Read Honeymoon Online

Authors: James Patterson,Howard Roughan

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #detective, #Mystery & Detective, #mystery, #Suspense, #Police Procedural, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery fiction, #Government investigators, #Mystery & Detective - Police Procedural, #Suspense & Thriller, #Investment bankers, #Witnesses, #Women interior decorators, #Investment bankers - Crimes against

Honeymoon (5 page)

BOOK: Honeymoon
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"I love this place," said Jeffrey, looking around. They

 

were at La Primavera in the North End of Boston. The decor

 

was simple and elegant with white linen tablecloths, gleam-

 

ing silverware, soft lighting. When you sat down it was as-

 

sumed you wanted regular water, not bottled. And frankly,

 

Nora could have cared less.

 

Jeffrey had the osso buco, Nora the risotto with porcini

 

mushrooms. But she had zero appetite. The wine was a

 

Poggio dell'Oliviera Chianti Classico, the '94 Reserve. The

 

wine, she needed. When the plates were cleared, Nora

 

steered the conversation to the following weekend. Her un-

 

finished business was weighing heavily on her mind.

 

"You forgot," said Jeffrey. "I'm traveling, darling. That

 

book festival down in Virginia."

 

"You're right, I did forget." Nora felt like screaming. "I

 

can't believe I'm letting you loose with hundreds of your

 

adoring female fans."

 

Jeffrey folded his hands in front of him and leaned on

 

the table. "Listen, I've been doing some thinking," he said.

 

"It's about the way we've treated our marriage. Or, really,

 

the way I've treated it -- the secrecy. I think I've been unfair

 

to you."

 

"Have you sensed that it's bothering me? Because --"

 

"No, actually, you've been so understanding. It's made

 

me feel worse. I mean, I've got the most wonderful wife in

 

the world. It's time the world knew it."

 

Nora smiled, as she should have, but inside, the warning

 

lights were flashing. "What about your fans?" she asked. "All

 

those women next week in Virginia who want to see one of

 

People
magazine's sexiest and most eligible
bachelors?
"

 

"Screw 'em."

 

"That's kind of what they're hoping for, honey," said

 

Nora.

 

Jeffrey reached for her hands, clasping them lightly.

 

"You've been understanding and I've been incredibly selfish.

 

But no more."

 

Nora sensed there was no talking him out of it. At least

 

not right then. He was such a typical guy. He had his mind

 

made up about what was best for
her,
and there was no

 

changing his mind.

 

"Tell you what," she said. "Do your book fair, wow the

 

ladies with your looks and charm and erudition, and then

 

we'll talk about it when you get back."

 

"Sure thing," he said in a tone that suggested otherwise.

 

"There's just one problem."

 

"What's that?" Nora asked.
You want to propose to me

 

again, in the middle of this crowded restaurant?

 

"Yesterday, I did an interview for
New York
magazine. I

 

came clean and told them about you. The wedding in Cuer-

 

navaca. You should have seen the reporter, she couldn't wait

 

to put the scoop in her article. She asked if the magazine

 

could get shots of the two of us. I said sure."

 

Nora's poker face finally folded. "
You did?
"

 

"Yes," he said, clasping her hands tighter. "That's not a

 

problem, is it?"

 

"No, it's not a problem."

 

Not at all,
she thought.
It's a
big
problem.

 

 

Chapter 46

 

NORA RETURNED to Manhattan late the following after-

 

noon. She missed her loft apartment, the comfort and quiet

 

of it, the things she'd bought for herself over the years. She

 

missed what she considered her
real
life.

 

While she drew herself a bath, she listened to her mes-

 

sages. She'd been checking them periodically while away.

 

There were four new ones. The first three were work-

 

related, bitchy clients. The final one was from Brian Stewart,

 

her first-class companion to Boston, the Brad Pitt look-

 

alike.

 

The message was short and sweet, the kind she liked.

 

Brian expressed how much he enjoyed meeting her and

 

how he looked forward to seeing her again. "I should be

 

back in the city by the end of the week and I'd love to take

 

you out for a night on the town. It'll be fun, I promise."

 

If you insist, Brian.
Nora took her hot bath. Afterward, she ordered in Chi-

 

 

nese and sorted through her mail. Before the eleven o'clock

 

news ended, she was sound asleep on the couch, sleeping

 

like a baby. And she slept
late.

 

Just before noon the next day, Nora strolled into Har-

 

grove & Sons on the Upper East Side. Personally, she thought

 

the place was beyond stuffy, with many of the sales staff

 

seemingly older than the antiques they were peddling. But

 

the store was a favorite of her client, longtime film producer

 

Dale Minton, and he had insisted on meeting her there.

 

Nora browsed on her own for a few minutes. After walk-

 

ing by yet another plaid sofa, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

 

"It
is
you, Olivia!"

 

The overly excited man standing before her was Steven

 

Keppler -- middle-aged, midtown tax attorney with a bad

 

comb-over.

 

"Uh… hi," said Nora. She quickly flipped through her

 

mental Rolodex and came up with his name. "How are you,

 

Steven?"

 

"I'm great, Olivia. You know, I was calling out your

 

name. You didn't hear me?"

 

She played it cool. "Oh, that's so typical of me. The more

 

I shop, the less I can hear what's going on around me."

 

Steven laughed and let it go. As he launched into his

 

"fancy meeting you here" small talk, Nora remembered his

 

ogling tendencies. How could she forget? Sure enough,

 

his eyes were beginning to drool. Do eyes drool? Well,

 

Keppler's did. Meanwhile, she was keeping one eye on the

 

entrance for Dale. This could be a disaster in the making.

 

"So, Olivia, are you shopping for yourself, or a client?"

 

asked Steven.

 

"A client," she said, looking at her watch.

