Second Honeymoon Part 22

The guy was a Billy Cartersize embarra.s.sment. And a late-night comedian's dream come true.

"Do you think it's somehow connected to him?" asked Sarah. "I can't imagine..."

Driesen shrugged. "It wouldn't make much sense. Then again, going around killing people with the same name doesn't exactly scream 'logical,' now, does it?"

"But of all names to choose..."

"I know. Hawthorne, as you saw, is already at DEFCON 1. He placed a detail on the brother-in-law starting last night."

"Was O'Hara told why he was getting protection?" Sarah asked. She thought she already knew the answer.

"No. That's the other tricky thing about this," said Driesen. "O'Hara's big mouth aside, this can't go public. We can't have a nationwide panic involving every poor son of a b.i.t.c.h out there named John O'Hara, at least not yet."

"Is that why Hawthorne was here and not Samuelson?" asked Sarah.

Driesen smiled as if to say, "Good for you." He appreciated that his young agent had grown quite adept at recognizing political implications. Cliff Samuelson, Hawthorne's boss, was director of the Secret Service.

"I didn't ask, but it's safe to a.s.sume. They need as much separation from the president as they can get," said Driesen.

"G.o.d, I can see the headline already: PRESIDENT PROTECTS BROTHER-IN-LAW O'HARA BUT NONE OF THE OTHERS."

"Needless to say, that headline can never be written."

"But at some point-"

"Yes, at some point we'll have to go public with the killings, blast it from every rooftop. But between the first and third dead O'Hara, there are over forty John O'Haras on the map that the killer didn't kill. The point being we can't pretend to think we can protect them all."

"So in the meantime?"

"That only makes your job harder," he said.

Sarah c.o.c.ked her head. "My job?"

"You didn't think you were in here to hear about my fly fishing plans for the weekend, did you? You leave tomorrow morning."

Sarah didn't need to ask where he was sending her. The first rule of catching serial killers? Always start with the warmest dead body.

"I hear Park City's nice this time of year," she deadpanned.

He smiled. "Listen, I realize you're just back from Florida and that your suitcase is sitting in your office. So take the night off, will you? And by that I don't mean go home and do laundry."

"Okay, no laundry," she said with a chuckle.

"I'm serious," he retorted. "Go do something fun, kick up your heels. Lord knows you probably need it."

He was right about that.

"Any suggestions?" she asked.

"No, but I'm sure you'll think of something."

Chapter 34

SARAH RANG THE doorbell to Ted's penthouse apartment for a second time, waiting in the hallway of the Piermont Residences in downtown Fairfax and wondering why he wasn't answering. She knew he was there.

Only minutes earlier, she'd called his number from her own apartment four floors below, dialing *67 first to block her name from coming up on his caller ID.

It was all pretty funny, she thought, worthy of a giggle. The last time she called a boy and hung up as soon as he answered, she was probably in junior high school, listening to Bananarama on her Sony Walkman and wearing acid-washed Guess jeans.

Now here she was listening for Ted behind his door while wearing a long navy blue raincoat. And nothing else. Not a st.i.tch underneath.

Kick up my heels? Go and have fun? If only Driesen could see me now. On second thought, that's probably not a good idea.

If only Ted would answer the door. C'mon, honey, I'm starting to feel a draft underneath this coat. Not to mention the fact that I'm a tad bit embarra.s.sed.

They'd only been dating for five months, after all. Then again, that was two months longer than her last relationship, and three months longer than the one before that.

With Ted, things seemed to be different, though. And much, much better. He was a successful D.C. attorney, "high-powered and even higher-charging," according to a profile of him in the Washington Post. He knew all about the long hours and the strains of a professional career. Sure, maybe he had one too many macho photos of himself hanging in the apartment-white-water rafting, skiing the back bowls of Vail-but Sarah was willing to overlook a touch of vanity. He wasn't the possessive type; he didn't need to own her. That was nice; very nice.

Of course, the fact that he was totally smokin' hot was a bonus.

Sarah pressed her ear tight against the door. She thought she could hear music coming from inside the apartment, but it didn't seem loud enough to cover up the sound of the doorbell.

Then it dawned on her. It was just a hunch, but her hunches had been pretty good of late. Turning around, Sarah reached under the fire-hose cabinet attached to the wall opposite Ted's door, her hand blindly feeling for a small magnetic box.

The definition of trust in a fledgling relationship? When he tells you where he keeps his spare key.

Maybe after tonight, she'd tell him where she kept hers.

Chapter 35

SARAH LET HERSELF into the apartment, standing still in the foyer for a moment to determine the source of the music. It was coming from Ted's bedroom, at the end of the hall.

She was hardly a jazz aficionado, but within two steps she easily recognized Gerry Mulligan's baritone saxophone. Ted was a huge fan who listened almost religiously to Mulligan's recordings, especially the live ones. Carnegie Hall, Glasgow, the Village Vanguard.

"Mully's a G.o.d," he was fond of telling her, usually over their second bottle of Bordeaux, which they shared while hanging out on the couch.