If just for a little while, Susan and I deserved to be sitting right where we were. Side by side on comfy beach chairs at this unbelievably ritzy resort, watching the sun go down against the backdrop of a beautifully illuminated orange sky. Hell, we’d even gone for a swim together.
I reached over with my mai tai. “Here’s to Nurse Emily Barrows.”
Susan clinked my glass with her piña colada.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. I felt a sense of satisfaction and an equal amount of relief. I also felt a twinge of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it wasn’t very comforting. Let’s call it guilt.
I glanced over at Susan, who looked incredibly pretty and serene. I’d caused her so much pain and I felt horrible about it. She deserved better.
I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am so, so sorry.”
She squeezed back. “I know you are,” she said softly.
And there it was. A happy ending if there ever was one. Me with a mai tai in one hand, the first woman I ever truly loved in the other. And Nora Sinclair soon to be serving a life sentence for the murders she’d committed.
Of course, I should’ve known better.
Chapter 113
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I was in Susan’s office in New York. I had been summoned. She’d just gotten off the phone with Frank Walsh.
“O’Hara, I don’t even know how to tell you this.”
“Straight up, I guess. I made my own bed, didn’t I?”
“It’s not that, John. It’s… they’re dropping the charges against Nora Sinclair.”
The news hit me like a sucker punch. Hard, painful, and completely unexpected. It took me a few seconds before I could even string together a sentence.
“What do you mean, they’re dropping the charges?”
Susan stared at me from across her desk, unblinking. I could see in her eyes how upset she was, but it was a very controlled anger.
Unlike mine.
I started to pace and curse and threaten everything I could think of, beginning with going to the New York Times.
“Sit down, John,” she said.
I couldn’t sit. “I don’t understand. How could they? She’s a cold-blooded murderer.”
“I know she is. She’s an incredible snake. She’s psycho.”
“Then, why would we let her walk?!”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? It’s bullshit. It’s unacceptable.”
“I don’t disagree,” Susan said in a measured tone. “And if yelling and screaming now is going to make you feel better, be my guest. But when you’re finished, it’s not going to change a damn thing. It’s a done deal upstairs.”
I hated it when she was right. Like the time Susan told me I was too self-involved to salvage our marriage. Bull’s-eye.
I finally took a seat and drew a deep breath. “Okay, why?”
“Actually, if you think about it, you already know.”
She was right again. Call it denial, or wishful thinking, but I was always aware that Nora’s indictment could present a serious problem for the Good Guys. My behavior would come out during the trial, and the powers that be at the Bureau were none too pleased at the prospect of suffering through the embarrassment. Still, suffer they would, if that were the only problem.
But I knew there was more—much more.
Hell, I’d been involved in it when I went undercover as the Tourist.
The suitcase was part of it. The list of names and accounts inside was part of it.
My dalliance with the suspect paled in comparison to a larger concern. Something far more sensitive and, potentially, more embarrassing. That is, if ever it became public.
Frank Walsh had alluded to it during my disciplinary hearing—the monitoring of money being trafficked in and out of the country. Needless to say, it wasn’t being done through voluntary surveys at the local bank. It was being accomplished with private agreements among Homeland Security, the Bureau, and several multinational banks. The rationale? The only thing more dangerous than a terrorist group is a terrorist group with solid financial backing. The logic was supposed to be simple. Stop their money and you stop them. Or, even better, find their money.
And find them.
The only rules were that there weren’t any. Which is to say that a lot of this was, well, illegal. No one was considered safe or above reproach. Casinos to charities, big corporations to day traders. Anywhere and everywhere in the world. We hacked them all. If money was moving, we were watching. And if money was moving in apparent secrecy, we were really watching. Suddenly, private numbered accounts were anything but.
Hello, Connor Brown.
And hello, Nora.
“So, that’s it, huh?” I said to Susan.
“What else can I tell you? Nora represents the lesser of two evils to them.” She smirked. “I mean, what’s a few dead rich guys compared to keeping the world safe for democracy, or whatever. They’re going to set her free, O’Hara. For all I know, she might be out already.”
Chapter 114
NORA DROVE the red Benz around lower Manhattan—fast—until she was sure no one was following her. Not the press, not the police. Nobody. Then she gunned the Benz up onto the decrepit roller coaster known as the West Side Highway and headed north to Westchester. She needed some time by herself.
Soon she was breezing along in the convertible at close to ninety. God, she was free—and it felt good. This was the best thing that had happened to her. She’d hang out at Connor’s house for a few days, finally sell off all the furniture there, then plan her next move.
Funny, she was thinking, maybe it’s even time for me to settle down. Marry somebody for real, have a kid or two. The idea made her laugh, but she didn’t dismiss it. Stranger things happened—like her getting out of jail.
Before she knew it, the Benz was pulling up in front of Connor’s—the scene of the crime, as it were. How strange, and delicious, this was. She was totally free; she’d gotten away with murder. And her few days in jail, at the famous Riker’s Island near La Guardia Airport, actually made this all the more special. Extraordinary, really.
Nora got out of the car, thought she heard a sound—and it reminded her of Craig, of O’Hara. What had all that been about? She still didn’t know, except that the attraction had been huge and real and very emotional for her.
But she was over Craig now, right?
You’re over him.
Nora let herself inside, and the house was a little musty, and definitely dusty, but not too bad. She’d be there for only a short while anyway. She could deal with a little hardship, right?
She went into the kitchen and swung open the door to the fridge, the Traulsen. Oh God, what a disaster! Rotting vegetables—and cheeses!
She grabbed a bottle of Evian that was sitting in front, then quickly shut the refrigerator door before she gagged.
“Gross me out, would you, please.”
She wiped off the bottle with a clean towel, twisted it open, and drank nearly half.
Now what? Maybe a hot bath? A swim in the pool? A sauna?
Her mouth remained open, but there were no more words.
Just a moan.
Then a scream.
And incredible pain!
Suddenly Nora was holding her stomach. She could barely stand.
My stomach is burning up, she thought as she looked around the kitchen—but no one else was there.
The pain exploded into her throat, and Nora felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to throw up, but she couldn’t do that, either. Everything was spinning until down she went, helpless to break her own fall.