James Patterson - Honeymoon

A couple of minutes later the Tourist was ready to look at the files.

Then he stopped himself.

A pretty girl—only with spiked black and crimson hair—was trying to sneak a peek from the next table.

The Tourist finally looked her way. “You know the old joke—I could show you what’s in the file, but then I’d have to kill you.”

The girl smiled. “What about the joke—you show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”

The Tourist laughed back. “You don’t have a laptop.”

“Your loss.” She shrugged, got up from her table, and started to leave. “You’re cute, for such an asshole.”

“Get a haircut,” the Tourist said, and grinned.

Finally he looked back at the computer screen.

Here we go!

What he saw on the screen made sense—sort of. If anything made sense in this crazy world.

The file consisted of names, addresses, names of banks in Switzerland and the Caymans. Offshore accounts.

And amounts.

The Tourist did a quick tally in his head.

Ballpark figure, but close enough.

A little over one point four.

Billion.

Chapter 12

NEW YORK MAY BE the city that never sleeps, but at four in the morning there are definitely parts that are barely awake. One such was the dimly lit basement of a parking garage on the Lower East Side. Buried five stories beneath the street, it was a picture of stillness. A concrete cocoon. The only noise was the numbing buzz of the fluorescent lighting overhead.

That and an impatient middle finger tapping on the steering wheel in an idling blue Ford Mustang.

Inside the Mustang, the Tourist glanced at his watch and shook his head. His finger tapping continued, his middle finger. His contact was late.

Two days late, actually.

A missed appointment.

Trouble brewing? No doubt about it.

Ten minutes later a pair of headlights finally lit up the far wall by the ramp to the next level. A white Chevy van appeared. On the side was a sign for a florist. FLOWERS BY LUCILLE, it read.

Oh, c’mon, the Tourist thought to himself. A flower delivery truck?

The van slowly approached the Mustang, stopping twenty feet away. The engine was cut and a tall, rail-thin man stepped outside. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and tie. He began walking toward the van. There was somebody else in the van, but he stayed inside.

The Tourist got out and met the Thin Man halfway. “You’re late,” he said.

“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the contact.

“You know, there are some people who actually think of it as skill.”

“I’ll give you points for the shot. Dead-center forehead, I’m told.”

“Well, the guy did have a receding hairline. Bigger target. Is the girl all right?”

“Shaken up. But she’ll be fine. She’s a professional. Just like you.”

The Thin Man reached inside his jacket pocket. Not good! He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, offered one to the Tourist.

“No, thanks. Gave it up for Lent. ’Bout fifteen Lents ago.”

The man lit up. He shook the flame from his match.

“What are the New York police saying?” asked the Tourist.

“Not a whole hell of a lot. Let’s just say they’re dealing with conflicting eyewitnesses.”

“You sent someone over, didn’t you?”

“ Two eyewitnesses, actually. We had them both claim that you had a scar on your neck and a goatee.”

The Tourist smiled, rubbed his bare chin. “That’s pretty good. How about the working press?”

“They’re all over it. The only bigger mystery than who you are is what’s in the suitcase. Speaking of which…”

“It’s in the trunk.”

The two walked to the back of the Mustang. The Tourist popped the trunk. He lifted out the suitcase, placed it on the ground. The other man looked it over for a moment.

“You tempted to open it up?” he asked.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“You didn’t.”

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

The man blew a smoke ring. “Because we’d be having a much different conversation right now.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Of course not. You’re not in the loop.”

The Tourist let it go. “So, what now?”

“Now you get lost. You’ve got another gig, right?”

“A gig? Yeah, I’m already on something interesting. Who’s in the car?”

“You did good on this one. He said to tell you that. Leave it at that.”

“I am good. That’s why they called me in on this.”

They shook hands and the Tourist watched as the Thin Man carried the suitcase back to the van and drove off. The Tourist wondered if they would be able to figure out that he’d looked at the contents of the flash drive. Any which way, he was definitely in the loop now. Even if he wished to hell that he wasn’t.

Chapter 13

IT WAS A BUSY MORNING for Nora. First, she shopped for a very delicious hour at Sentiments on East Sixty-first, and now she had work to do for a client at ABC Carpet & Home near Union Square. After that it was off to the D&D Building showroom and, finally, Devonshire, an English garden shop.

She was shopping for Constance McGrath, one of her first clients. Constance—who was definitely not a “Connie, for short”—had just moved from her posh East Side two-bedroom to an even more posh two-bedroom on Central Park West. The Dakota, to be exact, where they had filmed Rosemary’s Baby and John Lennon was murdered. A former stage actress back in her day, Constance still possessed a flair for the dramatic. She explained to Nora her move across Central Park as follows: “The sun sets in the west, and in this, my last apartment, so will I.”

Nora liked Constance. The woman was feisty, forthright, and fond of invoking a decorator’s favorite expression: Money is no object. She had also outlived two husbands.

“As I live and breathe!” came a man’s voice.

Nora turned to see Evan Frazer with his arms outstretched wide in full-hug mode. Evan represented Ballister Grove Antiques, which occupied a large portion of the fifth floor.

“Evan!” said Nora. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Even better to see you,” he replied. He kissed Nora on both cheeks. “So, what fabulously wealthy client are you shopping for today?”

Nora could almost see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes. “She’ll go nameless, of course, but lucky for you she’s ditching some of her ornate French for a more traditional English look.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” he said with a toothy grin. “But then again, you always do.”

For the next hour or so, Evan walked Nora through his entire inventory of English furniture. He knew the drill: what to say and what not to say. Especially what not to say to Nora Sinclair.

Nora hated to be told by a salesperson that something was beautiful. As if that would influence her opinion. She had her own aesthetic. Her own taste. Part innate, the rest developed and honed by experience. She trusted it implicitly.

“Does this come with one leaf or two?” she asked Evan while hovering over a mahogany dining-room table with satinwood banding.

“It comes with one,” he said. “But it can accommodate two, and we can easily have the second one made.”

“The one should be fine.” She glanced at the price. Again, it was a perfunctory move when shopping for Constance McGrath. With a step back and a final peruse, Nora delivered her signature variation on “I’ll take it.” Why say three words when she could be far more emphatic with one?

“Done!” she declared.

Evan immediately pulled a sold card from his clipboard and slapped it on the table. It was the fourth and final slap of the morning. Combined with the breakfront, highboy, and settee that were also “done” deals, Nora was satisfied.