Sarah typed in the lines from the e-mail.
McConnell droned on. “Diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder…unnatural fixation with sibling…Nora, his sister…”
“Damn!” Sarah muttered under her breath as she looked at her screen.
The search results—there were thousands of them. She forgot to put the lines in quotation marks. Quickly, she added them, and—bingo—thousands of results turned into one.
It was a website for a certain musical group. The name said it all.
Sarah suddenly jumped up from her chair, practically lunging for her shoulder bag, which was on the floor behind her. The DVD of You’ve Got Mail was in the side pocket. She flipped it over to the back, scanning the credits. She’d read the name, knew it well, but wanted to make sure.
Back at her desk she rifled through her notes on Ulysses. She was positive she’d written it down, the woman James Joyce married.
“What did you say Ned’s sister’s name was again?” she asked McConnell, interrupting him.
His dyspeptic swallow and punching of random words had returned. But there was nothing random about this one word. It was dead-on.
“His sister’s name was…Nora,” he said.
Chapter 66
THE CALLER ID on my cell said QUEENS MED. EXAM.
I put down my glass of OJ, muted the small television in my kitchen, and answered “Hello?” before the second ring.
“Agent O’Hara, this is Dr. Papenziekas,” he said.
The deputy medical examiner was getting back to me in the morning, as promised. Bright and early, too.
“What’s your verdict on our airport couple?” I asked. “You have anything good for me?”
“You were right,” he said.
“Cyclosarin?”
“Lots of it.”
“Are you sure?”
I’d expected the doctor with the Noo Yawk attitude to fire back with a smartass retort like, “Hey, numbnuts, feel free to get a second opinion if you want!” But the ground had shifted a bit. I was no longer just some random guy with a crazy hunch. I was clearly on to something.
So the attitude was gone. Sidelined. “Yes, I’m sure it’s cyclosarin,” he said. “I take it you’ve had some experience with poisoning?”
“Yes,” I answered. Firsthand, no less. Let’s just say I’m very careful who cooks for me nowadays.
“Of course, this isn’t just any poison,” he said, his voice trailing off.
He was hinting around now, trying to see what, if anything, I might tell him. I could practically read his mind, what he was thinking. A busy New York airport. A deadly substance unleashed by terrorists.
But I wasn’t about to elaborate, if for no other reason than I still didn’t know what to make of all this. Two dead newlywed couples, both victims of an exotic poison. It wasn’t officially a pattern, but—call me Einstein—it was certainly more than a coincidence.
“When are you due to deliver the autopsy report?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Unless, of course, there’s a reason I shouldn’t be delivering it.”
I had to hand it to the guy; he wasn’t giving up easily. He was basically offering to delay the report in exchange for my telling him how I knew he should look for cyclosarin.
The fact that he had TMZ on the TV in his office when I was there made complete sense now. Dr. Papenziekas liked to be in the know. Of course, I couldn’t really blame him; he spent his days dissecting dead people. Anything to liven things up, right?
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can release that autopsy report when—”
“Jesus Christ!” he blurted out.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you anywhere near a television?”
Clearly, he had one front and center.
“Yeah, why?” I asked.
“Turn to CNN, because…um…well…” He was stumbling over his words, as if trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s…um…”
I pushed him. “What? What is it?”
Finally, he spit it out.
“It’s you!” he said.
Chapter 67
I GRABBED THE remote, immediately flipping over to CNN. Even before my thumb could hit the Mute button again to get the sound back, I was…well, speechless.
It was me, all right. That is, it was my name—in big, bold letters near the top of the screen. But the real kicker was the two words following it. I wanted to rub my eyes and check the focus. What the hell is going on?
JOHN O’HARA SERIAL KILLER
The sound returned as the studio anchor was throwing it over to a correspondent outside the White House. At the same time, I could hear another sound—my name, no less—as I realized I still had Dr. Papenziekas on the phone.
Not for long.
“Agent O’Hara, are you there?” he was asking. “Agent O’Hara?”
“I’m here, I’m here.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m about to find out,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
And, like that, I hung up. Abrupt, yeah, but I’d just read my name on the same line with the words serial killer on the TV. Hell, I wasn’t even sure yet what that meant, only that it couldn’t be good.
I focused back on the correspondent outside the White House, some guy with helmet hair and horse teeth, just in time to hear him mention the “press secretary’s earlier statement.” Jump cut: we were inside the White House briefing room.
Finally, the details came. I sat there listening to Amanda Kyle, the president’s press secretary, explain that “for reasons yet unknown” someone was going around killing guys named John O’Hara. Four so far in four different states.
She stressed there was no indication that the killer’s motive had anything to do with the president’s brother-in-law, but the cynic in me thought otherwise. Of course, I wouldn’t be the only one. She was simply anticipating the onslaught when she opened the floor for questions. It came.
