In between were memories along the way—parties, dinners, funny faces mugging for the camera. Nora touching her tongue to her nose. Tom curling his upper lip like Elvis. Or was that supposed to be Bill Clinton?
Then the pictures stopped.
Instead, there were clippings.
The last pages of the album were filled with nothing but newspaper items. The various stories and the obituary—tinted yellow now from the passage of time. Nora had kept them all.
TOP MANHATTAN DOC DIES IN MEDICAL MIX-UP, wrote the New York Post. MD A VICTIM OF HIS OWN MEDICINE, declared the Daily News. As for the New York Times there was no hyperbole. Just a simple obituary with a matter-of-fact heading: DR. TOM HOLLIS, NOTED CARDIOLOGIST, DEAD AT 42.
Nora closed the album and lay in bed alone with her thoughts about Tom and what had happened. The beginning of everything, really: the start of her life. Nora’s thoughts then turned naturally to Connor and Jeffrey. She glanced down at her left hand, which was sporting neither ring at the moment. She knew she had a decision to make.
Instinctively, Nora began compiling a mental list. Orderly and concise. All the things she loved about being with one versus the other.
Connor vs. Jeffrey.
They were both so much fun. They made her laugh, made her feel special. And there was certainly no denying that they were wonderful in bed—or wherever else they chose to have sex. They were tall, in wonderful shape, handsome as film stars. No, actually, they were more handsome than the film stars she knew.
The fact was, Nora loved being with Connor and Jeffrey equally. Which made her decision that much harder.
Which one was she going to kill?
First.
Chapter 11
OKAY, THIS IS WHERE it gets really tricky.
And also really hairy.
The Tourist sat at the corner table inside a Starbucks on West Twenty-third in Chelsea. Just about every table was in use by slackers and moochers, but the environment felt safe and secure. Probably because there were so many moochers and hangarounds; hell, for three dollars and change you ought to get something with your coffee, some added benefit.
The suitcase he had appropriated outside Grand Central was on the floor between his legs, and he already knew a couple of things about it.
One—it was open, not locked.
Two—there were men’s clothes, mostly wrinkled, and a brown leather Dopp kit inside.
Three—the Dopp kit had the usual shaving crap, but also something interesting: a flash drive, a DiskOnKey—one of those USB external storage devices you can attach to any computer. Costs about $99 at CompUSA. The flash drive was what all the trouble was about, wasn’t it? Ironic—it was smaller than his finger.
But the little sucker could hold a lot of information. Obviously, this one did.
The Tourist already had his Mac out. Now came the moment of truth. If he had the guts. Which, it so happened, he did.
Here we go!
He plugged the flash drive into the Mac.
Why did some miserable fat guy have to die for this on Forty-second Street?
The drive icon appeared—E.
The Tourist began a drag and drop of the files stored on the flash drive. Here we go. Here we go, loop-de-loop; here we go, lu-de-lu.
A couple of minutes later the Tourist was ready to look at the files.
Then he stopped himself.
A pretty girl—only with spiked black and crimson hair—was trying to sneak a peek from the next table.
The Tourist finally looked her way. “You know the old joke—I could show you what’s in the file, but then I’d have to kill you.”
The girl smiled. “What about the joke—you show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”
The Tourist laughed back. “You don’t have a laptop.”
“Your loss.” She shrugged, got up from her table, and started to leave. “You’re cute, for such an asshole.”
“Get a haircut,” the Tourist said, and grinned.
Finally he looked back at the computer screen.
Here we go!
What he saw on the screen made sense—sort of. If anything made sense in this crazy world.
The file consisted of names, addresses, names of banks in Switzerland and the Caymans. Offshore accounts.
And amounts.
The Tourist did a quick tally in his head.
Ballpark figure, but close enough.
A little over one point four.
Billion.
Chapter 12
NEW YORK MAY BE the city that never sleeps, but at four in the morning there are definitely parts that are barely awake. One such was the dimly lit basement of a parking garage on the Lower East Side. Buried five stories beneath the street, it was a picture of stillness. A concrete cocoon. The only noise was the numbing buzz of the fluorescent lighting overhead.
That and an impatient middle finger tapping on the steering wheel in an idling blue Ford Mustang.
Inside the Mustang, the Tourist glanced at his watch and shook his head. His finger tapping continued, his middle finger. His contact was late.
Two days late, actually.
A missed appointment.
Trouble brewing? No doubt about it.
Ten minutes later a pair of headlights finally lit up the far wall by the ramp to the next level. A white Chevy van appeared. On the side was a sign for a florist. FLOWERS BY LUCILLE, it read.
Oh, c’mon, the Tourist thought to himself. A flower delivery truck?
The van slowly approached the Mustang, stopping twenty feet away. The engine was cut and a tall, rail-thin man stepped outside. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and tie. He began walking toward the van. There was somebody else in the van, but he stayed inside.
The Tourist got out and met the Thin Man halfway. “You’re late,” he said.
“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the contact.
“You know, there are some people who actually think of it as skill.”
