Second Honeymoon Part 77

Back in Riverside, everyone had been home for a couple of weeks. Max and John Jr. raved about their time at Camp Wilderlocke, and Judy and Marshall raved about their Mediterranean cruise. Still, with all their great stories to tell, it was my story of bringing down two serial killers that they couldn't get enough of.

"A doubleheader!" Max called it from underneath his Yankees cap. As for my being Ned Sinclair's ultimate target, he proceeded to offer up the ultimate solution. "You should've just changed your name, Dad!"

That gave everyone around the dinner table that night a good laugh. It also gave me further proof that if family is the true currency of happiness, I was a very wealthy man.

Of course, having Warner Breslow's check in my bank account wasn't too shabby, either. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for services rendered.

And in my safe at home was the signed agreement for my bonus.

Breslow had asked me if Max and John Jr. were good students. "Do they do their homework?" he inquired. They had always gotten good grades, but now they had even more incentive to study. Breslow would be paying for both their college educations.

"Ethan and Abigail loved kids," he told me. "For as long as I live, I'll be reminded of that when I think of your two boys."

The tabloids would still write nasty things about Warner Breslow, and some of it might even be true. But I'd like to think I caught a glimpse of the man few other people had ever seen. What I saw was just a father who loved his son deeply.

"Here you go," said Sarah, back on deck.

She handed me an ice-cold Turk's Head beer and we clicked cans, toasting our beautiful sunny afternoon in paradise.

Neither of us owned a crystal ball, and there were still things to learn about each other in the weeks, months, and, I hoped, years that lay ahead. But this much I knew for sure: there was no one else I'd rather be with on that boat. And I had a pretty good notion that Sarah felt the same way.

"So where should we head?" she asked.

I smiled. "Good question."

We both looked around. There was nothing but blue sky, blue water, and endless possibilities for the two of us.

Sarah stepped behind me at the helm, wrapping her arms around my waist. Then she whispered in my ear.

"Let's just see where the wind takes us, John O'Hara."

DID DIANA HOTCHKISS JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED? WAS SHE DEPRESSED OR THE KEEPER OF ONE SECRET TOO MANY?

FOR AN EXCERPT, PLEASE TURN THE PAGE.

LET'S SEE WHAT she has in her medicine cabinet. I mean, as long as I'm here.

Careful, though. Before you turn on the light, close the bathroom door. The rest of her apartment is dark. Best to keep it that way.

What do we have here...lotions, creams, moisturizers, lip b.u.t.ter, ibuprofen. What about the meds? Amoxil for a sinus infection...lorazepam for anxiety...

Diana has anxiety? What the heck does she have to be anxious about? She's the most put-together woman I know.

And what's this-Cerazette for...birth control. She's on the pill? Diana is on the pill? She never told me that. She isn't having s.e.x with me. Not yet, anyway. So who is she having s.e.x with?

Diana, every time I think I have you figured out, you remind me that you're a mystery. A mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma. Joe Pesci's line from JFK, though it was first uttered by Winston Churchill in a 1939 radio address, describing Russia. President Roosevelt, who grew very close to Churchill during the war, once wrote to him, It is fun to be in the same decade with you.

Diana, it is fun to be in the same decade with you. Now excuse me while I check out your bedroom closet.

Same drill, get inside, close the door, then turn on the light. Keep the light from filtering into the remainder of the condo.

Whoa. At least a hundred pairs of shoes lined up meticulously. Stuart Weitzman stilettos. Black knee-high Manolo Blahnik alligator-skin boots. Roger Vivier heels with the satin-rose toe. Red Jimmy Choos. Pink Escada evening sandals. Black Chanel pumps, appropriate for the boardroom or the five-star restaurant.

Woodrow Wilson favored white dress shoes with his linen suits. Lincoln had the biggest presidential shoe, a size fourteen, while Rutherford B. Hayes was the smallest at a seven.

You'll have to excuse me. Sometimes my mind wanders. Kind of like Moses through the desert. Except that he had a better excuse. And a speech impediment, unlike me, unless you count putting your foot in your mouth.

Anyway, that's a long story, so back to our regularly scheduled programming, Lady Diana's Closet. And what do we have here, hanging behind a row of dresses, hidden from all but the keenest of voyeurs? Hmmm...

Leather vests and headgear. Chains and whips. Vibrators of various kinds and colors. One of them is purple and curved on the end (not sure why). Most of them are shaped like the male organ but some have appendages for some reason. There are some black beads on a string (what are those for?). Nipple rings, I get that, I guess. Creams and lotions. A long yellow feather-

Then I hear it and see it and feel it all at once-movement across the carpet, brus.h.i.+ng against my leg, circling me-

"Hey, Cinnamon," I say, after the momentary terror dissipates and the p.r.i.c.kling of my spine ceases. Diana's Abyssinian cat, three years old. The word Abyssinian is Ethiopian but the origin of the breed is believed to be Egyptian. Isn't that weird? Abyssinians have bigger ears and longer tails than most cats. Their hair is lighter at the root than at the tip; only a handful of breeds can say that. I told Diana she should have named her cat "Caramel" instead because it more accurately describes the color of her coat. Plus I just like caramel more than cinnamon, especially those candy chews.

Okay, time to get to work. I turn off the closet light before I open the door-still dark in the place. I feel like Paul Newman in Thief.

Start with the bedroom. There's a desk on one side near the balcony. Next to it, a pair of electrical outlets not in use. I plug the AC adapter into the lower outlet and drag the cord behind the window curtain toward the desk. It looks just like any other AC adapter for a computer or appliance. But it's a high-resolution, motion-activated video recorder with thirty-two hours of memory that will film the entire room in color. It can be switched to continuous recording if necessary, but motion activation is the smarter play here. I like this one because it doesn't need a battery, as it's plugged into the wall. And it doesn't transmit signals-it only records them to an SD card that can be played on a computer-so it wouldn't be detected in a bug sweep.

Keeping low, I move out of the bedroom into Diana's main living s.p.a.ce, an open floor plan with a small kitchen area and a large living room and dining-room table. Her place is on the top floor of a condo building in Georgetown, which means she's paying for location, not square footage.

I don't want to use the AC adapter again; if it's discovered once, it would be found again. Diversify, I say. But this one will require more detailed attention than plugging something into a wall, so I need my night-vision goggles. Like the serial killer in The Silence of the Lambs, except I've never murdered anyone, much less skinned them.

Murder can be made to look like suicide, and suicide can be made to look like murder.

Tired of worrying about house fires and home intruders? Want to spy on your party guests while you protect them from unwanted smoke inhalation? Introducing Benjamin's functional all-in-one smoke detector and covert color camera. This easy-to-use gadget mounts to any ceiling and comes in three attractive colors to match any decor. Best of all, its 3.6-millimeter pinhole camera and audio microphone let you see and hear everything in the room. But that's not all: If you act now, we'll throw in a 12-volt power adapter absolutely free!

Trust me, I'm not as normal as I seem.

Okay, all done. The kitchen looks the same as it did when I entered. I drop Diana's old smoke detector and my night-vision goggles into my gym bag and stop for a minute to make sure I haven't left anything behind.

I check my watch: it's 9:57 p.m. My instructions were to be done by ten. So I made it with three minutes to spare.

I reach for the doork.n.o.b and then it hits me-I've made a terrible mistake.

Paul Newman didn't star in Thief. It was James Caan.