The room erupted into a Darwinian shouting match until the loudest and most persistent voice prevailed.
“Has security been increased for the president’s brother-in-law?”
Amanda Kyle wasn’t the press secretary for nothing. She knew exactly where she wanted to take the conversation.
“John O’Hara, the president’s brother-in-law, has been afforded Secret Service protection since before the inauguration,” she began before pivoting. “But why I’m here today—why the president thought it was so important we make this threat public—is because we obviously can’t afford to give that same protection to everyone in this country named John O’Hara. The last thing we want is to cause a panic, but at the same time we have a responsibility, a duty, to let people know.”
The room erupted again, but there might as well have been a “mission accomplished” banner hanging behind her. One that was actually true this time. She’d cleverly deflected the spotlight away from the president’s brother-in-law.
Next question.
“Where have the killings taken place so far?”
Kyle calmly checked off the towns and cities. Winnemucca…Park City… Flagstaff…Candle Lake.
Wait a minute, I thought. Park City?
I bolted off the stool in the kitchen, heading straight for the den. That’s where I’d left it, the Bible that had arrived in the mail. Sender unknown.
I opened the cover, staring again at the stamp in red ink as I walked back into the kitchen. PROPERTY OF THE FRONTIER HOTEL, PARK CITY, UT.
I put the Bible down on the granite countertop, flipping to the page where the passage had been cut out—Deuteronomy 32:35, the Song of Moses. I had it marked with a yellow sticky note on which I’d written the missing words.
To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence;
their foot shall slide in due time:
for the day of their calamity is at hand,
and the things that shall come upon them make haste.
I’d barely finis
hed reading the last line when I heard a voice over my shoulder. Someone was in my house, right in my kitchen. Someone I was sure I didn’t know this time.
“Are you John O’Hara?” the stranger asked.
Chapter 68
I FROZE, MY body holding perfectly still for a few seconds. Those seconds felt like a lifetime. Or was it that I felt like my lifetime only had a few seconds left?
If I had been anywhere away from home, I would already have been doing the world’s fastest deep knee bend to reach for my shin holster.
But that baby, and, more important, the 9mm Beretta it was holding, was sitting somewhere in my bedroom upstairs, along with my wallet, pocket change, and a half-eaten roll of Pep O Mint Life Savers.
Now what?
It was the next best thing. Lunging to my right, I grabbed the closest handle from the block of Wüsthof knives next to the stove and spun around with my arm cocked, ready to throw.
Again, I froze.
Good thing, too. Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have done the same—and she was the one with the gun.
“FBI!” she shouted, collapsing into the crouch position they teach you your first year. Smaller target, more vital organs shielded. Only when she saw that she had the upper hand did she reach for her badge. Even from twenty feet away I knew it was legit.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” I said, lowering the knife. I exhaled so heavily I could’ve blown up a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.
Her exhale was just as big. A Rocky to my Bullwinkle. “My God, I could’ve shot you!” she said, lowering her gun.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
I nodded at the TV. The CNN anchor was back on the screen, as were the same four words: “John O’Hara serial killer.”
The second she saw it she rolled her eyes. They were green, I couldn’t help noticing, and about as attractive as the rest of her. Interesting, though. With her hair pulled back and minimal makeup, I could tell she was trying her best not to advertise her looks. Just the opposite, actually.
“I’m John O’Hara,” I said, acknowledging what we both saw on the screen. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Brubaker,” she said. “Sarah.” She holstered her Glock 23. “You thought I was—”
“About to make me the fifth victim, yeah,” I said. “Wait, how did you get—”
We were officially finishing each other’s sentences. “I rang the doorbell but no one answered. I came around back, the patio door was open…you didn’t hear the doorbell?”
“No one can—it’s broken,” I said. “Gee, maybe I should get that fixed, huh?”
She started to laugh, but it wasn’t on account of my sarcasm.
“What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, looking at the counter in front of me.
I glanced down to see the badass blade that I was ready to throw at her like some ninja warrior. Yeah, real badass. Way to go, O’Hara. It was a three-inch paring knife.
I shrugged. “Not too impressive, huh?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve seen smaller,” she said. “Besides, it’s not the size but how you use it, right?”
She was funny, too. “Do women actually believe that?” I asked.
“No, not really.”
“Ouch,” I said. “So you really are here to hurt me.”
“Ah, there it is,” she said, pointing.
“What’s that?”
“False modesty. Self-deprecating humor. Your file says you’re an expert at it.”
“Really? What else does it say?” I asked.
“Tons of really interesting stuff, at least the parts I’m cleared to read,” she said. “In fact, that’s why I’m here.”
“To discuss my file?”
“No. To help you.”
“The Bureau already has me seeing a shrink.”
“I know. But he can’t do for you what I can,” she said.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Keep you alive.”
I stopped and stared into those green eyes of hers. “Okay. I think we’ve just hit on a common interest we have.”
