Honeymoon

by James Patterson

  Chapter 109

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Susan and I were speeding north out of New York City, and after an hour-fifty on the road we pulled onto the grounds of the Pine Woods Psychiatric Facility in Lafayetteville, New York.

  “This should be interesting for you,” Susan said as we got out of my car and headed toward the main building, a brick tower of eight floors. “Meet the parent. Nora’s mom lives here, O’Hara.”

  I gave a half smile. I could tell that Susan was enjoying this.

  Soon we were sitting in a small conference room on the psych facility’s top floor. Seated across from us was the head nurse on the disturbed ward.

  I couldn’t tell if the heavyset woman was scared or simply nervous. Either way, she looked extremely uncomfortable. Meeting a couple of FBI agents does that to some people.

  “Agent John O’Hara, I want you to meet Emily Barrows,” said Susan, who had made the original contact with the folks from Pine Woods.

  I turned to the woman, extending my hand. “Pleasure,” I said.

  “I think Emily has valuable information for us about Nora,” said Susan.

  I sat there with all the anticipation of a kid on Christmas Eve. Not once did I take my eyes off this woman, who was wearing white slacks and a simple white blouse, her hair pulled back and held with bobby pins. She was no-frills all the way down to her rubber-soled cordovans.

  “Well,” she began, her voice shaky, “one of our patients at Pine Woods is a woman by the name of Olivia Sinclair.”

  This much I knew.

  “Nora is Olivia’s daughter,” said Emily. “At least, I’m pretty sure she is. It just dawned on me that I never saw any proof of that.”

  “I have,” said Susan. “After I spoke with you on the phone, Emily, I pulled the prison file.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Susan. “Prison file?”

  “Olivia Sinclair began a life sentence when Nora was six,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Murder,” said Susan.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Susan shook her head. “It gets better, O’Hara. She murdered her husband. And the couple’s little girl, Nora, was there when it happened.”

  Susan went on. “A few years after Olivia Sinclair was sent away, she seemed to lose touch with reality. That’s when she was transferred to Pine Woods. In the meantime, Nora bounced from one foster home to the next. She moved so much, there was never a cohesive file on her.”

  Susan glanced at Emily, who now looked completely lost.

  “I’m sorry,” Susan said to her. “We have good reason to believe that Nora killed her first husband a couple of years ago. Based on that, and everything else that’s happened, we have even better reason to believe she killed her second husband.”

  “She and Connor Brown were only engaged to be married,” I said, reminding Susan.

  “I’m talking about Jeffrey Walker,” she said.

  I was now more lost than Emily. “Jeffrey Walker?”

  “You know—he writes all those sappy historical novels. Or at least he did.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is. You’re saying that Nora and he were—”

  “Married.”

  “Christ,” I said, putting the pieces together. “The news reported that he died of a heart attack. And let me guess,” I said. “He lived in Boston.”

  Susan touched her finger to her nose.

  “Which brings us back to Emily,” she said. She turned to the nurse. “Go ahead, tell him what you have. This is good, O’Hara.”

  Emily nodded and asked that we follow her. “I’ll show you,” she said. “Let’s go see Olivia.”

  Chapter 110

  WE WALKED DOWN the hospital corridor to meet Nora’s mother, Olivia.

  “One day I’m talking to Nora about the writer Jeffrey Walker, and the next I’m reading in the papers that he’s dead,” said Emily as we walked.

  Susan and I just listened. “Of course, I didn’t think there was any connection. I didn’t even know Nora was in trouble until I saw it on TV.”

  Emily stopped walking in the hall. There was obviously something she needed to tell us before we got to Olivia’s room. “A couple of weeks ago, I happened to read a note that Olivia had passed to Nora. In the note was a secret that blew all of our minds. But it also told us a lot about Olivia, and maybe Nora as well. You’ll see in a minute.”

  Emily started to walk again. She continued past another few doorways, then she reached out for one of the handles. “This is Olivia’s room.”

  The nurse opened the door and I could see a very old woman propped up in bed. She was reading a novel and she didn’t look up from it as the three of us entered her room.

  “Hello, Olivia. These are the visitors I told you about,” said Emily in a clear, loud voice.

  Finally, Olivia looked up. “Oh, hello,” she said. “I like to read.”

  “Yes, Olivia likes to read.” Emily nodded, and then a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. The nurse turned to face Susan and me.

  “For a long time, Olivia fooled us about her actual condition. She used to play all kinds of tricks to make us believe she was a lot worse off than she actually is. One time, when Nora was here, she pretended to have a seizure because her daughter was going to reveal something she shouldn’t, and Olivia knew we tape all patient visits. Olivia is a very good actress. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Olivia was watching Susan and me, but she had listened to what the nurse had to say. “I suppose so.”

  “Well, we’ve pretty much agreed to let Olivia stay here at Pine Woods anyway. But only if she agrees to help you.”

  Olivia nodded, still staring at Susan and me.

  “I’ll help,” she said in a whisper. “What choice do I have?” At which point, Olivia set down her novel and climbed out of bed.

  As Olivia walked over to the closet, Emily spoke. “Every time Nora would visit, she’d bring a new novel for her mother to read, even though she didn’t believe Olivia actually read the books.”