“I’ll give you points for the shot. Dead-center forehead, I’m told.”
“Well, the guy did have a receding hairline. Bigger target. Is the girl all right?”
“Shaken up. But she’ll be fine. She’s a professional. Just like you.”
The Thin Man reached inside his jacket pocket. Not good! He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, offered one to the Tourist.
“No, thanks. Gave it up for Lent. ’Bout fifteen Lents ago.”
The man lit up. He shook the flame from his match.
“What are the New York police saying?” asked the Tourist.
“Not a whole hell of a lot. Let’s just say they’re dealing with conflicting eyewitnesses.”
“You sent someone over, didn’t you?”
“Two eyewitnesses, actually. We had them both claim that you had a scar on your neck and a goatee.”
The Tourist smiled, rubbed his bare chin. “That’s pretty good. How about the working press?”
“They’re all over it. The only bigger mystery than who you are is what’s in the suitcase. Speaking of which…”
“It’s in the trunk.”
The two walked to the back of the Mustang. The Tourist popped the trunk. He lifted out the suitcase, placed it on the ground. The other man looked it over for a moment.
“You tempted to open it up?” he asked.
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah, but how do you know?”
The man blew a smoke ring. “Because we’d be having a much different conversation right now.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Of course not. You’re not in the loop.”
The Tourist let it go. “So, what now?”
“Now you get lost. You’ve got another gig, right?”
“A gig? Yeah, I’m already on something interesting. Who’s in the car?”
“You did good on this one. He said to tell you that. Leave it at that.”
/> “I am good. That’s why they called me in on this.”
They shook hands and the Tourist watched as the Thin Man carried the suitcase back to the van and drove off. The Tourist wondered if they would be able to figure out that he’d looked at the contents of the flash drive. Any which way, he was definitely in the loop now. Even if he wished to hell that he wasn’t.
Chapter 13
IT WAS A BUSY MORNING for Nora. First, she shopped for a very delicious hour at Sentiments on East Sixty-first, and now she had work to do for a client at ABC Carpet & Home near Union Square. After that it was off to the D&D Building showroom and, finally, Devonshire, an English garden shop.
She was shopping for Constance McGrath, one of her first clients. Constance—who was definitely not a “Connie, for short”—had just moved from her posh East Side two-bedroom to an even more posh two-bedroom on Central Park West. The Dakota, to be exact, where they had filmed Rosemary’s Baby and John Lennon was murdered. A former stage actress back in her day, Constance still possessed a flair for the dramatic. She explained to Nora her move across Central Park as follows: “The sun sets in the west, and in this, my last apartment, so will I.”
Nora liked Constance. The woman was feisty, forthright, and fond of invoking a decorator’s favorite expression: Money is no object. She had also outlived two husbands.
“As I live and breathe!” came a man’s voice.
Nora turned to see Evan Frazer with his arms outstretched wide in full-hug mode. Evan represented Ballister Grove Antiques, which occupied a large portion of the fifth floor.
“Evan!” said Nora. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Even better to see you,” he replied. He kissed Nora on both cheeks. “So, what fabulously wealthy client are you shopping for today?”
Nora could almost see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes. “She’ll go nameless, of course, but lucky for you she’s ditching some of her ornate French for a more traditional English look.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” he said with a toothy grin. “But then again, you always do.”
For the next hour or so, Evan walked Nora through his entire inventory of English furniture. He knew the drill: what to say and what not to say. Especially what not to say to Nora Sinclair.
Nora hated to be told by a salesperson that something was beautiful. As if that would influence her opinion. She had her own aesthetic. Her own taste. Part innate, the rest developed and honed by experience. She trusted it implicitly.
“Does this come with one leaf or two?” she asked Evan while hovering over a mahogany dining-room table with satinwood banding.
“It comes with one,” he said. “But it can accommodate two, and we can easily have the second one made.”
“The one should be fine.” She glanced at the price. Again, it was a perfunctory move when shopping for Constance McGrath. With a step back and a final peruse, Nora delivered her signature variation on “I’ll take it.” Why say three words when she could be far more emphatic with one?
“Done!” she declared.
Evan immediately pulled a sold card from his clipboard and slapped it on the table. It was the fourth and final slap of the morning. Combined with the breakfront, highboy, and settee that were also “done” deals, Nora was satisfied.
The two took a seat on a large sofa as Evan wrote up the invoice. Not a word was spoken regarding Nora’s 10 percent kickback. It was understood.
After saying good-bye to Evan, Nora stopped for a quick bite at one of the in-store restaurants, La Mercado. She realized she didn’t need to visit D&D or Devonshire after all. She’d accomplished everything she had to at Sentiments and Ballister Grove. Over a Cobb salad and a dulce de leche crepe for dessert, she worked her cell phone.
She placed a call to Constance to rave about the morning’s purchases. She also returned calls from both Jeffrey and Connor to fulfill her Man Maintenance for the day.
Chapter 14
NOW SHE HAD some important work to do at a lawyer’s office on East Forty-ninth Street near the East River.
