Honeymoon - James Patterson [9]
After that were some candids from the wedding in the Conservatory Tent at the New York Botanical Garden.
Those pages were followed by their honeymoon down in Nevis. Glorious, one of the best weeks of her life.
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