Second Honeymoon

Chapter 8

COINCIDENCE WAS NOT the word; downright spooky was more like it.

Marshall handed me the phone and I walked inside the house, finally sitting down in the den off the kitchen. I’d never met Warner Breslow, let alone spoken to him. Until now.

“This is O’Hara.”

He introduced himself and apologized for calling me at home. I listened to every word, but what I really heard—what really struck me—was his voice. When I’d seen him on television doing interviews, he spoke every bit like the powerful and überalpha male that he was. A true world beater.

Now he just sounded beaten, and maybe vulnerable.

“I assume you’ve heard about my son and his wife,” he said.

“Yes, I have. I’m very sorry.”

There was silence on the line. I wanted to say something more, but I couldn’t think of anything useful or appropriate. I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t know yet why he was calling.

But I had a gut feeling.

“You were recommended to me by a mutual friend,” he said. “Do you think you can help me?”

“I guess that depends. What do you need? What kind of help are you looking for?”

“I can’t put my faith in a bunch of palm-tree detectives,” he said. “I want to hire you to conduct your own investigation separate from the police in Turks and Caicos.”

“That’s a little tricky,” I said.

“That’s exactly why I’m calling you,” he retorted. “Do I need to recite your resumé?”

No, he didn’t. Still.

“Mr. Breslow, I’m afraid FBI agents aren’t allowed to moonlight.”

“What about suspended FBI agents?” he asked.

I was racing through my mental Rolodex, trying to think who our mutual friend at the Bureau could be. Breslow had access to somebody.

“I suppose I could talk to my boss,” I said.

“I already have.”

“You know Frank Walsh?”

“He and I are old friends. Given the circumstances, both yours and mine, he’s willing to make an exception in this case. You have a green light from the Bureau.”

Then, before I could even take a breath, Breslow got right down to it. He might have been consumed by grief, but he was still a businessman. An extremely formidable one.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“For your time and services. Plus expenses, of course. You’re worth it.”

When I didn’t respond right away, he applied some pressure. Or was it leverage?

“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but your suspension is without pay, correct?”

“You certainly do your homework.”

“What about your boys?” he asked. “Do they do their homework? I mean, are they good students?”

“So far,” I said, a bit hesitant. He was bringing my children into this. “Why are you asking about my boys?”

“Because I didn’t mention the bonus. You should know what it is before you give me your answer,” he said. “It’s what you get if your work helps give me the only small measure of relief that I could ever have in this situation,” he said. “Justice.”

And then Warner Breslow told me exactly what justice was worth to him. He specified my bonus.

And I’ll tell you this: the man really knew how to close a deal.