Women's Murder Club [03] 3rd Degree

by James Patterson

  “I don’t mean like him, honey. I mean you really like him.”

  “Whad’ya want me to do, Claire? Break out in a chorus of ‘Don’t he make my brown eyes blue’?”

  “No,” Claire said, glancing at Cindy, then back to me, “what we want you to do, Lindsay, is put aside whatever it is that’s getting in the way of you doing the right thing for yourself, before you let that guy get on his plane.”

  I arched my back against the booth. I swallowed uneasily. “It’s Jill….”

  “Jill?”

  I took a breath, a sharp rush of tears biting at my eyes. “I wasn’t there for her, Claire. The night she threw Steve out.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Claire said. “You were up in Portland.”

  “I was with Molinari,” I said. “When I got back it was after one. Jill sounded mixed up. I said I’d come over, but I didn’t press it. You know why? Because I was all dreamy-eyed over Joe. She had just thrown Steve out.”

  “She said she was okay,” Cindy said. “You told us.”

  “And that was Jill, right? You ever heard her ask for help? Bottom line, I wasn’t there for her. And whether it’s right or wrong, I can’t look at Joe now without seeing her, hearing her needing me, thinking if I had, maybe she’d still be here.”

  Neither of them said anything. Not a word. I sat there, my jaw tight, pressing back tears.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Claire said, her fingers creeping across the table and taking ahold of my hand. “I think you’re way too smart, honey, to really think that your enjoying yourself for once in your life made any difference in what happened to Jill. You know she’d be the first one who’d want you to be happy, too.”

  “I know that, Claire.” I nodded. “I just can’t put it away….”

  “Well, you better put it away,” Claire said, squeezing my hand, “’cause all it is, is you just trying to hurt yourself. Everyone’s entitled to be happy, Lindsay. Even you.”

  I dabbed at a tear with the cocktail napkin. “I already heard that once today,” I said, and couldn’t hold back a smile.

  “Yeah, well, here’s to Lindsay Boxer,” Claire announced, and raised her glass. “And here’s to hoping that for once in her life she hears it loud and clear.”

  A shout interrupted us from the bar area. Everyone was pointing to the TV. Instead of some dumb ball game, there was my face on the screen. Tom Brokaw was asking me questions. Whistles and cheering broke out.

  There I was on the evening news.

  Chapter 110

  JOE MOLINARI TOOK A SIP of the vodka the flight attendant had brought him, then eased back in his seat aboard the government jet. With any luck he’d sleep all the way to Washington. He hoped so. No, he’d sleep for sure, soundly. For the first time in days.

  He’d be fresh to make a report in front of the director of homeland security in the morning. This one was put to bed, he could definitively say. Eldridge Neal would heal. There were reports to write. There might be a congressional subcommittee to go before. There was an anger out there they’d have to keep an eye on. This time the terror hadn’t come from abroad.

  Molinari leaned back in the plush seat. The scope of the whole remarkable chain of events was becoming clear in his eyes. From the moment that Sunday he was informed of the bombing in San Francisco to taking out Danko as he wrestled with Lindsay Boxer at the G-8 reception last night. He knew what to write: the names and details, the sequence of events, the outcome. He knew how to explain everything, he thought. Except one thing.

  Her. Molinari shut his eyes and felt incredibly melancholy.

  How to explain the electricity shooting through him every time their arms brushed. Or the feeling he got when he looked into Lindsay’s deep green eyes. She was so hard and tough—and so gentle and vulnerable. A lot like him. And she was funny, too, when she wanted to be anyway, which was often.

  He wished he could do the big romantic thing, like in the movies, whisk her on a plane and take her somewhere. Call in to the office: That subcommittee meeting will have to wait, sir. Molinari felt a smile creep over his face.

  “Takeoff should be in about five, sir,” the flight attendant informed him.

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding. Try to relax. Chill. Sleep. He willed himself, thought of home. He’d been living out of a suitcase for two weeks now. It may not be how he wanted this to end, but it would be good to be home. He closed his eyes once more.

  “Sir,” the attendant called again. A uniformed airport policeman had boarded the plane. He was escorted back to him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the policeman said. “Something urgent has come up. I was told to hold the plane at the gate and accompany you back inside. The police gave me this number for you to call.”

  A stab of worry jolted Molinari. What the hell could have happened now? He took the piece of paper and grabbed his briefcase and phone. He punched in the number, told the pilot to wait, and followed the security man off the plane. He put the phone to his ear.

  Chapter 111

  MY PHONE STARTED TO RING just as Molinari appeared near the gate. I stood there and watched him. Seeing me, the phone to my ear, he began to understand. A smile came over his face, a big smile.

  I’d never been so nervous in my life. Then we just stood there, maybe fifteen feet apart. He’d stopped walking.

  “I’m the emergency,” I said into the phone. “I need your help.”

  At first Molinari smiled, then he caught himself, with that stern deputy director sort of look. “You’re lucky. I’m an emergency kind of guy.”

  “I have no life,” I said. “I have this very nice dog. And my friends. And this job. And I’m good at it. But I have no life.”

  “And what is it you want?” Molinari said, stepping closer.

