Second Honeymoon

Chapter 86

“GET UP, YOU fool,” she said.

I took that for a yes.

It was the way Sarah said it—the “Holy shit, O’Hara, you might be onto something” tone in her voice. I knew instantly that we were on the same page.

Of the wedding section, to be exact.

The idea was a lot of things—risky, dangerous, a candidate for the Hazard Pay Hall of Fame—but it was also something else: the best chance we had to stop this thing. I was sure of it. So was Sarah.

Poor Emily LaSalle, however, wasn’t sure what the hell to think.

“I’m sorry, what just happened?” she asked with a hand on her hip.

“You’re looking at the next Vows couple,” I explained.

It took a few seconds, but she finally got it. After another few seconds, though, her face went from “Aha” to “Oh, wait.” There were frown lines everywhere, and she looked overly concerned.

“I don’t know if the Times can do that,” she said. “I mean, that’s a decision for—”

“Your publisher, of course,” I said. “And trust me, I understand the ramifications.”

Whether it was Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Bush White House when the NSA was engaged in domestic eavesdropping, or the Obama administration after the capture of Mullah Abdul Ghani Baradar, a top Taliban commander, there have been occasions during which the Times has been asked to delay or “sit on” a particular story in the interest of national security.

However, this was different. Yes, people’s lives were in danger, but this request would have the paper printing a story they knew up front wasn’t true. Notwithstanding the fact that most staunch conservatives already had a name for that phenomenon—they called it the Times editorial page—it was easy to understand how this threshold might be one the so-called Gray Lady wouldn’t want to cross.

“Listen, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Sarah. “Before we can get the paper’s blessing, we need someone else’s. The father of the bride, if you will.”

I knew she wasn’t talking about her actual father, Conrad Brubaker, whom she’d described to me as a retired art history professor usually found swinging a 7 iron on the back nine somewhere out in La Quinta, California. She was referring to Dan Driesen, who would surely have an aversion to dangling one of his agents as human bait.

“Maybe I can get Walsh to call him,” I said, only to immediately shake my head in contradiction. “On second thought…maybe that isn’t the best idea.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Talk about another blessing we’ll need.”

She was right. I had a little issue to work out with my own boss. My suspension. Throw in the breaking news of the John O’Hara Killer and I could already hear Frank Walsh yelling at me.

Jesus Christ, it’s not enough you’ve already got one serial killer coming after you—now you want to arrange for another? You don’t need therapy, O’Hara, you need a damn straitjacket!

“Yeah, cancel Walsh running interference,” I said. “Driesen is all yours.”

Sarah turned to LaSalle. “When is the Sunday wedding section viewable online?” she asked.

“Saturday at five.”

That gave us less than three days. I glanced at my watch. Sixty-eight hours, to be exact.

“Amazing,” said Sarah. “Who would’ve thought planning a fake wedding could be harder than planning a real one?”

“At least we’ve got one thing to look forward to,” I said, keeping a straight face.

“What’s that?”

“The honeymoon, of course.”