James Patterson: Honeymoon

The forensic technicians were already at work, which meant that the investigators were finished. I recognized Stringer and Shaw from the White Plains field office. I’d worked with them briefly when we set up the insurance scam to get Nora.

Her body was still there, lying beside the kitchen counter. A broken water bottle was near it, shards of glass all over the floor. A police photographer was starting to take pictures, and the flashes seemed like explosions to me.

“Well, somebody got to her.” Shaw came up and stood next to me. “She was poisoned. Have any bright ideas?”

I shook my head. I didn’t have anything close to a bright idea. “I don’t. But somehow I don’t think we’ll look too hard to try and solve this one.”

“Got what she deserved, eh?”

“Something like that. Bad way to go, though.”

I walked away from Shaw because I was feeling a need to shove him, or maybe punch out his lights, which he didn’t really deserve.

Then I went to see Nora.

I waved off the photographer. “Give me a minute here.”

I crouched down, readied myself as best I could, and looked at her face. She had suffered at the end, that much was clear, but she was still beautiful, still Nora. I even recognized the white linen blouse she was wearing, and a favorite diamond bracelet on her wrist.

I don’t know what I was supposed to feel, but I was incredibly sad for her and I was starting to choke up. I was also a little sad for myself, and for Susan, and our kids. How the hell had all of this happened? I don’t know how long I stared down at Nora’s body, but when I finally stood up again I saw that the kitchen had gone quiet, and everybody was watching me.

Inappropriate, I knew. Ought to be my middle name.

Chapter 117

I DROVE BACK to Manhattan that afternoon. The radio was on pretty loud, but it didn’t much matter. My mind was someplace else. I knew exactly what I wanted to do now, what I needed to do. Nora’s death had brought things into clear focus for me. I was even certain that I had never loved her. We’d used each other, and the result had been just terrible.

I returned to my office and stayed there just long enough to grab a file. There was another office I had to visit right away. Upstairs, where the big boys roam.

“He’ll see you now,” said Frank Walsh’s secretary.

I walked in and took a seat in front of Walsh’s imposing oak desk.

“John, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you about some things. Nora Sinclair is dead, by the way.”

Walsh looked surprised and I wondered if it was genuine. Not much got past him, which was probably how he’d survived all these years with the Manhattan Bureau.

“Simplifies things, I guess,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Frank.”

He tented his thin, gnarled fingers. “But not too fine, am I right? What’s up?”

“I want a leave of absence. With pay, Frank. I’ve been working too hard. Double shifts and all that.”

Well, at least something could still surprise Frank Walsh.

“Wow,” he finally said. “Before I deny your request, John, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

I nodded. “I made a copy,” I said.

Then I pushed the file forward.

“You want to tell me what’s inside?”

“Contents of a well-traveled suitcase, Frank. There was also some clothing, which I guess was just there for padding, or maybe in case the wrong person opened up the suitcase.”

Walsh nodded. “Looks like the wrong person opened it.”

“Or maybe the right person. Susan said that this was all about making the world safe. Monitoring terrorist funds in and out of the country, checking out illegal offshore accounts. That was how we accidentally found out about Nora. She transferred a lot of money, all at one time, and we caught her.”

Walsh nodded, then smiled. It was the greasy smile that gave him away. Kind of insincere, definitely nervous. “That’s what happened, John.”

“Sort of,” I said, “but not exactly. Susan believed your story, Frank, but I had some trouble with it. So what if the FBI and Homeland Security were tracking terrorist funds and bending the law here and there? John Q. Public would probably understand.”

Frank Walsh wasn’t smiling anymore, but he was listening intently.

“So, yeah, I looked inside the suitcase. When I did it, I thought I might need some leverage someday, and maybe what was inside might help me. Purely self-serving. I had no fucking idea. Open the manila envelope, Frank. Take a look. Get ready to have your mind blown. Or maybe not.”

He sighed heavily, but then opened it.

What he found was about the size of a forefinger. It was a small flash drive. My copy of the original.

“There’s a printout in the file, too. Funny thing, though. It’s not terrorist funds, Frank.”

“No?” said Walsh, and calmly shook his head. “What is it, John?”

Finally I had to smile. “You know, I’m not entirely sure, and I have to preface this by saying that I’m not a huge fan of either political party. I’ve sort of liked presidents along the way, on both sides. Don’t know what that makes me. Agnostic?”

“What’s on the printout, John?”

“What I think it is, somebody in the Bureau tracked money coming and going to several offshore accounts. People trying to hide cash, lots of it, close to a billion and a half dollars. And as best I can tell, Frank, everyone on the printout is a contributor or ‘friend’ of the political party not currently in power. How about them apples?

“Now that would be embarrassing to the Bureau, and the administration, if it had come out during Nora Sinclair’s murder trial. That would be considered very unlawful, highly unethical too. Even worse than screwing Nora Sinclair, which I’m incredibly ashamed of, by the way.”

I stood up and noticed that my legs were a little shaky now. For some odd reason, I reached out and shook Frank Walsh’s hand, maybe because we both knew I was saying good-bye.

“Leave of absence, with pay,” he said. “You’ve got it, John. You deserve it.”

Then I walked out the door and headed home—to Riverside.

To Max, John Jr., and Susan—if she’d have me. And I’ll tell you what, the whole ride to Connecticut, I prayed that she would.

And that Susan, that incredible, wonderful Susan—eventually she did.

He’s made a living saving others, but what’s he going to do when he’s the one in deep water?

For an excerpt, turn the page.

“DON’T MOVE,” I said to Tess, sweaty and out of breath. “Don’t even blink. If you so much as breathe, I know I’m gonna wake up, and I’ll be back lugging chaise longues at poolside, staring at this gorgeous girl that I know something incredible could happen with. This will all have been a dream.”

Tess McAuliffe smiled, and in those deep blue eyes I saw what I found so irresistible about her. It wasn’t just that she was the proverbial ten and a half. She was more than beautiful. She was lean and athletic with thick auburn hair plaited into a long French braid, and a laugh that made you want to laugh, too. We liked the same movies, Memento, The Royal Tenenbaums, Casablanca. We pretty much laughed at the same jokes. Since I’d met her I’d been unable to think about anything else.

Sympathy appeared in Tess’s eyes. “Sorry about the fantasy, Ned, but we’ll have to take that chance. You’re crushing my arm.”

She pushed me, and I rolled onto my back. The sleek cotton sheets in her fancy hotel suite were tousled and wet. My jeans, her leopard-print sarong, and a black bikini bottom were somewhere on the floor. Only half an hour earlier, we had been sitting across from each other at Palm Beach’s tony Café Boulud, picking at DB burgers—$30 apiece—ground sirloin stuffed with foie gras and truffles.