James Patterson - Honeymoon

Ring.

Thank you, Molly.

I picked up the phone and did my best impression of frenzied. “Nora, are you still there?”

“I’m still here,” she said. I could tell immediately she wasn’t very happy about having to wait.

“Bear with me for one more second, okay?”

I put her on hold again before she could object. Then I stared back up at the ceiling. One one thousand, two one thousand … At fifteen one thousand, I got back on the line and let out a deep breath.

“Gosh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Nora,” I said, now doing my best impression of apologetic. “I was finishing up with another client on the other line. I take it you got my note?”

“A few minutes ago, yes. I’m here at the house now.”

Time to test her lying ability. “How was your trip? Maryland, right?”

“Actually, it was Florida,” she said.

No. Actually, it was Boston, I wanted to say, but knew I couldn’t. Instead: “Oh, that’s right. Wouldn’t want to vote there! Was it a good trip?”

“Very much so.”

“You know I tried reaching you on that cell phone number you gave me—except it turned out to be somebody else’s.”

“That’s odd. What number were you dialing?”

“Let me check, I’ve got it right here.”

I read it back to Nora.

“That explains it,” she said. “The last two digits are eight-four, not four-eight. God, I hope it wasn’t me who mixed them up. I’m sorry if I did.”

Oh, she’s smooth.

“That’s okay. It was probably my mistake,” I said. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve suffered from digit dyslexia.”

“In any event, we’re talking now.”

“Yeah, we are. Anyway, the reason I wanted to speak to you was the insurance inquiry.”

“Is there news?”

“You could call it that.” I hesitated before going on. “Please don’t read too much into this, but I think we should discuss it in person.”

“It’s bad, huh?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Except if it was good news, you would’ve told me over the phone. At least admit that.”

“Yes, okay, it’s perhaps not the best news,” I told her. “Really, though, don’t read too much into it. Is there a time later today we could meet?”

“I suppose I could come by your office around four.”

And I suppose you won’t need directions, Nora, given that you’ve already staked the place out.

“Four’s good—great, actually. Only we might want to do it someplace else besides here. There’s a crew here painting. The fumes are pretty bad,” I lied. “Tell you what, do you know where the Blue Ribbon Diner is?”

“Sure, just outside of town. I’ve been there.”

I know.

“Good,” I said. “I’ll meet you inside at four for a cup of coffee. Or given the time, should I say high tea?”

“Not if we’re talking about the same diner.”

I laughed and agreed that we should stick to coffee.

“See you at four, then,” she said.

You can count on it, Nora.

Chapter 51

THE BLUE RIBBON wasn’t going to win first place for anything in the categories of food, decor, and service, but as suburban diners went, it was pretty decent. The eggs were never runny, the ketchup bottles were almost always filled, and the waitresses—while hardly a threat to win any congeniality contests—were nonetheless professional. They got your order mostly right and were quick on the coffee refills.

When I walked in a few minutes shy of four, the host gave me a nod of recognition. In my short time in the area, the Blue Ribbon had become my go-to eating place. Though I was sure there were better haunts around, I didn’t care enough to go find them.

“Actually, there’s going to be two of us,” I told the host, who’d automatically grabbed a lone menu upon seeing me. He was Greek and wore a stained black vest over a wrinkled white shirt. A walking cliché, yes, but the good kind, as far as I was concerned.

Nora arrived a couple of minutes later. I waved from my seat, which was in a red-upholstered booth by the back. She was wearing a dark skirt, cream-colored blouse that looked like silk, and heels. For me, Nora? You shouldn’t have. As it was postlunch and predinner, the diner was only half filled. She spotted me easily.

Nora walked over, and we shook hands and said our hellos. I thanked her for coming. I also noticed that she smelled nice. Watch it, Craig.

As Nora took a seat, a waitress immediately appeared at the table. In a small bit of mirth amid her otherwise all-business demeanor, her name tag read, HEY, MISS.

The two of us ordered coffee, and I tacked on a slice of apple pie. My waistline didn’t need it, but I figured it was a good strategic move. I mean, how can you not trust a guy who orders apple pie?

To look at Nora as the waitress left was to know I should keep the small talk to an absolute minimum. Her body language spoke loud and clear. Tight, controlled, on edge. She was there to hear some bad news and had no interest in prolonging the suspense.

So I cut to the chase.

“I feel awful,” I said. “All along I’ve been talking about this inquiry like it was totally routine and nothing to worry about. Then the other day…” My voice trailed off as I shook my head, exasperated.

“What? The other day what? ”

“It’s this goddamn O’Hara!” I said. I didn’t scream it, though my volume was enough to turn a head or two at other tables. I took it down a notch. “I don’t know why they let a guy like that be in charge of investigations. It’s just not necessary.”

Nora looked at me, waiting, which I could tell, she wasn’t used to doing.

“He’s apparently contacted the FBI,” I said.

She squinted. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, Nora. O’Hara’s got to be the most suspicious guy I’ve ever met. As far as he’s concerned, the whole world is a conspiracy. O’Hara can definitely be a head case.”

“Great.” Nora leaned back in the booth, her shoulders slouched. Her green eyes blinked in confusion. I almost felt sorry for her. “The FBI? What does that mean?”

“Something that no one who’s suffering a loss should ever have to endure,” I said. Then came a short, sweet dramatic pause. “I’m afraid your fiancé’s body is going to be exhumed.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s terrible, and if there was anything I could do about it, I would. I can’t, though. For whatever reason, this idiot O’Hara refuses to accept that a forty-year-old guy can naturally have a heart attack. He wants more tests performed.”

“But there was an autopsy.”

“I know… I know.”

“This O’Hara guy doesn’t believe the results?”

“It’s not so much that, Nora. What he wants are more thorough tests. General autopsies are… well, they’re general; they don’t always uncover certain things.”

“What do you mean? What things? ”

Nora’s question hung in the air as the waitress returned. As she put down our coffee and my apple pie, I watched Nora get more and more worked up. Her emotions struck me as genuine. It was the motivation that seemed less clear. Was she the grieving fiancée, or the murderous woman grappling with the sudden risk of being exposed?

The waitress left.

“What things?” I said, repeating her question. “Any number of things, I suppose. For instance, and I’m only speaking hypothetically, if Connor was an abuser of drugs, or perhaps there was some preexisting medical condition that went unreported on the insurance application—both these things could possibly void the policy.”