James Patterson: Honeymoon

The Tourist began to lower his gun, and a gasp could be heard from behind a nearby telephone kiosk. Another gasp followed from behind a parked delivery van on Forty-second Street. The looky loos who’d run for cover but still had to watch the unfolding events were all thinking the same thing: Don’t do it, buddy. Don’t give up your gun. He’s going to kill you! And her, too!

The Tourist bent his knees and crouched down. He gingerly placed the gun on the sidewalk.

“See, nice and easy,” he said. “Now what do you want me to do?”

The fat man began to laugh, his fluffy, unkempt mustache bunching up beneath his nose. “What do I want you to do?” he said. The laughing grew even louder. He could hardly contain himself.

Suddenly he stopped laughing. His face went rigid. The man removed the gun from the side of the young woman’s head and aimed it straight in front of him. “What I want you to do is die. ”

That’s when he made his move.

The Tourist.

In the blink of an eye, in one fast, efficient move, he reached up his pant leg and pulled a Beretta 9 mm from his shin holster. He whipped his arm forward and fired, the crack! echoing before anyone knew what had happened. Including the fat man.

The hole in his forehead was about the size of a dime, and for a moment he froze like a statue, an oversize Buddha. The onlookers screamed, the young woman with the knapsack fell to her knees, and with a horrific thud, the fat man collapsed to the dirty, littered sidewalk. His blood spurted like a water fountain.

As for the Tourist, he returned the Beretta to his shin holster and the other gun to his fanny pack. He stood up and walked over to the suitcase. He picked it up and carried it to a blue Ford Mustang that was double-parked on the street. The engine had been running the entire time.

“Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the people who’d been watching him in stunned silence. “You’re a lucky girl.” He saluted the woman holding the knapsack tightly in front of her chest.

The Tourist then climbed behind the wheel of the Mustang and drove off.

With the suitcase.

Chapter 8

THE LIGHT TURNED GREEN and the New York City cabbie hit the gas pedal as if he were trying to squash a bug. What he really almost squashed was a bike messenger—that rare breed of daring and death wish for which red lights and stop signs are merely a crazy suggestion, an un-joke.

As the cabbie slammed on his brakes in the middle of the intersection, the messenger swerved and kept right on going, his speeding bike missing the bumper of the cab by no more than an inch.

“Asshole!” screamed the messenger over his shoulder.

“Up yours!” the cabbie yelled, flipping him the bird. He glanced at Nora in the backseat and shook his head in disgust. Then he floored it again as if nothing had happened.

Nora shook her head and smiled.

It was good to be home.

The cabbie continued his mad dash south on Second Avenue toward lower Manhattan. After a few blocks of relative silence, he switched on the radio. It was 1010 News.

A man with a deep, mellifluent voice was just finishing up a report on the latest city-budget crisis when he announced that there was breaking news in midtown. He turned it over to a female reporter who was at the scene.

“Just about a half hour ago, a tense, if not somewhat bizarre, situation unfolded here at the corner of Forty-second and Park Avenue outside Grand Central Station.”

The reporter described how a man took a young woman hostage at gunpoint, only to be shot dead by another man whom onlookers believed to be an undercover police officer.

“Except when the police finally did arrive, it became clear that the man was not affiliated in any way with the NYPD. In fact, at this time, no one seems to know who he is. After the shooting he fled from the scene—but not before first absconding with a large suitcase belonging to the dead man.”

As the reporter promised more on the story as it developed, the cabbie let out a long sigh and glanced in his rearview mirror. “Just what this city needs, huh?” he said. “Another vigilante on the loose.”

“I doubt that’s what it is,” Nora said.

“Why’s that?”

“The suitcase. Whatever happened—and why—obviously has to do with what’s inside it.”

The cabbie shrugged his shoulders, then nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. So what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” said Nora. “But you can bet it wasn’t dirty clothes.”

Chapter 9

THERE WAS A QUOTE from someone, somewhere, that Nora loved and also believed with all her heart: One’s real life is almost always the life one doesn’t lead.

Well, not this girl’s life.

At the corner of Mercer and Spring in SoHo, she paid the cabbie and wheeled her suitcase into the two-story, all-marble lobby of her apartment building. It was a deluxe converted warehouse. An oxymoron everywhere but in New York City.

Hers was the penthouse loft, half of the entire floor. In a word, huge; in another, stylish. George Smith furniture, polished Brazilian wood floors, a Poggenpohl-designed kitchen. Calm and quiet and elegant, this was her sanctuary. Her true “no place else on earth I’d rather be.”

Actually, Nora loved to give tours of the place to those few people who interested her.

At the front door was Nora’s sentry—a six-foot clay sculpture of a male nude by Javier Marin.

There were two intimate sitting areas—one in sumptuous white leather, its complement in black—all Nora’s design.

She adored everything in her place and had scoured antiques shops, flea markets, and art galleries from SoHo to the Pacific Northwest to London and Paris, and tiny villages in Italy, Belgium, Switzerland.

Her collectibles were everywhere.

Silver: several Hermès treasures; a dozen or more silver bowls, which she loved.

Art glass: French Gallé picture frames; opaline boxes in white, green, turquoise.

Paintings by a select handful of up-and-coming artists from New York, London, Paris, Berlin.

And, of course, her bedroom: so vivid—very heavy on the beta waves—dark wine-colored walls, gilded sconces and mirrors, a chiseled block of antique scrolled wood over the bed.

Go ahead, figure me out if you can.

Nora grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge and then made a few calls, one of them to Connor, which she called her Man Maintenance. A bit later she made a similar call to Jeffrey.

At a little past eight that evening, Nora walked into Babbo in the heart of Greenwich Village. Yes, it is definitely good to be home.

Never mind that it was a Monday, Babbo was packed. The mingling sounds of silverware, glasses, plates, and hip city people filled the split-level restaurant with a pulsating hum.

Nora spotted her best friend, Elaine, already seated with Allison, another dear friend. They were at a table along the wall of the more casual first floor. She bypassed the hostess and headed over. Cheek kisses all around. God, she adored these girls.

“Allison’s in love with our waiter,” announced Elaine as Nora settled in.

Allison rolled her big brown eyes. “All I said was that he is cute. His name is Ryan. Ryan Pedi. He even has a cute name.”

“Sounds like love to me,” said Nora, playing along.

“There you have it, corroborating testimony!” said Elaine, who was a corporate lawyer with Eggers, Beck & Schmiedel, one of the city’s preeminent firms. Above all else they specialized in billable hours.

Speak of the devil. The young waiter, tall and dark, appeared at the table to ask if Nora wanted anything to drink.