James Patterson - Honeymoon

A few minutes later, when all seemed well again, she excused herself from the table to use the ladies’ room. It was in the front of the restaurant. As she walked by it and headed out the door to hail a cab home, Nora wondered briefly how long it would take Brian to realize she wasn’t coming back.

Chapter 59

THE TALL BLOND woman quickly turned her face away as Nora walked by. They were so close, she could feel the heat of the other woman’s body. This was a dangerous moment. No, this was a mistake on her part.

The blonde had been sitting at the bar at Vong, sipping a martini and watching Nora the entire time. She was sure she’d been witnessing a date—probably a first one, given the body language. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was clear they were getting along.

Which made Nora’s sudden exit all the more puzzling.

Minutes passed. The blonde stabbed at the olive in her martini with a toothpick, her mind allowing for the various possibilities. Nora leaving momentarily to make a call, for instance. More plausible was her going out for a quick smoke. Then again, she’d yet to see Nora with a cigarette in her hand.

The woman looked back over at the table where Nora’s date sat, waiting. He certainly is a good-looking guy, she thought. He kind of looks like—

“Excuse me,” came a voice over her shoulder.

She turned to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. He was wearing a turtleneck, sport coat, and way too much aftershave.

She glanced up at him, not saying anything, waiting.

He put his hand on the empty stool next to her. “Is this seat taken?”

“I don’t believe so.”

He flashed a cheesy grin and sat down. “Hard to believe there could be a vacancy next to such a very pretty woman,” he said while positioning his forearm on the bar. He leaned into her. “Can I buy you another drink?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet.”

“That’s okay, I’ll wait,” he said, nodding confidently. “All night, if I have to.”

The blonde threw him a flirtatious smile and then lifted her martini. She poured it over his head.

“There, all done,” she said.

She got up and walked away. But not toward the door. Convinced that Nora wasn’t returning, she headed for the table where her date remained sitting alone.

“Excuse me, are you waiting for Nora Sinclair?”

He looked at her, a little puzzled. “Uh… yes, actually, I am.”

“I’m afraid she’s not coming back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just saw her walk out of the restaurant.”

More puzzled, he peered over his shoulder toward the exit, his eyes scanning. He started to get up.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s been a good five minutes now.”

He sat back down. “I don’t understand. Are you a friend of hers, or something?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” She slid into the chair that had been Nora’s. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, though?”

Chapter 60

NORA NEEDED TO GET out of New York for at least a few days. Fortunately, she had somewhere she could go.

The traffic was light heading due north on I-95. About half an hour south of Boston, though, that all changed. A jackknifed tractor trailer had backed everything up for miles, and Nora was reminded why she always chose to fly.

Still, she didn’t care.

After the cemetery and her dinner with Brian Stewart—the Don Juan wannabe with no real dinero—what Nora wanted was a little stability in her life. Wheels to the ground. Taking the day to drive up to Boston was good for her. So was spending the night with her hubby.

“Boy, did I ever miss you!” Jeffrey said, greeting her in the foyer of the Back Bay brownstone. He held her in his arms, kissing her lips, then her cheeks, her neck, and starting all over again.

“I’m almost tempted to believe you,” teased Nora. “Here I thought you’d forget all about me after your book festival and those adoring Virginia women.”

“How could I forget about this, and these, and this? ” asked Jeffrey.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Nora.

They continued to kiss and kid each other all the way up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Their clothes littered on the floor and their bodies sweating, they made love that afternoon and again in the early evening. The farthest either of them strayed from bed was when Jeffrey ran to meet the delivery guy with their Vietnamese takeout.

They ate wakame salads, Cuu Long chicken, and lemongrass beef while cuddling and watching North by Northwest. Nora adored Hitchcock, who was one of the kinkiest bastards ever. By the time Cary Grant was dangling off Mount Rushmore, though, Jeffrey was asleep.

Then Nora waited patiently. When she finally heard that little nose-whistling sound he made, she slid out of bed and down the hall. Into the library and behind the computer.

Everything went very smoothly indeed. Nora got into his offshore account easily, took the tour, and saw what Jeffrey had put away for a rainy day. Nearly $6 million.

The moment of truth was fast approaching, certainly faster than the arrival of that New York magazine photographer.

But first things first. A few loose ends that needed tying in Briarcliff Manor. All having to do with a certain insurance man and some test results. What would old Alfie Hitchcock have done with that? He certainly would have raised some hackles with that scene at the cemetery, Nora thought, and couldn’t hold back a smile.

Chapter 61

THE TOURIST—ah, the poor Tourist—was feeling restless and frustrated and bent out of shape. There were at least a hundred other places he’d rather have been, but this place—his temporary home away from home—was where he needed to be.

He still hadn’t figured out the list of offshore accounts. Obviously, the people in the file were evading taxes, right? But who were they? What was the price of admission to the list? And why had the file been worth someone’s life?

He’d already read the newspaper, and finished off a fat Nelson DeMille novel about Vietnam. Now he was sitting on the couch, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. While he was in the middle of an article on the Boston Red Sox’s fading pennant hopes for the year, the silence of the living room was broken.

Someone was at the door.

Quietly, he grabbed the Beretta by his side and stood. He walked to the window, pulling back the drawn shade for a peek at the front stoop. To make things worse, it was pouring outside, turning everything to mud.

Standing there was some guy with a flat, square box in his hand. Behind him, in the driveway, was a Toyota Camry with the engine running.

The Tourist smiled. Dinner is served.

Tucking the gun behind his back and underneath his shirt, he opened the door and greeted yet another delivery guy from Pepe’s House of Pizza. He’d already ordered half a dozen times from there since he arrived.

“Sausage and onion?” asked the delivery guy. He looked college-aged, maybe a little older. Tough to tell under the brim of his Yankees baseball cap.

“Yep. How much?”

“Sixteen-fifty.”

“You’d think I’d know that by now,” the Tourist muttered to himself. He reached into his trouser pocket. His hand came up empty. “Wait a minute, let me get my wallet.” He was about to turn around when he noticed that the delivery guy was being rained on. “Why don’t you come on in,” he offered.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

The guy stepped inside while the Tourist headed toward the kitchen for his wallet. “It looks pretty wet out there,” he said over his shoulder.