Second Honeymoon Part 69

She stepped toward me. We were inches apart, her lips right there. She was toying with me and I was loving it, actually.

"Take it or leave it, O'Hara," she said. "Kiss me, you fool."

Chapter 108

I THOUGHT THE ringing in my head the next morning was maybe a nasty little hangover saying h.e.l.lo. Instead it turned out to be Sarah's phone, which she had placed by the bed. It seems that Dan Driesen was calling at the crack of dawn.

With one eye open, I looked over from my pillow to see Sarah leaning up against the headboard, the sheet barely covering her body. She didn't need to put her index finger over her lips as she did, but I couldn't blame her for making sure I had no intention of talking, let alone breathing too loudly.

As for my belting out a crackerjack rendition of "Danny Boy," I was a.s.suming that was off the table as well.

Sarah listened intently. I couldn't hear what Driesen was telling her, but it became very clear when she sighed heavily and uttered only one word.

"Where?" she asked.

Ned Sinclair had killed again.

What b.a.l.l.s. Or maybe he just hadn't seen a TV or newspaper since his name and picture were released to the world. Maybe he was simply going about his business like a racehorse wearing blinders. No outside distractions. No awareness or fear of anyone chasing after him. Nothing but the task at hand: my murder.

Sarah peppered Driesen with questions, the first being whether there was any note, any message, any anything found on Sinclair's latest John O'Hara victim. Also, were there any witnesses? Any new leads at all?

Again, I didn't need to hear Driesen to know the answers. The way Sarah frowned spoke for itself. There was no note or message found, no witnesses or new leads. The investigation, so to speak, was clueless.

Which made the next part of the conversation that much harder for Sarah.

"You've got to let me go there," she implored Driesen.

Never mind exactly where "there" was on the map. I'd learn the hometown of the latest victim soon enough.

The point was, it didn't matter if this John O'Hara was from Spokane or Skokie, Saint Louis or Saint Paul-Sarah wasn't going there. I knew it, and deep down she knew it, too. She could argue all she wanted, but Driesen wasn't about to change his mind any more than Ned Sinclair was about to forget what Sarah looked like.

A minute later, after exhausting every possible angle she could think of, she finally waved the white flag.

"Let me know how it goes," she said before hanging up.

I was finally free to open my mouth, but I knew better. She needed to cool down. Maybe a half minute of silence came and went before she turned to me.

"Casper, Wyoming," she said. "He was found about three hours ago."

"Same caliber?"

"Yep. One to the head, one to the heart."

"Driesen's going there?"

"Mainly to address the media. It'll be a world-cla.s.s zoo," she said. "All the more reason why it would be safe for me to go."

"So what happens now?" I asked.

"I'm supposed to take a vacation," she said. "Two weeks, mandatory."

"And me?"

But I was already pretty sure of the answer. Sarah's look confirmed it.

"Gee, I wonder what's on HBO tonight?" I said.

At least that got a half smile out of her. "Of course, that's where Driesen already thinks you are," she replied.

I surveyed the two of us naked between the sheets. "Good thing he's not a Skype or FaceTime kind of guy."

She smiled again, but I could tell her head was somewhere else.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Something that Driesen mentioned," she said. "In fact, it's something that's always bothered me about this case."

Chapter 109

I LEANED ON my side, waiting for Sarah to explain what she had on her mind. Only she didn't.

Instead, she slid out of bed and slipped on one of the two cashmere robes folded perfectly on top of a nearby chaise. Nice touch, Breslow. Quite the life you must lead.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To find a map," she said.

A map? Okay, fine.

As she walked out of the bedroom, I threw on the other robe. I'd catch up to her soon enough. First, I desperately needed to look for something else. Aspirin.

Breslow had that covered as well. In a drawer between the double vanities in the bathroom was an economy-size bottle of Bayer. I washed two down with a handful of water, then made the mistake of catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I walked out of the bedroom, looking at the rest of Breslow's apartment in the daylight for the first time. In many ways, it was what I expected: large, tastefully furnished, with a gorgeous view of Central Park.

Still, I couldn't help noticing a sort of subtext, as if Breslow had held back a bit with the wow factor in order to say, If you think this place is nice, you should see where I actually live.