“So, Ms. Sinclair, what can I help you with?” asked Steven Keppler, Esq.
Nora smiled warmly. “Please, call me Olivia.”
“Olivia it is, then.” Keppler smiled back at Nora a little too broadly from behind his large desk. “You know, I have a boat named Olivia.”
“No kidding!” said Nora, feigning amazement. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”
What she took as a better sign was the way Steven Keppler—middle-aged, midtown tax attorney with a bad comb-over—was ogling her breasts and legs.
It all but guaranteed smooth sailing.
The other male attorneys on Nora’s list were booked solid for two to three weeks. The same would’ve been true for Steven Keppler, were it not for a sudden opening in his schedule due to an ill client. Fortuitous timing for her. In less than twenty-four hours, Nora had her appointment. Or rather, “Olivia” had her appointment. For what Nora was attempting, she needed to borrow her mother’s name.
She continued: “What you can help me with, Steven, is setting up a business for me.” And by the way, that business isn’t located in my brassiere.
“It so happens that’s something I specialize in,” said the lawyer.
Nora tried not to cringe when he actually ended the sentence by combining a wink with a loud, double-clicking noise from the side of his mouth.
“Where will this business be located?” he asked.
“The Cayman Islands.”
“Oh,” he said, pausing. A slight look of concern came over his face. His very attractive new client in the silk blouse and short skirt was undoubtedly looking to sidestep the law and not pay her taxes.
“I hope that’s not a problem,” said Nora.
Keppler’s disgusting ogling went into overdrive. “Ah, no, I don’t see why it… uh… has to be,” he stammered. “The thing is, establishing a business down there requires the cooperation of what’s called a registered agent. In simple terms, it’s a resident of the Cayman Islands who, in name only, acts as a representative of your company. Am I making myself clear?”
Nora knew all of this but didn’t let on. She nodded her head like a rapt student.
“As luck would have it,” Keppler added, “I have just such an agent under my employ.”
“That is lucky,” Nora said.
“Now, I assume you’ll be needing a bank account opened for you down there as well, right?”
Bingo.
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. You can do that for me?”
“Actually, you’re supposed to do that in person,” he said.
Again, Nora shifted in her seat. “Oh, what a horrible inconvenience,” she said.
“I know, isn’t it?” He leaned over his desk. “Maybe I could pull a few strings and save you the trip.”
“That would be wonderful! You’re a lifesaver.”
He reached into a file drawer and took out some forms. “I’ll just need to get a little information from you, Olivia.”
Chapter 15
THE LINCOLN TOWN CAR turned off busy Route 9, then sped along picturesque Scarborough Road, eventually making it to equally pretty Central Drive, finally pulling into Connor’s Belgium block driveway a little before dusk that Friday. The driver had barely stepped out to open the door for Nora when he was beaten to it by Connor, who was obviously beyond eager to see her.
“Come here, you!” he beckoned. “I’ve been just about crazy, thinking about you.”
Nora swung her feet out of the car and immediately leaped into his arms. They kissed while the driver—a robust, older Italian man—popped the trunk and lifted out Nora’s suitcase. He tried not to stare but he couldn’t help it. With the sun setting on a beautiful day, and in front of one of the most gorgeous homes he’d ever seen, here was this lovely couple clearly head over heels in love. He thought to himself, If this ain’t the top of the mountain, I don’t know what is.
&nb
sp; “Here you go,” said Connor. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a wad of cash. He slid the driver a twenty-dollar tip.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said through a thick accent. “You’re too kind.”
“And too cute!” chirped Nora as she hugged Connor around the waist.
He really is cute, isn’t he? she couldn’t help thinking.
The driver jiggled with a hearty chuckle and returned to his car. “Have a nice night, kids,” he called over his shoulder.
Nora and Connor laughed, then watched for a moment as the Town Car turned out of the driveway and disappeared.
Nora peeled herself away from Connor. “So how was work?” she asked. “On second thought, I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Me, either,” he said. “Besides, all work and no play…”
“… makes us very fucking boring!”
That was one of their very first mantras—and still one of their favorites.
“We should do it right here,” she said, and winked. “Right here on the front lawn! To hell with the neighbors. Let them watch if they want to. Maybe they’ll be inspired.”
Connor reached for her hand. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea.”
“Oh? Better than sex with me? What would that be?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “Follow me.”
Chapter 16
“YOU WANT TO do it in the garage?” Nora asked with a giggle.
Connor could barely contain his laughter. “No,” he said. “That’s not the surprise. It’s not such a bad idea, though.”
He’d led Nora around the side of the house, stopping about ten feet in front of his five-car garage. All the doors were closed. Nora stood there with him, not knowing what to expect.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
He reached into the other pocket of his trousers—the one without the wad of cash—and pulled out the garage door opener. It had five buttons. He pressed the middle one.
The door began to rise slowly.
“Omigod!” shrieked Nora.
Behind the door, facing out, was a brand-new bright red Mercedes SL 500 convertible with a huge white bow strapped across the hood.