James Patterson - Honeymoon

Nora tried her best to smile, too.

“You know, Nora, we should talk about—”

“What’s wrong?”

Jeffrey slowly opened his eyes. “Nothing,” he said with a catch in his throat. He cleared it. “What was I saying? Oh, yeah… we should talk about the—”

Again he stopped. Nora watched his face carefully. The drug was having some effect, but she worried she’d measured short on the dosage. He should be further along by now. Something must be wrong.

“What was I saying?” he asked, his voice straining for composure.

No sooner did he ask the question than he began to teeter in his chair. Then he started to sound like a broken record. “We should talk about… talk about… the honeymoon.” He grabbed his stomach, gasping in pain. He looked helplessly into Nora’s eyes.

She stood and went to the sink, filling a glass with water. With her back turned, she quickly poured in the powder, a heaping overdose of neostigmine, or, as her first husband, Tom the cardiologist, liked to call it… the kicker. Combined with the chloroquine phosphate Nora had mixed with the omelet, it would speed up the respiratory collapse and, ultimately, the cardiac failure. All while being completely absorbed into his system.

“Here, take this,” she said to Jeffrey, handing him the glass.

He coughed and sputtered. “Wha—what’s this?” he asked, barely able to focus on the fizzy concoction.

“Just drink it,” Nora said. “It will take care of everything. Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz.”

Chapter 91

HE WANTED ANSWERS; he needed to make the right connection. He had to make sense out of the puzzle pieces.

Suddenly this was very personal with O’Hara—the Tourist.

The mysterious file he’d rescued outside Grand Central Station.

The list of names, addresses, bank accounts, amounts.

A pizza delivery guy who had tried to kill him.

But who was behind that? The original seller, the blackmailer?

His own people?

What did they want? Did they know he’d copied the file? Did they only suspect it? Or were they simply taking out insurance in case he had?

They don’t trust me. I don’t trust them.

Isn’t that cozy and nice.

Way of the world these days.

So anyway, every free moment he got—like after his big day with the boys in Yankee Stadium—he worked with the names on the file, trying to figure it out. The truth, though, was that he wasn’t exactly a genius at this sort of thing.

He’d gotten this far, though.

All the individuals in the file were keeping money illegally in offshore bank accounts.

Over a billion dollars.

He had contacted a few of the banks on the list, but that probably wasn’t the way in.

He’d called the homes of a few of the tainted individuals. But that was a bad way to go, too. What did he expect them to admit to?

Then late on Sunday night, he was reading the New York Times, the Style section. For other reasons, actually. Nora Sinclair reasons. Things he could talk to her about.

And there it was!

Pow!

Bingo!

Three, four, five, nine, eleven names from “the list,” all of them at the same bigwig party held at the Waldorf-Astoria.

And he finally got it—the blackmail, the scam, the panic about it, even why he’d been called in to make sure everything went just right. And then, why somebody might want to kill him, just because he might know something.

Which, as it turned out now, he definitely did.

O’Hara knew a lot more than he wanted to.

About both of his undercover cases.

Chapter 92

CHOP, CHOP, O’HARA. Get a move on. Susan wanted an arrest, and that meant I was in hurry-up mode and presumably it would be okay if I bent a few rules. At least, that was my interpretation. Of course, sometimes I hear what I want to hear.

Sitting in a chair opposite Steven Keppler, I couldn’t help noticing a few things right away. First, the attorney had a really bad comb-over. Way too much surface area for way too little hair. Second, Nora’s tax guy was nervous.

Of course, a lot of people get nervous around an FBI agent—most of them for no reason.

I dispensed with any small talk and pulled a photograph out of my suit jacket. It was a print of one of the digitals I’d taken that first day in Westchester.

“Do you recognize this woman?” I asked, holding it up to him.

He leaned over his desk and answered quickly. “No, I don’t believe so.”

I extended my arm so he could see better. “Here, take a closer look. Please.”

He took the picture and did a B-movie actor’s job of studying it: furrowed brow, prolonged squint, finally an exaggerated shrug and a head shake. “No, she doesn’t look familiar,” he said. “Pretty lady, though.”

Steven Keppler handed back the picture, and I scratched my chin. “That’s really odd,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“How this pretty woman would have your business card and not know you.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Perhaps someone gave it to her,” he said.

“Sure, I suppose. Except that wouldn’t explain why this woman would tell me she knew you.”

Keppler went to his tie with one hand while simultaneously adjusting his comb-over with the other. His fidget factor was now officially off the charts.

“Let me take another look at the picture. May I?”

I handed it to him and watched, certain I was about to see some more classic bad acting. Sure enough.

“Oh, wait a minute! I think I do know who this is.” He tapped the photograph a few times with his forefinger. “Simpson… Singleton?”

“Sinclair,” I said.

“Of course, Olivia Sinclair.”

“Actually, it’s Nora. ”

He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure her name is Olivia.”

This coming from a guy who a minute ago claimed he didn’t know who she was.

“I take it she’s a client, then?” I asked. “Pretty, as you say. I’m surprised you didn’t remember.”

“I did some work for her, yes.”

“What kind of work?”

“Agent O’Hara, you know I can’t divulge that.”

“Sure you can.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I? The only thing I know is that you’ve claimed not to recognize one of your own clients, who happens to be the subject of my investigation. In other words, you’ve lied to a federal agent.”

“Need I remind you that you’re talking to an attorney?”

“Need I remind you that I can be back here in an hour with a search warrant to turn your office upside down.”

I stared at Keppler, expecting him to cut his losses and fold. Instead, the guy showed some real spunk. Actually, he went on the offensive.

“Your absurd threats might work in some quarters,” he said with a raised chin, “but I protect the privacy of my clients. You may leave now.”

I stood from my chair.

“You’re right,” I said with a deep sigh. “You’re entitled to your client privilege and I’m way out of line. I apologize.” I reached into my jacket. “Listen, here’s my card. If you change your mind or if you’d like to arrange for police protection, give my office a call.”

His face soured. “Police protection? Are you telling me this woman’s dangerous? Olivia Sinclair? What exactly is she being investigated for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Keppler. But, hey, I’m sure if she entrusted you with her business, she must be convinced that you’d never divulge anything about your dealings.”

His voice notched up an octave. “Wait a minute—where is Olivia Sinclair now? I mean, you’re following her, right?”