His face soured. “Police protection? Are you telling me this woman’s dangerous? Olivia Sinclair? What exactly is she being investigated for?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Keppler. But, hey, I’m sure if she entrusted you with her business, she must be convinced that you’d never divulge anything about your dealings.”
His voice notched up an octave. “Wait a minute—where is Olivia Sinclair now? I mean, you’re following her, right?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “We were, but we don’t know where she is now. Mr. Keppler, I can’t tell you everything about this case, but I will tell you this. It involves murder. And possibly more than just one.”
So much for the lawyer’s spunk and his protection of his client’s privacy. When he was finally able to put a few words together, he asked me to sit down again.
“With pleasure,” I said.
Chapter 93
THE BOOK ON Jeffrey was closed. His numbered account was all but cleaned out, and there wasn’t a hint of suspicion from any of the authorities. The photographer from New York magazine never got his shots, and the interview itself was scrapped. All in all, Nora knew she should’ve been pleased with the way things had gone in Boston. But as she returned to New York, she knew that everything was wrong.
She was thinking about O’Hara.
She paused before reaching for her cell phone. She cautioned herself: she couldn’t let on what she knew.
Finally she dialed and hit SEND.
“Hello?” Well, well, it’s the bad boy himself.
“Is this my phone-sex partner?” Nora asked.
He let go with a chuckle. “Mom, is that you?”
In spite of everything, she laughed.
“Oh, that’s gross.”
“I was going for funny.”
“So, Mr. Craig Reynolds, why didn’t you call me from Chicago? Too busy?”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said. “I got caught up with the seminar.”
“That must have been some seminar. You were good, huh? Showed your stuff?”
“You have no idea.”
Nora suppressed a snicker. I’ve got more of an idea than you think, John O’Hara.
“Listen,” he continued, “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yes, you will. What are you doing tonight?”
“The same thing I was doing all afternoon. Work.”
“I thought that’s what your trip was for.”
“Believe it or not, I have to write a report on the seminar. I’m up to my ears in it as—”
“Bullshit!” Nora interrupted. “I can see you right now. You’re watching television. Looks like a baseball game, if I’m not mistaken.”
He was two words shy of speechless. “What the…”
“Look out your window, Craig. See the red Benz? See the beautiful girl in the front seat? She’s waving to you. Hi there, Craig.”
Nora watched as O’Hara appeared in the window, looking as stunned as he sounded. “How long have you been there?” he asked.
“Long enough to catch you in a lie. Baseball? You choose baseball over me?”
“I was taking a break from my report. That’s all.”
“Sure you were. So, can Craig come out and play, or what?”
“Why don’t you come inside?”
“I’d rather we go for a drive,” she said.
“Where to?”
“It’s a surprise. Now turn off your work.”
“Speaking of work…” He stopped her.
“What is it?”
“I’m afraid the circumstances of our relationship have been starting to get to me,” he said. “You’re technically a client, Nora.”
“It’s a little late for technicalities, don’t you think?”
He didn’t say anything, so Nora pressed on. “C’mon, Craig, you know you want to be with me—and I want to be with you. It’s really pretty simple.”
“I’ve just been thinking about it.”
“And I’ve been thinking about you. I don’t know what it is exactly, but you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” she said. “I feel like I can tell you anything.”
There was a pause on the line.
He sighed. “A drive, huh?”
Chapter 94
I WASN’T REALLY in the mood for a moonlit ride, but there I was anyway. Just me and Nora Sinclair.
The convertible top was down and the night air whipped by, cool and crisp. The road, the signs—everything a blur. Nora was turning the backcountry roads of Westchester into her own personal autobahn, and I was just along for the ride.
What the hell am I doing?
That was the immediate question. Too bad I didn’t have an answer.
The information so generously supplied to me by attorney Steven Keppler of the bad comb-over had been handed off to Susan. She’d given it to the computer wizards at the Bureau, who were going to hack their way into Nora’s offshore account and trace her deposits and transfers. All of them. Who knew how many there were? They’d be keeping a particular eye out for anything involving one Connor Brown. Both before and after he died. Give them twenty-four hours, Susan said. Thirty-six, max.
In the meantime, all I had to do was one thing: stay away from Nora.
Yet there she was, sitting right next to me, more beautiful, more alluring, more intoxicating than ever. Was this one last hurrah?
Was it denial?
Or temporary insanity?
Was there a part of me hoping the computer wizards wouldn’t find a link, wouldn’t find a thing? That maybe she was innocent? Or did I want her to get away with murder?
I turned toward her. “I’m sorry…. What?”
She was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her over the roaring engine of the Benz, and the even louder noise inside my head.
She tried again. “I said, ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’”
“I don’t know yet,” I replied in a near holler. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“No,” she said. “You just don’t like it when you’re not in control. That’s good to know.”
Before I could say anything back, she barreled into a sharp turn, her foot nowhere near the brake. The tires screeched as the convertible lurched and seemed to have thoughts of flipping over.
Nora tilted her head back and laughed into the wind. “Don’t you feel alive?!” she shouted.
Chapter 95
IT TOOK A red light for her to finally slow down.
After driving a little more than half an hour, we came upon the small town of Putnam Lake. There was one intersection, and we were the only car stopped at it. It was a little before nine. I remember every detail.
“Are we almost there?” I asked.
“Almost,” she said. “You’re going to like this, Craig. Relax.”
I glanced to my right while she fidgeted with the radio. There was an old man at a Mobil station, wearing a UConn cap, filling up his Jeep Cherokee. For a second our eyes met. He kind of looked like my father. Things aren’t always as they appear.
The light flashed green and Nora gunned it again.
“You in a hurry?”
“Yep. I’m a little horny, actually. I missed you. Miss me?”
We drove a few miles without saying anything, the blaring radio competing with all eight cylinders. I could barely make out the song, but then it clicked for me—“Hotel California.” The way Nora was driving, it should’ve been “Life in the Fast Lane.”
We turned again.