Honeymoon - James Patterson [70]
“Let me take another look at the picture. May I?”
I handed it to him and watched, certain I was about to see some more classic bad acting. Sure enough.
“Oh, wait a minute! I think I do know who this is.” He tapped the photograph a few times with his forefinger. “Simpson . . . Singleton?”
“Sinclair,” I said.
“Of course, Olivia Sinclair.”
“Actually, it’s Nora.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure her name is Olivia.”
This coming from a guy who a minute ago claimed he didn’t know who she was.
“I take it she’s a client, then?” I asked. “Pretty, as you say. I’m surprised you didn’t remember.”
“I did some work for her, yes.”
“What kind of work?”
“Agent O’Hara, you know I can’t divulge that.”
“Sure you can.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I? The only thing I know is that you’ve claimed not to recognize one of your own clients, who happens to be the subject of my investigation. In other words, you’ve lied to a federal agent.”
“Need I remind you that you’re talking to an attorney?”
“Need I remind you that I can be back here in an hour with a search warrant to turn your office upside down.”
I stared at Keppler, expecting him to cut his losses and fold. Instead, the guy showed some real spunk. Actually, he went on the offensive.
“Your absurd threats might work in some quarters,” he said with a raised chin, “but I protect the privacy of my clients. You may leave now.”
I stood from my chair.
“You’re right,” I said with a deep sigh. “You’re entitled to your client privilege and I’m way out of line. I apologize.” I reached into my jacket. “Listen, here’s my card. If you change your mind or if you’d like to arrange for police protection, give my office a call.”
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.”