James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

With that—bang, bang—I downed the two shots of tequila in front of me. I put the card back in my wallet and took out some cash.

Now I was paying the bill.

“Keep the change,” I told the bartender, sliding off the back of my stool.

“Wait—where are you going?” Sarah asked.

I was already halfway toward the door and feeling no pain. “The same place you are,” I said.

Chapter 107

WE GRABBED A cab back into Manhattan, straight to the Upper East Side. To be precise, 63rd Street and Fifth Avenue. Before the doorman even opened the door for us, Sarah guessed it.

“Breslow?” she asked.

“Your analytical skills are…very good.”

As soon as we were in the elevator I told her about Breslow’s lawyer—one of his many lawyers, undoubtedly—who had given me the envelope. The note inside read simply, If you ever need a place to stay …

“It also listed the addresses,” I said.

She blinked a few times in disbelief. “ Addresses? As in plural?”

“New York, Chicago, L.A., and Dallas. There were about a dozen more overseas. Paris, London, Rome.”

“And that card opens them all?”

“Supposedly.” I’d yet to use it, a fact that left Sarah even more dumbfounded as the elevator opened onto a small foyer on the penthouse level. I explained that I hadn’t needed to stay in Manhattan since Breslow hired me. Or Paris, for that matter.

“Weren’t you at least curious?” she asked.

“Maybe I was. But then some crazy female FBI agent showed up at my house one morning. I sort of forgot about it,” I said. “Until now.”

There was no need to guess which door led to the apartment. There was only one.

“Wait,” whispered Sarah.

I was about to wave the card over a little box next to the door. “What is it?” I asked.

“What if someone’s in there?”

“Like who?”

“Like I don’t know,” she said. “Breslow?”

“The same Breslow I just spoke to in London?”

“Okay, someone else. Another person who works for him. Anyone.”

“You’re right,” I said with a straight face. “We should really turn around and head to the Bureau Hotel, which has free HBO.”

“Okay, okay,” she said.

Again I was about to open the door. Again she stopped me.

“Wait!” she said. “We can’t do this.”

“He gave me the card, Sarah. Really, it’s okay.”

“No, I mean we can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“What I think we’re about to do.”

“Which is what?” I asked, playing dumb. Better she say it than me. Sure enough…

“Have…sex,” she said.

“Who said anything about sex?”

“Well, I just did. You’re a guy and we’ve been drinking.”

“Hey, that’s sexist!”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

I smiled. “Does that mean we’re going to have sex now?”

That got me a big eye roll and a solid right hook to my good shoulder. She leaned forward. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

“A comedy routine? Not a bad one, either.”

“It’s called near-death attraction,” she said. “It’s what happens when two people face a dangerous situation together and survive.”

“You left out the tequila.”

“That just greases the wheels.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

She punched me again. My good shoulder was no longer so good. “I’m just saying we shouldn’t confuse our working together with being together,” she said.

“You know what? You’re right. That would really complicate things,” I said as if coming to an epiphany. “We actually should go. We shouldn’t go inside and have maybe the greatest time of our lives.”

She stared at me before breaking into her goofy laugh. “Okay, despite the fact that was the weakest and most lame-ass attempt at reverse psychology I’ve ever heard, I’m going to propose something.”

“Do we have to get married again?”

As soon as I said it I immediately covered up my shoulder. Thankfully, she spared me.

“No. This is what I propose,” she said. “You should kiss me.”

“I should?”

“Yes. If it feels right, we go inside. If not, we leave. And never talk about this ever again.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of pressure on one kiss,” I said. “Especially for a guy who’s out of practice.”

“Already you’re making excuses?”

“No. Just trying to negotiate better terms.”

She stepped toward me. We were inches apart, her lips right there. She was toying with me and I was loving it, actually.

“Take it or leave it, O’Hara,” she said. “Kiss me, you fool.”

Chapter 108

I THOUGHT THE ringing in my head the next morning was maybe a nasty little hangover saying hello. Instead it turned out to be Sarah’s phone, which she had placed by the bed. It seems that Dan Driesen was calling at the crack of dawn.

With one eye open, I looked over from my pillow to see Sarah leaning up against the headboard, the sheet barely covering her body. She didn’t need to put her index finger over her lips as she did, but I couldn’t blame her for making sure I had no intention of talking, let alone breathing too loudly.

As for my belting out a crackerjack rendition of “Danny Boy,” I was assuming that was off the table as well.

Sarah listened intently. I couldn’t hear what Driesen was telling her, but it became very clear when she sighed heavily and uttered only one word.

“Where?” she asked.

Ned Sinclair had killed again.

What balls. Or maybe he just hadn’t seen a TV or newspaper since his name and picture were released to the world. Maybe he was simply going about his business like a racehorse wearing blinders. No outside distractions. No awareness or fear of anyone chasing after him. Nothing but the task at hand: my murder.

Sarah peppered Driesen with questions, the first being whether there was any note, any message, any any thing found on Sinclair’s latest John O’Hara victim. Also, were there any witnesses? Any new leads at all?

Again, I didn’t need to hear Driesen to know the answers. The way Sarah frowned spoke for itself. There was no note or message found, no witnesses or new leads. The investigation, so to speak, was clueless.

Which made the next part of the conversation that much harder for Sarah.

“You’ve got to let me go there,” she implored Driesen.

Never mind exactly where “there” was on the map. I’d learn the hometown of the latest victim soon enough.

The point was, it didn’t matter if this John O’Hara was from Spokane or Skokie, Saint Louis or Saint Paul—Sarah wasn’t going there. I knew it, and deep down she knew it, too. She could argue all she wanted, but Driesen wasn’t about to change his mind any more than Ned Sinclair was about to forget what Sarah looked like.

A minute later, after exhausting every possible angle she could think of, she finally waved the white flag.

“Let me know how it goes,” she said before hanging up.

I was finally free to open my mouth, but I knew better. She needed to cool down. Maybe a half minute of silence came and went before she turned to me.

“Casper, Wyoming,” she said. “He was found about three hours ago.”

“Same caliber?”

“Yep. One to the head, one to the heart.”

“Driesen’s going there?”

“Mainly to address the media. It’ll be a world-class zoo,” she said. “All the more reason why it would be safe for me to go.”

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“I’m supposed to take a vacation,” she said. “Two weeks, mandatory.”

“And me?”

But I was already pretty sure of the answer. Sarah’s look confirmed it.