James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

With perhaps a little encouragement from police commissioner Joseph Eldridge, however, Pierre managed to provide a humdinger of a make-good. “I won it in a poker game,” he told me on the phone in his French accent, his exact whereabouts undisclosed. “Zee guy had a flush, and I had zee full boat.”

I didn’t know if Pierre was simply making a joke. I didn’t care. For one glorious week, I had a forty-foot-long tall-rig Catalina and the chance to dust off my skippering skills, which I learned as a teenager during three summers at my local YMCA sailing camp.

I also had one hell of a first mate joining me for the ride. Even the scars from her bullet wounds were damn sexy, at least to me.

“I’m grabbing a beer,” said Sarah, heading down to the galley. “You want one?”

“Absolutely,” I said from the helm.

Back in Riverside, everyone had been home for a couple of weeks. Max and John Jr. raved about their time at Camp Wilderlocke, and Judy and Marshall raved about their Mediterranean cruise. Still, with all their great stories to tell, it was my story of bringing down two serial killers that they couldn’t get enough of.

“A doubleheader!” Max called it from underneath his Yankees cap. As for my being Ned Sinclair’s ultimate target, he proceeded to offer up the ultimate solution. “You should’ve just changed your name, Dad!”

That gave everyone around the dinner table that night a good laugh. It also gave me further proof that if family is the true currency of happiness, I was a very wealthy man.

Of course, having Warner Breslow’s check in my bank account wasn’t too shabby, either. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for services rendered.

And in my safe at home was the signed agreement for my bonus.

Breslow had asked me if Max and John Jr. were good students. “Do they do their homework?” he inquired. They had always gotten good grades, but now they had even more incentive to study. Breslow would be paying for both their college educations.

“Ethan and Abigail loved kids,” he told me. “For as long as I live, I’ll be reminded of that when I think of your two boys.”

The tabloids would still write nasty things about Warner Breslow, and some of it might even be true. But I’d like to think I caught a glimpse of the man few other people had ever seen. What I saw was just a father who loved his son deeply.

“Here you go,” said Sarah, back on deck.

She handed me an ice-cold Turk’s Head beer and we clicked cans, toasting our beautiful sunny afternoon in paradise.

Neither of us owned a crystal ball, and there were still things to learn about each other in the weeks, months, and, I hoped, years that lay ahead. But this much I knew for sure: there was no one else I’d rather be with on that boat. And I had a pretty good notion that Sarah felt the same way.

“So where should we head?” she asked.

I smiled. “Good question.”

We both looked around. There was nothing but blue sky, blue water, and endless possibilities for the two of us.

Sarah stepped behind me at the helm, wrapping her arms around my waist. Then she whispered in my ear.

“Let’s just see where the wind takes us, John O’Hara.”

DID DIANA HOTCHKISS JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED? WAS SHE DEPRESSED OR THE KEEPER OF ONE SECRET TOO MANY?

FOR AN EXCERPT, PLEASE TURN THE PAGE.

LET’S SEE WHAT she has in her medicine cabinet. I mean, as long as I’m here.

Careful, though. Before you turn on the light, close the bathroom door. The rest of her apartment is dark. Best to keep it that way.

What do we have here…lotions, creams, moisturizers, lip butter, ibuprofen. What about the meds? Amoxil for a sinus infection…lorazepam for anxiety…

Diana has anxiety? What the heck does she have to be anxious about? She’s the most put-together woman I know.

And what’s this—Cerazette for…birth control. She’s on the pill? Diana is on the pill? She never told me that. She isn’t having sex with me. Not yet, anyway. So who is she having sex with?

Diana, every time I think I have you figured out, you remind me that you’re a mystery. A mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma. Joe Pesci’s line from JFK, though it was first uttered by Winston Churchill in a 1939 radio address, describing Russia. President Roosevelt, who grew very close to Churchill during the war, once wrote to him, It is fun to be in the same decade with you.

Diana, it is fun to be in the same decade with you. Now excuse me while I check out your bedroom closet.

Same drill, get inside, close the door, then turn on the light. Keep the light from filtering into the remainder of the condo.

Whoa. At least a hundred pairs of shoes lined up meticulously. Stuart Weitzman stilettos. Black knee-high Manolo Blahnik alligator-skin boots. Roger Vivier heels with the satin-rose toe. Red Jimmy Choos. Pink Escada evening sandals. Black Chanel pumps, appropriate for the boardroom or the five-star restaurant.

Woodrow Wilson favored white dress shoes with his linen suits. Lincoln had the biggest presidential shoe, a size fourteen, while Rutherford B. Hayes was the smallest at a seven.

You’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes my mind wanders. Kind of like Moses through the desert. Except that he had a better excuse. And a speech impediment, unlike me, unless you count putting your foot in your mouth.

Anyway, that’s a long story, so back to our regularly scheduled programming, Lady Diana’s Closet. And what do we have here, hanging behind a row of dresses, hidden from all but the keenest of voyeurs? Hmmm…

Leather vests and headgear. Chains and whips. Vibrators of various kinds and colors. One of them is purple and curved on the end (not sure why). Most of them are shaped like the male organ but some have appendages for some reason. There are some black beads on a string (what are those for?). Nipple rings, I get that, I guess. Creams and lotions. A long yellow feather—

Then I hear it and see it and feel it all at once—movement across the carpet, brushing against my leg, circling me—

“Hey, Cinnamon,” I say, after the momentary terror dissipates and the prickling of my spine ceases. Diana’s Abyssinian cat, three years old. The word Abyssinian is Ethiopian but the origin of the breed is believed to be Egyptian. Isn’t that weird? Abyssinians have bigger ears and longer tails than most cats. Their hair is lighter at the root than at the tip; only a handful of breeds can say that. I told Diana she should have named her cat “Caramel” instead because it more accurately describes the color of her coat. Plus I just like caramel more than cinnamon, especially those candy chews.

Okay, time to get to work. I turn off the closet light before I open the door—still dark in the place. I feel like Paul Newman in Thief.

Start with the bedroom. There’s a desk on one side near the balcony. Next to it, a pair of electrical outlets not in use. I plug the AC adapter into the lower outlet and drag the cord behind the window curtain toward the desk. It looks just like any other AC adapter for a computer or appliance. But it’s a high-resolution, motion-activated video recorder with thirty-two hours of memory that will film the entire room in color. It can be switched to continuous recording if necessary, but motion activation is the smarter play here. I like this one because it doesn’t need a battery, as it’s plugged into the wall. And it doesn’t transmit signals—it only records them to an SD card that can be played on a computer—so it wouldn’t be detected in a bug sweep.