“I’m afraid she’s not coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just saw her walk out of the restaurant.”
More puzzled, he peered over his shoulder toward the exit, his eyes scanning. He started to get up.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s been a good five minutes now.”
He sat back down. “I don’t understand. Are you a friend of hers, or something?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” She slid into the chair that had been Nora’s. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, though?”
Chapter 60
NORA NEEDED TO GET out of New York for at least a few days. Fortunately, she had somewhere she could go.
The traffic was light heading due north on I-95. About half an hour south of Boston, though, that all changed. A jackknifed tractor trailer had backed everything up for miles, and Nora was reminded why she always chose to fly.
Still, she didn’t care.
After the cemetery and her dinner with Brian Stewart—the Don Juan wannabe with no real dinero—what Nora wanted was a little stability in her life. Wheels to the ground. Taking the day to drive up to Boston was good for her. So was spending the night with her hubby.
“Boy, did I ever miss you!” Jeffrey said, greeting her in the foyer of the Back Bay brownstone. He held her in his arms, kissing her lips, then her cheeks, her neck, and starting all over again.
“I’m almost tempted to believe you,” teased Nora. “Here I thought you’d forget all about me after your book festival and those adoring Virginia women.”
“How could I forget about this, and these, and this?” asked Jeffrey.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Nora.
They continued to kiss and kid each other all the way up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Their clothes littered on the floor and their bodies sweating, they made love that afternoon and again in the early evening. The farthest either of them strayed from bed was when Jeffrey ran to meet the delivery guy with their Vietnamese takeout.
They ate wakame salads, Cuu Long chicken, and lemongrass beef while cuddling and watching North by Northwest. Nora adored Hitchcock, who was one of the kinkiest bastards ever. By the time Cary Grant was dangling off Mount Rushmore, though, Jeffrey was asleep.
Then Nora waited patiently. When she finally heard that little nose-whistling sound he made, she slid out of bed and down the hall. Into the library and behind the computer.
Everything went very smoothly indeed. Nora got into his offshore account easily, took the tour, and saw what Jeffrey had put away for a rainy day. Nearly $6 million.
The moment of truth was fast approaching, certainly faster than the arrival of that New York magazine photographer.
But first things first. A few loose ends that needed tying in Briarcliff Manor. All having to do with a certain insurance man and some test results. What would old Alfie Hitchcock have done with that? He certainly would have raised some hackles with that scene at the cemetery, Nora thought, and couldn’t hold back a smile.
Chapter 61
THE TOURIST—ah, the poor Tourist—was feeling restless and frustrated and bent out of shape. There were at least a hundred other places he’d rather have been, but this place—his temporary home away from home—was where he needed to be.
He still hadn’t figured out the list of offshore accounts. Obviously, the people in the file were evading taxes, right? But who were they? What was the price of admission to the list? And why had the file been worth someone’s life?
He’d already read the newspaper, and finished off a fat Nelson DeMille novel about Vietnam. Now he was sitting on the couch, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. While he was in the middle of an article on the Boston Red Sox’s fading pennant hopes for the year, the silence of the living room was broken.
Someone was at the door.
Quietly, he grabbed the Beretta by his side and stood. He walked to the window, pulling back the drawn shade for a peek at the front stoop. To make things worse, it was pouring outside, turning everything to mud.
Standing there was some guy with a flat, square box in his hand. Behind him, in the driveway, was a Toyota Camry with the engine running.
The Tourist smiled. Dinner is served.
Tucking the gun behind his back and underneath his shirt, he opened the door and greeted yet another delivery guy from Pepe’s House of Pizza. He’d already ordered half a dozen times from there since he arrived.
“Sausage and onion?” asked the delivery guy. He looked college-aged, maybe a little older. Tough to tell under the brim of his Yankees baseball cap.
“Yep. How much?”
“Sixteen-fifty.”
“You’d think I’d know that by now,” the Tourist muttered to himself. He reached into his trouser pocket. His hand came up empty. “Wait a minute, let me get my wallet.” He was about to turn around when he noticed that the delivery guy was being rained on. “Why don’t you come on in,” he offered.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
The guy stepped inside while the Tourist headed toward the kitchen for his wallet. “It looks pretty wet out there,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Wet means we’re busier than usual.”
“I bet. Why go out for dinner in the rain when you can have someone bring it to you, right?”
The Tourist returned with a twenty in his hand. “Here you go,” he said. “Call it even.”
The delivery guy handed over the pizza and took the twenty. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He reached inside his raincoat and smiled. “Only we’re not quite even yet.”
The Tourist frantically swung a hand behind his back, but it was too late, too slow. His gun was a distant second to the one pointed at his chest.
“Don’t move!” said the pizza guy. He walked around and relieved the Tourist of the Beretta tucked into his jeans. “Now place both hands against the wall.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna make you wish you’d ordered Chinese, O’Hara.”
Chapter 62
FEELING INCREDIBLY STUPID, John O’Hara, the Tourist, allowed himself to be patted down. He couldn’t believe he’d been suckered by this kid, this young pup, this whelp.
“Okay, turn around slowly.”
O’Hara did a 180. Very slowly.
“Now, where is it?” the guy asked. “The suitcase. What’s inside. Whatever you’ve got.”
“I don’t know. Honest, man.”
“Bullshit. Man.”
“Hey, I’m telling you the truth. I handed it off as soon as I got it. A garage in New York.”
The delivery guy pressed the barrel of his gun to O’Hara’s forehead. Hard, so it hurt. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to talk about.”
“You kill me and you’re dead within twenty-four hours. You. Personally. That’s the way it works.”
“I don’t think so,” Pizza Guy said, and cocked the gun.
O’Hara tried to read the kid’s eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. Coldness and confidence. This guy probably worked for the file’s original seller. Maybe he was the seller. “Okay, okay, hold on. I know where it is.”
“Where?”
“I have it here. I had it all the time.”
“Show me.”
O’Hara led him down the hallway to the bedroom. He could hear the faint sound of a neighbor’s stereo. Thought about screaming for help. “Under the bed,” he said. “I’ll get it. It’s in my duffel bag.”