  His eyes were twinkling and forgiving. They reflected some kind of joy—cutting through the case, and the continent that divided us—the same thing that was in my heart.

  “You,” I said. “I want you. And the jet.”

  He laughed, and then he stood right in front of me.

  “No”—I shook my head—“I just want you. I couldn’t let you get on that plane without telling you that. This bi-coastal thing, we can try to make it work if you like. You say you’re out here every once in a while for conferences and the occasional national crisis…. Me, I get back there now and then. I got an invitation to stay at the White House recently. You’ve been to the White House, Joe. We can—”

  “Sshhh.” He put a finger to my lips. Then he bent and kissed me right there in the skyway. I was so caught up in trying to be open for once, I swallowed my own words. My spine went rigid, and God, it felt so natural, so right for him to be holding me. I wrapped my fingers around his arms, holding on as tightly as I could.

  When we let go, Molinari curled a grin at me. “So, you got an invitation to the White House, huh? I always wondered what it’d be like to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom.”

  “Keep dreaming.” I laughed into those blue eyes of his. Then I locked my arm around his and led him back toward the terminal. “Now your desk at the Capitol, Mr. Deputy Director. That sounds a bit more interesting….”

  More James Patterson!

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  HONEYMOON

  Whodunwhat?

  Prologue

  Things aren’t always as they appear.

  One minute, I’m totally fine.

  The next, I’m hunched over and clutching my stomach in sheer agony. What the hell is happening to me?

  I have no idea. All I know is what I feel, and what I feel I can’t believe. It’s as if the interior lining of my stomach is suddenly peeling away with a corrosive burn. I’m screaming and moaning, but most of all, I’m praying—praying for this to stop.

  It doesn’t.

  The
burning continues, a blistering hole forms, and the bile trickles out of my stomach with a sizzling… drip… drip… drip… over my entrails. The smell of my own melting flesh fills the air.

  I’m dying, I tell myself.

  But no, it’s worse than that. Much worse. I’m being skinned alive—from the inside out.

  And it’s only just beginning.

  Like a firework, the pain shoots up and explodes into my throat. It cuts off all air and I struggle to breathe.

  Then I collapse. My arms prove useless, unable to break the fall. Headfirst I hit the hardwood floor and bust open my skull. Blood, plum red and thick, oozes from above my right eyebrow. I blink a few times, but that’s all. The gash doesn’t even factor in. Needing a dozen stitches is the least of my current problems.

  The pain gets worse, continues to spread.

  Through my nose. Out to my ears. Right smack into my eyes where I can feel the vessels popping like bubble wrap.

  I try to stand. I can’t. When I finally manage to, I try to run, but all I can do is stumble forward. My legs are leaden. The bathroom is ten feet away. It might as well be ten miles.

  Somehow I make it. I get there, lock the door behind me. My knees buckle and, again, I collapse to the floor. The cold tile greets my cheek with a horrific crack! as my back molar splits in two.

  I can see the toilet but like everything else in the bathroom, it’s moving. Everything is spinning and I reach for the sink, arms flailing, to try and hold on. No chance. My body begins to thrash as if a thousand volts are coursing through my veins.

  I try to crawl.

  The pain is officially everywhere including my fingernails, which dig into the tile grout and inch me forward. I desperately grab the base of the toilet and drag my head up over the lip.

  For a second, my throat opens and I gasp for air. I begin to heave and the muscles in my chest stretch and twist. One by one, they tear as if razor blades are slashing through them.

  There’s a knocking on the door. Quickly, I turn my head. It’s getting louder and louder. More of a pounding now.

  Were it only the grim reaper to put me out of this excruciating misery.

  But it’s not—not yet at least—and that’s the moment I realize that I may not know what killed me tonight, but I know for damn sure who did it.

  Part One: Perfect Couples

  Chapter 1

  NORA COULD FEEL Connor watching her.

  He always did the same thing when she packed to leave for one of her trips: He’d lean his six-foot-three frame against the doorway of his bedroom, his hands buried in the pockets of his Dockers, a frown tugging on his face. He hated the thought of their being apart.

  Usually, he wouldn’t say anything though. He’d just stand there in silence as Nora filled her suitcase and occasionally took a sip of Evian water, her favorite. That afternoon, though, he couldn’t help himself.

  “Don’t go,” he said in his deep voice.

  Nora turned with a loving smile. “You know I have to. You know I hate this, too.”

  “But I already miss you. Just say no, Nora—don’t go. To hell with them.”

  From day one, Nora had been captivated by how vulnerable Connor allowed himself to be with her. It was in such sharp contrast to his public persona—a very rich and hard-driving hedge-fund manager with his own successful company in Greenwich, with another office in London. His puppy dog eyes belied the fact that he was built like a lion. Powerful and proud.

  Indeed, at the relatively young age of forty, Connor was pretty much king of all he surveyed. And in Nora, thirty-three, he’d found his queen, his perfect soul mate in life.

  “You know I could tie you up and keep you from leaving,” he said jokingly.

  “That sounds like fun,” said Nora, playing along. She lifted up the top of her suitcase that was lying open on the bed. She was searching for something.