  Olivia was reaching into her closet and then pulled out a cardboard box. I could already see that it was filled with books and also some wrapping, some envelopes.

  “Then Nora stopped visiting. But then a package arrived, addressed to Olivia. It was from Nora. There was even a note,” said Emily.

  I started to get excited. A package. Surely, this was about tracing where it came from. Had Nora been foolish enough to include a return address? That would’ve been too good to be true.

  And it was.

  Emily explained that there was nothing on the package to reveal anything about Nora’s whereabouts.

  “No return address. No foreign postage stamps or markings. Only a smudged, unreadable postmark.”

  She turned to Olivia. “Please give Agent O’Hara the note you received.”

  I took it, unfolded the paper, and read it aloud.

  “‘Dear Mother, sorry I can’t be there to visit with you. Hope you enjoy the book. Always with much love. Your daughter, Nora.’”

  I re-read the note, then shook my head. “What’s so special about this?”

  Susan fielded this one. “Everything. As careful as Nora was, she wasn’t careful enough.”

  She stared at Emily.

  I stared at Emily.

  Finally, Emily explained what she’d obviously already told Susan. “Look very closely at the piece of paper, Agent O’Hara. Hold it up to the light,” she said. “Do you see it? Lower right corner.”

  I held the note to the window and then placed it close to my eyes.

  Holy shit.

  The stationery had a custom watermark.

  I looked back at the others—and saw that Olivia had begun to cry. “She’s such a good daughter. Such a love.”

  Chapter 111

  NORA STROLLED OUT to her private terrace in the afternoon sun, wearing nothing but a pale blue bikini bottom and a brilliant smile. She sipped from a bottle of Evian, then pressed it against her c
heek. She’d yet to tire of the view of the Baie Longue beach and its glowing white sand, the way it seemed to melt into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. She couldn’t have designed it any better herself.

  La Samanna on the island of St. Martin had a well-deserved reputation as an exclusive hideaway resort. Nora was employing the hideaway part. During the day, behind her Chanel sunglasses, she was a rich socialite lounging by the pool. And at night—well, the way she and Jordan had been heating up the bedroom, dinner was always courtesy of room service.

  In fact, on some days, like honeymooners, they never left their villa. Thankfully, La Samanna also had a great room-service menu for breakfast and lunch.

  “Darling, do you want the Duval-Leroy or the Dom Pérignon today?” Jordan called from the bedroom.

  Decisions, decisions…

  “You pick for us, honey,” said Nora.

  Jordan Mauch, Dallas real-estate tycoon, was a born decision maker. The one that had made him the most money was recognizing Scottsdale, Arizona, as the next West Palm Beach before anyone else did. His latest decision involved his personal life. What a good move to hire Nora Sinclair to decorate my new house just outside Austin and then reward her with a little trip to the Caribbean.

  He called to her again from inside the bedroom, the lunch order placed. “Darling, do you realize that you’re not exactly dressed out there?”

  Nora replied, tongue in cheek, “I’m just trying to even out my tan lines.” She listened to him laugh. “Besides, this is the French side of the island, honey,” she said.

  Earlier in the week, she and Jordan had driven up past Grand Case, over to the nude beach at Orient Bay. Were it up to Nora, she would’ve stripped and made herself at home. Not Jordan. Nothing doing. That was one local custom he had no intention of partaking in. Nora didn’t even try to talk him into it. She’d already come to learn that very rich men with overseas accounts never want to take their clothes off in public. No doubt it has something to do with shielding their assets.

  Nora went back inside the villa and slipped into one of the resort’s fluffy white robes. It felt cozy against her skin. She climbed into bed with Jordan and snuggled up against his broad chest.

  There was just one problem.

  She couldn’t get John O’Hara out of her head. His smell, his taste, the way he seemed to get inside her head better than any man she’d ever been with.

  And it made her angry. She didn’t want these thoughts, she didn’t want to be in the arms of someone else, Jordan Mauch or anyone, and be thinking about O’Hara. It hurt too much. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fall in love.

  “Earth to Nora…,” Jordan said.

  She snapped out of her faraway gaze. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I was just thinking how perfect everything is.”

  He smiled. “Just another day in paradise.”

  They shared a kiss, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Lunch had arrived.

  Jordan climbed out of bed and pulled open the door. “Thank you,” he said as the room-service attendants wheeled in their large serving table. They were wearing the usual Docksides and shorts, with linen shirts and large straw hats.

  Suddenly, off came the hats.

  “Hello, Nora. I told you we’d meet again,” said O’Hara.

  “Don’t you dare talk to her!” snapped Susan. She drew her gun and took perfect aim at Nora on the bed. “You’re busted, you bitch!”

  Then she turned to Jordan Mauch. “And you… you’re the luckiest man alive.”

  Chapter 112

  THAT AFTERNOON A VERY strange and unexpectedly nice thing happened—I got some time off, and I got to spend it with Susan. We wisely decided to check out the beach at La Samanna, which was long, wide, and dazzlingly white. There was even an old shipwreck down the shoreline.

  “Are we sure we can trust these local guys?” I asked Susan as we caught a few rays.

