The Quickie - James Patterson [70]
When our cabs reached the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I called Paul’s cell.
“Hey, Paul. What’s up?” I said when he answered after a couple of ring-a-dings.
“Lauren,” Paul said. “How was your sleepover?” I could actually see him through the rear window of the taxi in front of me, holding his cell to his ear.
“Terrific,” I said. “Listen, Paul. I’m bored out of my mind. I was thinking of heading down to see you for lunch today. What do you say? That be okay?”
Here it is, Paul. Your moment of truth.
“Can’t, babe,” Paul said. “You know Mondays are impossible. We got six earnings reports coming in that have to be crunched and recrunched. I can see my boss from my desk right now. He’s knocking back beta-blockers with his venti. If I get out of here by eight tonight, I’ll be lucky. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, promise. How are you feeling?”
The green sign we were speeding under said “LaGuardia Airport.” I had to hold my hand over the mouthpiece on my cell in order to muffle a sob.
“Just fine, Paul,” I said after a second. “Don’t worry about me. See you tonight.” If not sooner, babe!
At the airport, I had to flash my badge and NYPD ID in order to get past the security checkpoint without a ticket. Then I stayed well back in the torrent of people as I followed Paul down the departures concourse, past the regiments of newsstands and gift shops and open bars.
He stopped suddenly, about a hundred feet ahead of me. He sat down at Gate 32.
Keeping my distance by a bank of pay phones, I felt like an ulcer exploded open in my stomach when I saw his destination.
Washington, DC.
Chapter 100
IT COST ME $175 to snag a last-minute seat on Paul’s flight. What was I saying? It cost Paul $175. Excellent.
Watching from a restaurant across the departure concourse, I literally flinched as Paul was checking in for the business-class boarding call.
That was because the attendant at the counter did something more than a little odd after he handed Paul his ticket stub.
He punched Paul’s fist playfully — as if they were old pals! What was that all about?
I snatched a discarded newspaper from the boarding area to shield my face as I passed through the front cabin, but I needn’t have bothered. A glance showed me that he was engrossed in conversation with the man on his right — another frequent flier, I supposed.
If there was a good thing to say about my second-to-last, back-row seat in coach, it was that there was no way for Paul and me to bump into each other during the flight. Oh, and it had a handy barf bag. One that I made use of promptly after takeoff.
Pregnancy and motion sickness and watching your world go up in apocalyptic flames — really bad combination.
“Sorry,” I said to my thoroughly disturbed female executive neighbor, who was on the phone. “Baby on the way. Morning has broken.”
The really tricky part came when we landed in Washington. Paul, along with the rest of the corporate-class dweebs, got off first. So I really had to hightail it out to the arrival gate in order to see which way he’d gone.
But by the time I’d made it to the taxi line on the street, there was no sign of him.
Damn it, damn it, damn it! What a waste this whole trip down here had been.
I was doubling back, heading up the escalator, when I saw him coming out of the men’s room. He’d changed into jeans and a nice blue sweater — and he wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore.
What kept me from screaming his name right then and there, I don’t know. His ass was so busted it was unreal.
Instead, I just double-timed it back down the stairs and continued to trail my deceitful husband.
I needed to know firsthand just how deep he’d sunk the blade into my back.
Paul went directly past the taxi line through the sliding glass doors into the street. The doors were closing when I saw him do something that made me stop in my tracks and just stare.
He opened the passenger door of a shiny black Range Rover that was idling at the curb.
I decided to run then.
By the time I’d made it ten feet outside, the sleek