James Patterson: Honeymoon

“Just water, please,” she said. “With bubbles.”

“No, tonight you’re drinking with us, Nora. That’s it. She’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

“Coming right up.” With a quick nod, he turned and walked off.

Nora put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “He is cute….”

“I told you,” said Allison. “Too bad he’s barely old enough to drink.”

“I was thinking more like drive, ” said Elaine. “Or is it we’re getting so much older that they’re looking younger?” She dropped her head. “Okay, now I’m depressed.”

“Emergency change of subject!” declared Nora. She turned to Allison. “So what’s the new black for this fall?”

“Believe it or not, it may actually be black.”

Allison was a fashion editor at W, or as she liked to call it, the only magazine that could actually break your toe if you ever dropped it. Their business model was simple, she explained: big ads featuring skinny models wearing designer clothes never went out of style.

“So what’s new with you, Nor?” asked Allison. “Seems like you’re always out of town. You’re a ghost, girl.”

“I know, it’s crazy. I just got back today. Second homes are all the rage.”

Allison let out a sigh. “I’ve got enough problems paying for my first—oh, that reminds me, did I tell you about the guy who moved in on my floor?”

“The sculptor who played all that weird New Age music?” asked Elaine.

“No, not him. He moved out months ago,” she said with a dismissive wave. “This new guy just bought the corner apartment.”

“What’s the verdict?” asked Elaine, ever the lawyer.

“Single, adorable, and an oncologist,” said Allison. She shrugged. “I suppose there are worse things in life than marrying a rich doctor.”

The words had barely left Allison’s mouth before she raised a desperate hand to cover it.

A quiet fell over the table.

“Guys, it’s okay, ” said Nora.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” said Allison, embarrassed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Really, you don’t have to apologize.”

“Emergency change of subject!” declared Elaine.

“Now you’re both being silly. Listen, just because Tom was a doctor doesn’t mean we can’t ever talk about doctors.” Nora put her hand on top of Allison’s. “Tell us more about your oncologist.”

Allison did and the three carried on, the idea being that they’d been friends long enough not to let a terribly awkward moment stand in their way.

The young waiter returned with Nora’s cosmopolitan and went over the specials. The three friends drank, they ate, they laughed, they gossiped wickedly. Nora looked completely at ease. Comfortable and relaxed. So much so that neither Allison nor Elaine could tell where her thoughts really were for the rest of the evening: the death of her first husband, Dr. Tom Hollis.

Or rather, his murder.

Chapter 10

A TALL GLASS of water and some aspirin—a little preventive medicine in the wake of her after-dinner drinks with Elaine and Allison. Nora never got drunk, abhorring the idea of ever surrendering control. But thanks to the high spirits and good company of Elaine and Allison, she had gotten a nice buzz on.

Two glasses of water, two aspirin.

Then she changed into her favorite cotton pajamas and pulled out the bottom drawer of her oversize dresser. Buried beneath several cashmere sweaters from Polo was a photo album.

Nora closed the drawer and turned off all the lights, save for the lamp on her nightstand. She climbed into bed and opened the album to the first page.

“Where it all began,” she whispered to herself.

The pictures were arranged chronologically, a photographic time line of her relationship with the first love of her life, the man she called Dr. Tom. Their very first weekend away together in the Berkshires; a concert at Tanglewood; shots of them in their suite at the Gables Inn in Lenox.

On the next page was a medical conference he took her to in Phoenix. They had stayed at the Biltmore, one of her favorites, but only if they put you in the main building.

After that were some candids from the wedding in the Conservatory Tent at the New York Botanical Garden.

Those pages were followed by their honeymoon down in Nevis. Glorious, one of the best weeks of her life.

In between were memories along the way—parties, dinners, funny faces mugging for the camera. Nora touching her tongue to her nose. Tom curling his upper lip like Elvis. Or was that supposed to be Bill Clinton?

Then the pictures stopped.

Instead, there were clippings.

The last pages of the album were filled with nothing but newspaper items. The various stories and the obituary—tinted yellow now from the passage of time. Nora had kept them all.

TOP MANHATTAN DOC DIES IN MEDICAL MIX-UP, wrote the New York Post. MD A VICTIM OF HIS OWN MEDICINE, declared the Daily News. As for the New York Times there was no hyperbole. Just a simple obituary with a matter-of-fact heading: DR. TOM HOLLIS, NOTED CARDIOLOGIST, DEAD AT 42.

Nora closed the album and lay in bed alone with her thoughts about Tom and what had happened. The beginning of everything, really: the start of her life. Nora’s thoughts then turned naturally to Connor and Jeffrey. She glanced down at her left hand, which was sporting neither ring at the moment. She knew she had a decision to make.

Instinctively, Nora began compiling a mental list. Orderly and concise. All the things she loved about being with one versus the other.

Connor vs. Jeffrey.

They were both so much fun. They made her laugh, made her feel special. And there was certainly no denying that they were wonderful in bed—or wherever else they chose to have sex. They were tall, in wonderful shape, handsome as film stars. No, actually, they were more handsome than the film stars she knew.

The fact was, Nora loved being with Connor and Jeffrey equally. Which made her decision that much harder.

Which one was she going to kill?

First.

Chapter 11

OKAY, THIS IS WHERE it gets really tricky.

And also really hairy.

The Tourist sat at the corner table inside a Starbucks on West Twenty-third in Chelsea. Just about every table was in use by slackers and moochers, but the environment felt safe and secure. Probably because there were so many moochers and hangarounds; hell, for three dollars and change you ought to get something with your coffee, some added benefit.

The suitcase he had appropriated outside Grand Central was on the floor between his legs, and he already knew a couple of things about it.

One—it was open, not locked.

Two—there were men’s clothes, mostly wrinkled, and a brown leather Dopp kit inside.

Three—the Dopp kit had the usual shaving crap, but also something interesting: a flash drive, a DiskOnKey—one of those USB external storage devices you can attach to any computer. Costs about $99 at CompUSA. The flash drive was what all the trouble was about, wasn’t it? Ironic—it was smaller than his finger.

But the little sucker could hold a lot of information. Obviously, this one did.

The Tourist already had his Mac out. Now came the moment of truth. If he had the guts. Which, it so happened, he did.

Here we go!

He plugged the flash drive into the Mac.

Why did some miserable fat guy have to die for this on Forty-second Street?

The drive icon appeared—E.

The Tourist began a drag and drop of the files stored on the flash drive. Here we go. Here we go, loop-de-loop; here we go, lu-de-lu.