  “First, though, could you maybe help me find my green cardigan?”

  Connor finally chuckled. He got such a kick out of her. Good jokes, bad jokes, it didn’t seem to matter. “Do you mean the one with the pearl buttons? It’s in the master closet.”

  Nora laughed. “You were dressing up in my clothes again, weren’t you?”

  She headed for the cavernous walk-in closet. When she returned, green sweater in hand, Connor had moved to the foot of the bed. He stared at her with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “I know that look.”

  “What look?” he asked.

  “The one that says you want a going away present.” Nora thought for a moment before flashing a grin of her own. She laid the sweater on the bed and slowly walked up to Connor, purposefully stopping just inches from his body. She was wearing only her bra and panties.

  “From me, to you,” she leaned and whispered in his ear.

  There wasn’t that much to unwrap but Connor took his time anyway. He gently kissed Nora’s neck, then her shoulders, his lips tracing an imaginary line downward to the jutting curves of her small, pert breasts. There, he lingered, one hand stroking her arm, the other reaching around to remove her bra.

  Nora shivered, her body tingling. Cute, funny, and very good in bed. What more could a girl ask for?

  Connor knelt and kissed Nora’s stomach, his tongue lightly drawing circles around her little wink of a belly button. Then, with a thumb resting on either side of her hips, he began to roll down her panties. He charted the progress with kiss after kiss after kiss.

  “That’s… very… nice,” whispered Nora.

  Now it was her turn. As Connor’s tall, muscular frame straightened out before her, she began to undress him. Quickly, deftly, but sensually.

  For a few seconds, they stood still. Perfectly naked. Gazing at each other, taking in each and every detail. God, what could be better than this?

  Suddenly, Nora laughed. She gave Connor a quick, playful shove and he fell back on the bed. He was fully aroused. A prodigious human sundial lying there on the duvet.

  Nora reached into her open suitcase and removed a black Ferragamo belt, pulling it taut in her hands.

  Snap!

  “Now what was that about tying somebody up?” she asked.

  Chapter 2

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, donning a plush, pink terry-cloth robe, Nora descended the sprawling staircase of Connor’s 11,000-square-foot, three-level, neoclassic Colonial. Even by the standards of Briarcliff Manor and the other surrounding towns of tony Westchester, his home was impressive.

  It was also impeccably furnished—every room a superb blending of form and function, style and comfort. The very best New York City antique shops meet the best of Connecticut—Eleish Van Breems, New Canaan Antiques, the Silk Purse, the Cellar. Signature works by Monet, Hudson River School Star Thomas Cole, Magritte, and a George III secretary in the library which had once been owned by J. P. Morgan. A humidor, originally presented to Castro by Richard Nixon along with provenance documentation. A nearly full, walk-in wine cellar that held four thousand bottles.

  True, Connor had hired one of the very best decorators in New York. In fact, he was so impressed with her, he asked her out on a date. Six months later she was tying him up in bed.

  And he’d never felt more happy, more excited, more alive in his entire life.

  Five years before, he’d found love, marveled at it, treasured it, but his fiancé Moira had died of cancer. He’d never thought he could find love again, but suddenly there she was, the amazing Nora Sinclair.

  Nora walked through the marble foyer and past the dining room. Before she had to leave, there was just enough time to take pity on the appetite she’d worked up in Connor.

  She entered the kitchen, her favorite room in the house. Prior to enrolling at the New York School of Interior Design, she’d thought about becoming a chef, even going so far as taking courses at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.

  While she chose to decorate homes instead of plates, cooking remained one of Nora’s passions. It relaxed her, hel
ped clear her mind. Even making something as basic as Connor’s favorite: a big, juicy, double-cheeseburger with onions—and inside, caviar.

  Fifteen minutes later, she called out to him. “Honey, it’s almost ready. Are you?”

  Back in shorts and Polo shirt, he made his way downstairs and ambled up behind Nora at the stove. “No place else on earth…”

  “… I’d rather be,” she said, taking her cue. It was one of their things. A shared mantra. Little testaments of making the most of their time together, which, given their bustling careers, was always at a premium.

  He peered over her shoulder as she sliced into a large onion. “They never make you cry, huh?”

  “No, I guess they don’t.”

  Connor took a seat at the kitchen table. “When is the car service picking you up?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  He nodded, fidgeted with a place mat. “So where is this client of yours who’s making you work on a Sunday?”

  “Boston,” she answered. “Retired guy who just bought and renovated a huge brownstone in the Back Bay.”

  Nora cut a kaiser roll and loaded it up with the sizzling double cheeseburger and onions. She grabbed an Amstel Light for Connor and another Evian water for herself from the fridge.

  “Better than Smith & Wollensky,” he said after the first bite. “With a far more attractive chef, I might add.”

  Nora took a sip of water and watched him begin to make quick work of her cooking. He always did. Such a healthy appetite! Good for him.

  “God, I love you,” he suddenly gushed.

  “And I love you.” Nora stopped and stared into his blue eyes. “I do. I adore you, actually.”

  He raised his palms in the air. “Then, really, what are we waiting for?”