 

That's when she saw him. Dale Minton was waltzing

 

through the front door that very second, looking as if he

 

owned the place. He certainly could have, if he wanted to.

 

"Oh, there he is now," she said. She tried not to panic,

 

but the image of Dale calling her Nora with Steven looking

 

on, and vice versa, was fraying her nerves.

 

"I'll let you do your business," he said. "Just promise me

 

I can take you out to dinner sometime." The guy certainly

 

was an opportunist. He knew what she knew, that yes was

 

a much quicker answer. No would've required making an

 

excuse.

 

"Yes," said Nora. "That would be nice. Call me."

 

"I will. I'm on vacation beginning next week, but when I

 

get back, I'm going to hold you to that promise."

 

Steven Keppler turned to go with Dale still a few feet

 

away. It was close, but she dodged a bullet. Then…

 

"It was good seeing you, Olivia," called Steven loudly.

 

Nora gave him a weak smile and glanced at Dale, who

 

looked thoroughly confused. "Did that man just call you

 

Olivia?
" he asked.

 

Nora prayed to the goddess of quick thinking. She deliv-

 

ered. Nora leaned into Dale with a whisper. "I met him at a

 

party a few months back. I told him I was Olivia -- for ob-

 

vious reasons."

 

Dale nodded, no longer confused, and Nora smiled. Her

 

two lives remained safely apart.

 

For now, anyway.

 

 

Chapter 47

 

A BLOND WOMAN drifted from one piece of old furniture

 

to another, her eyes shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses.

 

She was playing detective and feeling slightly ridiculous, to

 

tell the truth. But she
needed
to watch Nora Sinclair.

 

Had this been anywhere but New York, she would've

 

stood out. But this was the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

 

Here, she blended in. Simply another browsing customer at

 

Hargrove & Sons.

 

The blonde stopped at an oak hallstand with shiny brass

 

hooks and pretended to look at the price. Her eyes and ears

 

remained fixed on Nora.

 

Or was it
Olivia
Sinclair?

 

She didn't know what to make of the exchange with the

 

balding guy.
Anyone who answers to two names is probably

 

guilty of something.

 

She continued to watch Nora -- now joined by an older

 

man. Just to be careful, she wandered away from them a

 

couple of times. Still, she managed to overhear some of the

 

conversation.

 

The older man was a client. Accordingly, Nora was actu-

 

ally an interior decorator. Her comments and suggestions,

 

the jargon -- she definitely knew how to talk the talk.

 

Nora's profession was never really in doubt, though. It

 

was the rest of her life that was in question. Her two lives,

 

her secrets. But there was no proof of anything yet. Which

 

was why the blond woman had decided to have a look-see

 

for herself.

 

"Excuse me, do you need any help? May I be of assis-

 

tance in any way?"

 

The blonde turned to see an elderly sales clerk hovering

 

close behind. He was wearing a bow tie, a tweed jacket,

 

wire-rimmed eyeglasses that looked as old as he was.

 

"No, thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

 

"I'm just looking. But I don't see anything I like."

 

 

Chapter 48

 

AFTER I LOST Nora up in Boston that Saturday, the rest of

 

the weekend could be summed up in one word:
shitty.

 

On my list of spontaneous dumb things to do, squaring

 

off with a rental-car window scored pretty high. Thankfully,

 

I hadn't broken my hand, at least according to my extensive

 

medical self-evaluation. The epitome of rigor, it consisted of

 

one question:
Can you still move your fingers, you idiot?

 

When Monday morning finally rolled around, I swung

 

by Connor Brown's house to see if Nora had returned. She

 

hadn't. After making the same trip, with the same result,

 

in the late afternoon, I decided it was time to try her cell

 

phone.

 

I took out my notepad, where I'd written the number

 

Nora had given me, and dialed from my car.

 

A man answered.

 

"I'm sorry, I may have the wrong number," I said. "I was

 

trying to reach Nora Sinclair."

 

He didn't know anyone by that name.

 

I hung up and checked my notepad against the log my

 

cell phone kept of outgoing calls. Nope. I'd definitely dialed

 

the right number. It just wasn't Nora's.

 

Huh.
I stared at my steering wheel for a moment before

 

 

grabbing the phone again and dialing. This time a young,

 

pleasant-sounding female voice.

 

"Good morning, Centennial One Life Insurance."

 

"Very convincing, Molly," I said.

 

"Really?"

 

"Absolutely. If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a

 

nail file in you hand."

 

Molly was my new receptionist. After Nora followed me

 

to work, it was decided that the "field office" could no

 

longer be a one-man operation.

 

"Do me a favor, will you?" I asked. "Run a cell phone

 

check on Nora."

 

"The number's not already in her folder?"

 

"It may be, but I want to make sure she hasn't changed it

 

recently."

 

"Okay. Give me ten minutes."

 

"I'll give you five."

 

"Is that any way to treat your new receptionist?"

 

"You're right," I said. "Make it
four
minutes."

 

"No fair."

 

"Tick, tick, tick…"

 

Molly had been out of school for only two years. While

 

still a little green, according to Susan, and prone to the oc-

 

casional lapse in judgment, she was proving to be a quick

 

study. No surprise then when she called me back in
three
minutes.

 

 

"It's still the same number we have for her," said Molly.

 

She read it to me, and I checked it against the number Nora

 

had given me.

 

I had to smile. The only difference was the last two dig-

 

its. They were flip-flopped.

 

Interesting.

 

Maybe I was the one who mixed them up. Or maybe that

 

was what Nora wanted me to think. Or, at least allow for.

 

"Anything else you need?" asked Molly.

 

"No, I'm all set. Thanks."

 

I said good-bye, putting down the phone in favor of my

 

BOOK: Honeymoon
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