James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“I saw the most awful thing on the news earlier today,” she said. “Ethan Breslow and the doctor he just married were murdered on their honeymoon.”

Marshall shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for his father.”

“Wait—who’s Ethan Breslow?” asked John Jr.

“He’s the son of a very wealthy man,” I said.

“A very, very wealthy man,” added Marshall. “Warner Breslow is a lot like Donald Trump…only less modest.”

Judy shot him a disapproving look, although she wasn’t about to disagree. Warner Breslow’s ego was world-renowned. It even had its own Wikipedia page.

“Have they caught the killer?” I asked.

“No,” said Judy. “The news said there were no witnesses. They were in Turks and Caicos, I think.”

“Turks and where?” asked Max, unaware that he’d just walked into another one of his grandma’s teaching moments.

“Turks and Caicos, ” she said. “It’s an island in the Caribbean—really a bunch of islands.”

As she began a brief history lesson about the British West Indies, I heard the phone ring inside the house. I was about to get up when Marshall beat me to the punch. “I’ll get it,” he said.

Less than twenty seconds later, he returned to the table, looking utterly shocked and confused. He had his hand over the phone.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Warner Breslow,” he said. “He wants to speak to you.”

Chapter 8

COINCIDENCE WAS NOT the word; downright spooky was more like it.

Marshall handed me the phone and I walked inside the house, finally sitting down in the den off the kitchen. I’d never met Warner Breslow, let alone spoken to him. Until now.

“This is O’Hara.”

He introduced himself and apologized for calling me at home. I listened to every word, but what I really heard—what really struck me—was his voice. When I’d seen him on television doing interviews, he spoke every bit like the powerful and überalpha male that he was. A true world beater.

Now he just sounded beaten, and maybe vulnerable.

“I assume you’ve heard about my son and his wife,” he said.

“Yes, I have. I’m very sorry.”

There was silence on the line. I wanted to say something more, but I couldn’t think of anything useful or appropriate. I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t know yet why he was calling.

But I had a gut feeling.

“You were recommended to me by a mutual friend,” he said. “Do you think you can help me?”

“I guess that depends. What do you need? What kind of help are you looking for?”

“I can’t put my faith in a bunch of palm-tree detectives,” he said. “I want to hire you to conduct your own investigation separate from the police in Turks and Caicos.”

“That’s a little tricky,” I said.

“That’s exactly why I’m calling you,” he retorted. “Do I need to recite your resumé?”

No, he didn’t. Still.

“Mr. Breslow, I’m afraid FBI agents aren’t allowed to moonlight.”

“What about suspended FBI agents?” he asked.

I was racing through my mental Rolodex, trying to think who our mutual friend at the Bureau could be. Breslow had access to somebody.

“I suppose I could talk to my boss,” I said.

“I already have.”

“You know Frank Walsh?”

“He and I are old friends. Given the circumstances, both yours and mine, he’s willing to make an exception in this case. You have a green light from the Bureau.”

Then, before I could even take a breath, Breslow got right down to it. He might have been consumed by grief, but he was still a businessman. An extremely formidable one.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“For your time and services. Plus expenses, of course. You’re worth it.”

When I didn’t respond right away, he applied some pressure. Or was it leverage?

“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but your suspension is without pay, correct?”

“You certainly do your homework.”

“What about your boys?” he asked. “Do they do their homework? I mean, are they good students?”

“So far,” I said, a bit hesitant. He was bringing my children into this. “Why are you asking about my boys?”

“Because I didn’t mention the bonus. You should know what it is before you give me your answer,” he said. “It’s what you get if your work helps give me the only small measure of relief that I could ever have in this situation,” he said. “Justice.”

And then Warner Breslow told me exactly what justice was worth to him. He specified my bonus.

And I’ll tell you this: the man really knew how to close a deal.

Chapter 9

THREE THOUSAND MILES away, on the seventh floor of the Eagle Mountain Psychiatric Hospital on the outskirts of Los Angeles, thirty-one-year-old Ned Sinclair lay in his bed counting the white ceiling tiles above him for maybe the one millionth time. It was a mindless routine, all in the name of self-preservation—and, well, sanity. Counting the tiles, over and over, was his only escape from this godforsaken hellhole.

Until now.

Ned heard the squeaking wheels of the drug cart heading down the gray linoleum floor of the hallway, as it always did for what the nurses sarcastically called the nightcaps—the various narcotics used to keep the psychiatric patients nice and quiet during the night, when the hospital employed a skeleton crew.

“Time for your meds,” came a voice at the door. “No playing games tonight, Ned.”

Ned didn’t turn to look. He kept counting the ceiling tiles. Twenty-two … twenty-three …

For the past four years, ever since Ned arrived at Eagle Mountain, the same female nurse had pushed that drug cart on weekday nights. Her name was Roberta, and she was about as friendly and engaging as one of the hospital walls. She was built like one, too. She hardly ever spoke to her fellow workers, and certainly didn’t chat up the patients. All she did was what she got paid to do: dole out drugs. Nothing more. And that was fine by Ned.

But two weeks earlier, Roberta had been fired. Sticky fingers with some of the pills, it was rumored. It’s always the quiet ones.

Her replacement was a guy who liked to be called by his nickname, Ace. Asshole would’ve been more fitting. The aide was loud, obnoxious, ignorant, and didn’t know when to shut up. Clearly, the applicant pool for the graveyard shift was as shallow as a California puddle in August.

“C’mon, Ned. I know you can hear me in that screwed-up little head of yours,” said Ace, wheeling in the cart. “Say something. Talk to me, dude.”

But Ned had nothing to say.

Ace didn’t let up. He hated being ignored. He got enough of that in the L.A. bars, where he would hit on women with the deft touch of a wrecking ball. Glaring at Ned, he wondered, Who the hell is this dickwad patient to give me the silent treatment?

“You know, I did some asking around about you here,” he said. “Found out you were some kind of math genius, a hotshot college professor. But something bad happened to you. What was it? You hurt somebody? Hurt yourself? Is that why you’re up here on the seventh floor?”

The seventh floor at Eagle Mountain was reserved for the PAINs—staff shorthand for “patients abusive in nature.” Accordingly, they were never—not ever—supposed to get hold of anything that was sharp, or could be made sharp. They weren’t even allowed to shave themselves.

Ned remained silent.

“Oh, wait, wait—I remember what it was now,” said Ace. “They told me you lost your shit when your sister died.” He smiled wickedly. “Was she hot, Ned? I bet your sister was hot. Nora, right? I’d tap that sweet ass if she were here. But of course, she’s not here, is she? Nora’s dead. She’s a bony ass now, that’s all she is!”