  “You’re acting like they’re the Keystone Kops, or something,” she said.

  I was referring to the gendarmerie, the police on St. Martin.

  They’d taken Nora into custody until the extradition papers could be finalized for her return to New York.

  “Maybe it’s just me,” I said, “but it’s hard to put a lot of faith in policemen who wear shorts. We’re not even talking about normal ones, either. Did you see those things? They were so tight, I could tell their religion.”

  Susan turned to me with an incredulous stare I’d seen many times before. “Shut up and drink your drink, John.”

  She had a point. As she always does.

  Our police work there was done. Nora was safely in custody, and the case was closed. We’d even checked in with John Jr. and Max back home to see that they were okay with their grandparents, Susan’s mom and dad, who still sort of liked me, in spite of everything.

  If just for a little while, Susan and I deserved to be sitting right where we were. Side by side on comfy beach chairs at this unbelievably ritzy resort, watching the sun go down against the backdrop of a beautifully illuminated orange sky. Hell, we’d even gone for a swim together.

  I reached over with my mai tai. “Here’s to Nurse Emily Barrows.”

  Susan clinked my glass with her piña colada.

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. I felt a sense of satisfaction and an equal amount of relief. I also felt a twinge of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it wasn’t very comforting. Let’s call it guilt.

  I glanced over at Susan, who looked incredibly pretty and serene. I’d caused her so much pain and I felt horrible about it. She deserved better.

  I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am so, so sorry.”

  She squeezed back. “I know you are,” she said softly.

  And there it was. A happy ending if there ever was one. Me with a mai tai in one hand, the first woman I ever truly loved in the other. And Nora Sinclair soon to be serving a life sentence for the murders she’d committed.

  Of course, I should’ve known better.

  Chapter 113

  THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I was in Susan’s office in New York. I had been summoned. She’d just gotten off the phone with Frank Walsh.

  “O’Hara, I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

  “Straight up, I guess. I made my own bed, didn’t I?”

  “It’s not that, John. It’s… they’re dropping the charges against Nora Sinclair.”

  The news hit me like a sucker punch. Hard, painful, and completely unexpected. It took me a few seconds before I could even string together a sentence.

  “What do you mean, they’re dropping the charges?”

  Susan stared at me from across her desk, unblinking. I could see in her eyes how upset she was, but it was a very controlled anger.

  Unlike mine.

  I started to pace and curse and threaten everything I could think of, beginning with going to the New York Times.

  “Sit down, John,” she said.

  I couldn’t sit. “I don’t understand. How could they? She’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “I know she is. She’s an incredible snake. She’s psycho.”

  “Then, why would we let her walk?!”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated? It’s bullshit. It’s unacceptable.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Susan said in a measured tone. “And if yelling and screaming now is going to make you feel better, be my guest. But when you’re finished, it’s not going to change a damn thing. It’s a done deal upstairs.”

  I hated it when she was right. Like the time Susan told me I was too self-involved to salvage our marriage. Bull’s-eye.

  I finally took a seat and drew a deep breath. “Okay, why?”

  “Actually, if you think about it, you already know.”

  She was right again. Call it denial, or wishful thinking, but I was always aware that Nora’s indictment could present a serious problem for the Good Guys. My behavior would c
ome out during the trial, and the powers that be at the Bureau were none too pleased at the prospect of suffering through the embarrassment. Still, suffer they would, if that were the only problem.

  But I knew there was more—much more.

  Hell, I’d been involved in it when I went undercover as the Tourist.

  The suitcase was part of it. The list of names and accounts inside was part of it.

  My dalliance with the suspect paled in comparison to a larger concern. Something far more sensitive and, potentially, more embarrassing. That is, if ever it became public.

  Frank Walsh had alluded to it during my disciplinary hearing—the monitoring of money being trafficked in and out of the country. Needless to say, it wasn’t being done through voluntary surveys at the local bank. It was being accomplished with private agreements among Homeland Security, the Bureau, and several multinational banks. The rationale? The only thing more dangerous than a terrorist group is a terrorist group with solid financial backing. The logic was supposed to be simple. Stop their money and you stop them. Or, even better, find their money.

  And find them.

  The only rules were that there weren’t any. Which is to say that a lot of this was, well, illegal. No one was considered safe or above reproach. Casinos to charities, big corporations to day traders. Anywhere and everywhere in the world. We hacked them all. If money was moving, we were watching. And if money was moving in apparent secrecy, we were really watching. Suddenly, private numbered accounts were anything but.

  Hello, Connor Brown.

  And hello, Nora.

  “So, that’s it, huh?” I said to Susan.

  “What else can I tell you? Nora represents the lesser of two evils to them.” She smirked. “I mean, what’s a few dead rich guys compared to keeping the world safe for democracy, or whatever. They’re going to set her free, O’Hara. For all I know, she might be out already.”

  Chapter 114

  NORA DROVE the red Benz around lower Manhattan—fast—until she was sure no one was following her. Not the press, not the police. Nobody. Then she gunned the Benz up onto the decrepit roller coaster known as the West Side Highway and headed north to Westchester. She needed some time by herself.