James Patterson - Honeymoon

“I think we have everything we need, Ms. Sinclair,” said Officer Pingry. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to take one last look around the house.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “Whatever you need to do.”

The two policemen went down the hallway, and Nora remained on the ottoman, which she’d purchased for slightly over seven thousand at New Canaan Antiques. After a minute she got up. Pingry and his partner may have seemed nice and flashed what seemed to be genuine looks of concern, but the moment of truth had yet to come.

What do they really think?

With furtive steps, Nora fell in line behind the policemen as they went from room to room. Close enough to overhear them, far enough away not to be noticed.

Along the second-floor hallway, she got what she was looking for. The two had stopped to chat inside Connor’s media room. The early reviews of her performance were in.

“Shit, will you look at this setup?” said Pingry. “I think the TV alone is worth more than my salary.”

“That girl was about to marry very rich,” said his partner, Barreiro.

“No kidding, Joe. Now she’s shit out of luck.”

“Tell me about it. She was this close to grabbing the brass ring.”

“Yeah, and then the brass ring drops dead.”

Nora turned in the hallway and quietly padded back down the stairs. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked a mess. But on the inside the feeling was relief. Brava, Nora! God, you’re good.

The police didn’t suspect a thing.

She had committed the perfect murder.

Again.

Chapter 21

THE SHUFFLING OF mostly solemn strangers in and out of the house, the cacophony of noise and commotion created by it, lasted for nearly two hours. The irony was never lost on Nora: Things really get lively when someone dies suddenly.

Eventually it came to an end. The paramedics, the local police, the morgue wagon—they all left. Nora was finally alone in the house.

Now it was time to get down to business. This was what the police really needed to know but would never find out.

Connor’s study was on the far end of the house, practically a separate wing. As per his instructions when they’d first met, Nora had decorated it like a private men’s club: tufted leather sofas, cherrywood shelving, oil paintings depicting hunting scenes, which were all the rage with the boys. In one corner was a full suit of medieval armor. In another, a display case housing an antique snuff bottle collection. What a load of overpriced crap, and I should know.

Nora had even joked upon the study’s completion, “This room is so manly that smoking a cigar in here would be redundant.”

But now, ironically, it was just her in the room. And she kind of missed Connor.

She took a seat in the Gainsborough chair behind Connor’s desk and turned on the computer. He had one of those triple-screen setups that allowed him to track multiple financial markets. The way it looked you’d think he was also able to launch a missile attack. Or at least land a few jumbo jets.

The first code Nora punched in was for access to his T3 Internet connection. Next was the code for his 128-bit encrypted VPN, or virtual private network. In layman’s terms, it was the ultimate secure passageway between two points via cyberspace.

Point one being Connor’s computer.

Point two being the International Bank of Zurich.

It had taken Nora four months to locate the VPN code. In hindsight, she realized, it should’ve taken four minutes. But she never thought he’d be so obvious as to put it in his PalmPilot. Under A for “account numbers,” no less.

Of course, he wasn’t as obvious about spelling out which accounts went with which codes. That required a few late-night trial-and-error sessions while he was asleep in bed.

For all the complexity of tapping into Connor’s Swiss bank account—and all the connotations of wealth and privilege that went with having such an account—the transaction page for the International Bank of Zurich was remarkably simple and low-key. No fancy lettering or soothing background music by Honegger.

Just three options, in plain type, alone on the screen.

DEPOSIT.

WITHDRAWAL.

TRANSFER.

Nora clicked on TRANSFER and was immediately taken to another page, which was equally simple. It listed Connor’s account balance and provided a box for indicating how much money was to be transferred.

She typed the figure.

There was 4.3 million dollars in the account. She’d be taking a little less. 4.2 million, to be exact.

The only thing left to do was direct the money.

Connor wasn’t the only one in their relationship to have a VPN. Nora typed in the code for her private numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Thanks to horny tax attorney Steven Keppler, it was about to be christened in grand style.

She hit the EXECUTE button and sat back in Connor’s chair. A horizontal bar on the screen charted the progress of the transfer by slowly shading in. Putting her feet up on the desk, she watched it creep along.

Two minutes later, it was official. Nora Sinclair was 4.2 million dollars richer.

Her second killing of the day.

Chapter 22

SHE AWOKE THE next morning and shuffled downstairs with a big yawn to make a pot of coffee. Actually, she didn’t feel too bad. Nora didn’t feel much of anything.

After she downed the first cup, her thoughts turned to the day and what important things had to be done. There were phone calls to make—people who needed to know about Connor’s death. And she had to check in with Jeffrey.

The first call was to Mark Tillingham. He was Connor’s attorney and executor of his estate. He was also one of Connor’s best friends. When Nora called, Mark was heading out the door for his Saturday-morning tennis game. She could just picture him, dressed in white, as he responded to the news with utter shock. In a way, Nora was jealous of the emotion.

Next was the immediate family. The list of whom to call, however, couldn’t have been any shorter. Connor’s parents were no longer alive; that left his one and only sibling—a younger sister, Elizabeth, whom he called Lizzie or sometimes Lizard.

The two were close in every way except geographically. Lizzie lived three thousand miles away, in Santa Barbara, and had her own busy career as a successful architect. She rarely made it back to the East Coast, the last time being before Nora and Connor had met.

Nora poured herself another cup of coffee and considered how best to tell a woman she’d never met, let alone spoken to, that her brother was dead at forty.

She knew she didn’t have to make the call. She could’ve had Mark Tillingham do it. But Nora also knew that someone who truly loved Connor would do it herself. So after finding the phone number in his PalmPilot, she dialed.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice, groggy if not a little annoyed. It was barely past seven A.M. in California.

“Is this Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Nora Sinclair….”

Oddly, the sister didn’t cry, at least not on the phone. Instead, there was a stunned silence, followed by a few softly spoken questions.

Nora told her what she’d told the police. Word for word: her script. “Though I guess we won’t know anything for sure until the autopsy is done,” she pointed out.

Again, there was the stunned silence from Lizzie. Maybe, thought Nora, it was the guilt of having not seen her brother in a long while. Or maybe it was the sudden loneliness of being the only surviving member of her family. Maybe she was in shock, as Mark Tillingham had been.

“I’ll fly out tomorrow morning,” said Elizabeth. “Have you made funeral plans?”