news report,” she began. “There’s a guy out there killing John O’Haras and only John O’Haras.”

“Except the news report didn’t say anything about the killer’s gender, and you just did. A guy. You know who he is?”

“Not only that, I’ve met him. Had a beer with him, in fact. Long story.”

“How romantic. Have I met him, too?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure of one thing, though. He really—and I mean really —must not like you.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Something to do with his sister’s death.”

My mind immediately kicked into overdrive as every case I ever worked flashed before me like a slide show on steroids. There were a few possibilities, but something in my gut was pointing to a single name. Hell, I’d just been reminded of her only minutes before, with Dr. Papenziekas.

Talk about something in my gut. She was pure poison, up and down, all around. It still hurt just saying her name.

“Nora?” I asked. “He’s the brother of Nora Sinclair?”

Chapter 70

AGENT BRUBAKER STARED across the table at me. I’d just mentioned Nora, and in return, she hadn’t said anything. Not yes, not no, not boo. There was no nod or even a touch to the tip of her nose. Nothing.

Instead, she simply folded her arms, tan and fit as they were.

“Do you happen to know the name of James Joyce’s wife?” she asked.

Strange time for a pop quiz on world lit. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Nora. Her name was Nora Joyce,” she said. “Do you know who directed the movie You’ve Got Mail ?”

That one I did know. What can I say? A Netflix subscription gets you watching a lot of movies you normally wouldn’t have time to see. Plus we had a pattern going here.

“Nora Ephron,” I said.

Agent Brubaker seemed a bit surprised by my movie trivia prowess, but kept going. “And have you ever heard of the Nora Whittaker Band?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Me, neither. They’re a small group out of Philly. No major hits, but they do write some interesting lyrics,” she said. “More important, do you know who has heard of them?”

“I give up.”

“Ned Sinclair.”

“Nora’s—”

“Brother, right. He’s been leaving me clues with every victim, although I highly doubt he thought I’d get here before he did,” she said. “I just got lucky.”

“Sounds like we both did.”

Agent Brubaker went on to detail Ned’s escape from the psychiatric hospital and the chief administrator happening to mention Nora’s name. Somehow Ned knew of my involvement with her.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one.

Once Sarah had Nora’s name, connecting her to the FBI was as easy as a criminal database search. After a few internal calls Sarah was sitting in front of Frank Walsh’s desk. I could just picture his face. As if you didn’t have enough problems, huh, O’Hara? You’re the target of a serial killer?

“Like I said, Ned Sinclair probably blames you for Nora’s death. The fact that on his way to get you he’s murdering innocent guys with your name only underscores his anger,” she said.

“So what does that make me, the guilty John O’Hara?”

Sarah looked at me incredulously. “Nora Sinclair was killing her lovers for money and it was your job to prove it. Instead, you gave new meaning to being an undercover agent and ended up in bed with her. Would you like me to continue?”

No, thank you. That’s quite all right. Point taken.

“I’m not the one who killed Nora, though,” I said.

“Yeah, but does Ned know that? All he could know is that the killer was never caught.”

“Fine—so let him come after me. I’ll be waiting.”

“With a bigger knife?”

“Very funny,” I said. “Better yet, you can go catch him. You said the two of you had a first date, right?”

“Which is why I got pulled from the case. Or at least off his trail. Instead, I’m on orders to take you off the map.”

“Is that what they’re calling it down at Quantico these days?” I asked. “Up here we still say ‘off the grid.’ Either way, I’m not doing it.”

“We put you someplace safe for a stretch—what’s the problem?”

“I’m working on a case, that’s what. Didn’t Walsh tell you?”

“I’m sure Warner Breslow will understand.”

Now it was my turn to shoot her the incredulous look.

“Okay, so maybe he won’t understand,” she said. “He’ll just have to accept it.”

I got up, grabbing the Bible off the counter. Without a word I placed it down in front of her, watching as she flipped to the page with the missing verse. After she read my sticky note, she intuitively flipped back to the inside cover to see if it was stamped. I was impressed with that.

Meanwhile, she looked like a kid on Christmas morning. I’d given her the gift of fresh evidence. There was nothing better than that for an agent.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Does it bother you that you’re no longer out there chasing Ned Sinclair?”

“Of course it does. Totally. It makes me crazy, actually.”

“And instead of that job, your job now is getting me out of this house, right?”

“Right. That makes me crazy, too.”

“So what would you say if I told you maybe there was a way to do both?”

Sarah thought for a few seconds, those green eyes of hers narrowing to a squint. She was wary. But she was also intrigued.