Chapter 69
THE NEWS REPORT? The fact she was now here in my house? It would’ve been flat-out redundant to ask what division she was with at the Bureau.
Still, “I’m assuming the BAU isn’t making house calls to everyone named John O’Hara in this country, are they?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s just you, I’m afraid.”
More afraid than I should be?
We sat down at the kitchen table, and I watched as she reached for her shoulder bag and pulled out items as though it were the first day of school. Notepad. Pen. Folder. There was one thing I knew she wouldn’t have on her, however.
“My file…DNR?” I asked.
“DNC, too,” she answered. “You’re quite famous.”
“Infamous is more like it.”
“Self-deprecating, see?”
When your file is marked both “do not remove” and “do not copy,” chances are you’ve managed to FTU a few times over the years.
Fuck things up.
“So you’ve obviously seen the news report,” she began. “There’s a guy out there killing John O’Haras and only John O’Haras.”
“Except the news report didn’t say anything about the killer’s gender, and you just did. A guy. You know who he is?”
“Not only that, I’ve met him. Had a beer with him, in fact. Long story.”
“How romantic. Have I met him, too?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure of one thing, though. He really—and I mean really—must not like you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Something to do with his sister’s death.”
My mind immediately kicked into overdrive as every case I ever worked flashed before me like a slide show on steroids. There were a few possibilities, but something in my gut was pointing to a single name. Hell, I’d just been reminded of her only minutes before, with Dr. Papenziekas.
Talk about something in my gut. She was pure poison, up and down, all around. It still hurt just saying her name.
“Nora?” I asked. “He’s the brother of Nora Sinclair?”
Chapter 70
AGENT BRUBAKER STARED across the table at me. I’d just mentioned Nora, and in return, she hadn’t said anything. Not yes, not no, not boo. There was no nod or even a touch to the tip of her nose. Nothing.
Instead, she simply folded her arms, tan and fit as they were.
“Do you happen to know the name of James Joyce’s wife?” she asked.
Strange time for a pop quiz on world lit. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“Nora. Her name was Nora Joyce,” she said. “Do you know who directed the movie You’ve Got Mail?”
That one I did know. What can I say? A Netflix subscription gets you watching a lot of movies you normally wouldn’t have time to see. Plus we had a pattern going here.
“Nora Ephron,” I said.
Agent Brubaker seemed a bit surprised by my movie trivia prowess, but kept going. “And have you ever heard of the Nora Whittaker Band?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Me, neither. They’re a small group out of Philly. No major hits, but they do write some interesting lyrics,” she said. “More important, do you know who has heard of them?”
“I give up.”
“Ned Sinclair.”
“Nora’s—”
“Brother, right. He’s been leaving me clues with every victim, although I highly doubt he thought I’d get here before he did,” she said. “I just got lucky.”
“Sounds like we both did.”
Agent Brubaker went on to detail Ned’s escape from the psychiatric hospital and the chief administrator happening to mention Nora’s name. Somehow Ned knew of my involvement with her.
Of course, he wasn’t the only one.
Once Sar
ah had Nora’s name, connecting her to the FBI was as easy as a criminal database search. After a few internal calls Sarah was sitting in front of Frank Walsh’s desk. I could just picture his face. As if you didn’t have enough problems, huh, O’Hara? You’re the target of a serial killer?
“Like I said, Ned Sinclair probably blames you for Nora’s death. The fact that on his way to get you he’s murdering innocent guys with your name only underscores his anger,” she said.
“So what does that make me, the guilty John O’Hara?”
Sarah looked at me incredulously. “Nora Sinclair was killing her lovers for money and it was your job to prove it. Instead, you gave new meaning to being an undercover agent and ended up in bed with her. Would you like me to continue?”
No, thank you. That’s quite all right. Point taken.
“I’m not the one who killed Nora, though,” I said.
“Yeah, but does Ned know that? All he could know is that the killer was never caught.”
“Fine—so let him come after me. I’ll be waiting.”
“With a bigger knife?”
“Very funny,” I said. “Better yet, you can go catch him. You said the two of you had a first date, right?”
“Which is why I got pulled from the case. Or at least off his trail. Instead, I’m on orders to take you off the map.”
“Is that what they’re calling it down at Quantico these days?” I asked. “Up here we still say ‘off the grid.’ Either way, I’m not doing it.”
“We put you someplace safe for a stretch—what’s the problem?”
“I’m working on a case, that’s what. Didn’t Walsh tell you?”
“I’m sure Warner Breslow will understand.”
Now it was my turn to shoot her the incredulous look.
“Okay, so maybe he won’t understand,” she said. “He’ll just have to accept it.”
I got up, grabbing the Bible off the counter. Without a word I placed it down in front of her, watching as she flipped to the page with the missing verse. After she read my sticky note, she intuitively flipped back to the inside cover to see if it was stamped. I was impressed with that.