I leaned back my head and let out a frustrated yell. I suddenly felt dizzy again. I tried to get myself to calm down and not think the worst. It wasn’t possible.
“Faster, guys!”
We were already doing over eighty. We’d cut across the border to Connecticut and were making a beeline south for Riverside. I was feeling completely helpless when I had an idea. Call Nora.
Maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe—hopefully—her threat was nothing more than that, the only intention being to scare the hell out of me and keep the game going. I’d call her and she’d laugh wickedly. Riverside was just a decoy. She was miles in the opposite direction.
If only.
I dialed her number.
Ten rings in a row.
No voice mail.
No Nora.
The police radio kicked in with a burst of static. We were being patched through to a patrolman in Riverside. He was outside the house. The doors were locked, some lights were on; as far as he could tell, no one was around.
I looked at my watch. 9:10. They should’ve been there. The boys’ bedtime was nine.
Will flipped the transmitter onto speaker. “No sign of forced entry?”
“Negative,” we heard.
“Have you checked with the neighbors?” asked Mitch as he slowed to take a sharp turn. The front and rear left tires screeched in stereo.
“She probably would’ve gone to the Picottes directly across the street,” I added. “Mike and Margi Picotte. Friends of ours.”
“We’re checking there now,” said the patrolman. “How far are you guys from here?”
“Ten minutes,” said Will.
“Agent O’Hara, are you there?” asked the patrolman.
“Right here,” I said.
“I’d like to dismantle the lock on one of the doors to the house. If that’s okay? Just to make sure no one’s inside.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Take an ax to it.”
“Roger that.”
His voice cut off with another burst of static. Outside the cruiser, the siren blared into the night. Inside, it was silence. Small-town cops Will and Mitch Cravens and me.
I caught Mitch’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I know, I know,” he said. “Faster.”
Chapter 102
MITCH GUNNED IT and turned ten minutes of driving into five. We arrived in front of my house with a fifty-foot skid. The street was aglow with police patrol lights, the red and blue twirling all around and up into the night. Pockets of neighbors stood and watched from their lawns, wondering what was going on at the O’Hara house.
At that moment, not much.
I hurried through the open front door to find four cops talking in the foyer. They’d just completed a room-to-room search.
“Empty,” one of them told me.
I went into the kitchen. There were a few dishes in the sink, a roll of Saran Wrap on the counter. They’ve eaten dinner. I checked the phone on the wall by the refrigerator. The message light was blinking, but there was only one message. Mine.
All the cops, including Will and Mitch, had gathered in the adjoining den. I went over to them.
“We need a plan,” I said. “I don’t have one, either. I’m not at my best right now.”
A small dark-haired officer named Nicolo took the lead. He was very organized and said there was already an all-points bulletin out for Nora’s red Mercedes in the entire Tri-State area. Airport security had been notified. He was in the middle of telling me he wanted to use the house as a “command center” when I realized something.
The red Mercedes… a car… the garage. I hadn’t looked to see if the minivan was missing.
I had taken two steps when over my shoulder the room let out a collective sigh of relief. I turned to look at what they were seeing.
There, standing in the kitchen’s entrance, were Max and John Jr., followed by their mother. They all had ice cream cones. Baskin-Robbins from in town.
Their jaws had already dropped at the sight of the police. When they saw me, and how beat-up I looked, those same jaws just about hit the floor.
I rushed over to hug everybody. I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even hear the phone ring.
Mitch Cravens did. He walked over and was about to pick it up when his father stopped him. Will Cravens put his index finger to his mouth for quiet. Then he hit the speakerphone.
“Good, I have an audience,” came her voice.
Every head in the room whipped around. Nora did indeed have an audience. Complete, undivided attention, especially mine.
But I wasn’t the one she was calling this time.
“I know you’re there, Mrs. O’Hara,” she said in that same calm tone. “I just wanted to let you know something. I’ve been fucking your husband. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Nora hung up.
The room was deathly silent as I looked my wife in the eye. Actually, my ex-wife for the past two years.
She shook her head. “And you wonder why we got a divorce, you prick!”
Part Five
ESCAPE
Chapter 103
THIS WAS IT. Simple as that. The end.
“Hey, I didn’t recognize you without your trusty backpack, Fitzgerald,” said the Tourist.
“Very funny, O’Hara. I didn’t get to thank you for saving my bacon at Grand Central. So, thanks. I think I could have handled him, but maybe not.”
The Tourist was meeting the Girl with the Backpack at a table in the food court at La Guardia Airport. The blackmailer, the seller, was due any minute. If things went right.
“This is crazy, huh? You think he’ll show? The seller?” she asked.
O’Hara sipped his supersize Coke from McDonald’s. “Only if he wants his money, which I’ll bet he does. Two million good reasons to show up.”
Fitzgerald frowned and shook her head. “Let’s say the seller does show. How do we know he’ll give up everything he has? His copies. Not try to stiff us?”
“You mean like we did to him outside Grand Central? To his late representative, I should say.”
“Hey, he’s the bad guy, remember, O’Hara?”
“I think I’ve got that part down. He’s the bad guy, he’s the bad guy.”
Just then, O’Hara got word in his earpiece. “He’s coming. We know who it is. He came himself this time.”
Fitzgerald didn’t get it yet. “So why did he come here? Didn’t he know this could be a trap?”
O’Hara leaned in close to her. “Ask him yourself. I’ll bet he has a good answer.”
A guy in his early thirties, blue business suit, aviator sunglasses, briefcase, sat down at the table. He got right to it. “So, you have my money this time?”
O’Hara shook his head. “Nope. No money. Don’t get up, though. We’re all over the food court. Taking your picture for USA Today and Time magazine. The Sing Sing News.”
“You’re making a big mistake, my friend. You’re fucked,” said the guy in the suit. He started to get up.
But O’Hara pulled him down again.
“Obviously, we don’t think so. Now, listen to me, because here’s the deal. You don’t get any money for the file you stole and then tried to sell back to us. But you do get to walk away from all this. Of course, you leave the briefcase and the copies you made. We know who you are, Agent Viseltear. If you come at us again, or if any of this ever gets out, we take you down. And I mean down. That’s the deal. Not too bad, huh?”