Second Honeymoon

Chapter 48

HURRY UP AND WAIT.

That was pretty much the feeling I had as I returned home to Riverside for an overnight holding pattern, my next move at the mercy of a ham-sandwich-eating Greek pathologist who didn’t like to be rushed.

In the meantime, I still owed Warner Breslow an update. After dialing his office, I was told by his secretary that he was out. “But let me patch you into his cell,” she quickly added.

Clearly, I was on the guy’s short list.

“What’ve you got?” he asked right off the bat. There was no polite chitchat upfront. Hell, there wasn’t even a hello.

My update covered everything I knew on what I said was “our Chinese angle,” including the fact that I was waiting on a full background check on the one Chinese passport holder who’d stayed at the Governor’s Club.

What I didn’t say a word about, though, was my trip to the Queens medical examiner’s office and the possible connection—or lack thereof—between Ethan and Abigail’s murder and the death of those honeymooners out at the airport. Until I got my answer back on the cyclosarin question, there was no point getting into it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call my friends at our embassy in Beijing?” Breslow asked. “You know, maybe expedite that background check?”

The impatience in his tone wasn’t so much with me as it was with the general concept of waiting, something billionaires never seemed to be very good at. My only play was to make clear what exactly he was waiting on.

“With all due respect to your friends at the embassy,” I said, “the kind of background check we’re talking about doesn’t exactly come through official channels.”

That wasn’t me at my most subtle, but sometimes less isn’t more. More is more. Especially with a guy like Breslow.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Call me as soon as you know anything else.”

“Will do.”

I hung up the phone, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and quickly flipped through the mail that I’d brought in. There was no second coming of a Bible or any other mysterious package.

In fact, bills and catalogs notwithstanding, the only actual “mail” was a postcard from Marshall and Judy, who were on their Mediterranean cruise. On the front was a picture of Malta. On the back, in Judy’s handwriting, was a brief essay on the history of Malta. Of course. The only thing not Malta-related was her postscript. “Don’t forget to water my garden!”

Oops.

Beer in hand, I went out back and turned on the sprinkler, not a minute too soon. Judy’s garden was in dire shape. Droopy petunias and begonias everywhere.

After waiting a minute to make sure the sprinkler was reaching them all, I took a seat on a nearby chaise. Stretching my legs out, it occurred to me that this was the first time in days that I actually had a moment to relax. I drew a deep breath, closing my eyes. Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible thing, having a little time to kill.

Suddenly I opened my eyes.

“John O’Hara?” came a voice behind me.