Honeymoon

Chapter 21

THE SHUFFLING OF mostly solemn strangers in and out of the house, the cacophony of noise and commotion created by it, lasted for nearly two hours. The irony was never lost on Nora: Things really get lively when someone dies suddenly.

Eventually it came to an end. The paramedics, the local police, the morgue wagon—they all left. Nora was finally alone in the house.

Now it was time to get down to business. This was what the police really needed to know but would never find out.

Connor’s study was on the far end of the house, practically a separate wing. As per his instructions when they’d first met, Nora had decorated it like a private men’s club: tufted leather sofas, cherrywood shelving, oil paintings depicting hunting scenes, which were all the rage with the boys. In one corner was a full suit of medieval armor. In another, a display case housing an antique snuff bottle collection. What a load of overpriced crap, and I should know.

Nora had even joked upon the study’s completion, “This room is so manly that smoking a cigar in here would be redundant.”

But now, ironically, it was just her in the room. And she kind of missed Connor.

She took a seat in the Gainsborough chair behind Connor’s desk and turned on the computer. He had one of those triple-screen setups that allowed him to track multiple financial markets. The way it looked you’d think he was also able to launch a missile attack. Or at least land a few jumbo jets.

The first code Nora punched in was for access to his T3 Internet connection. Next was the code for his 128-bit encrypted VPN, or virtual private network. In layman’s terms, it was the ultimate secure passageway between two points via cyberspace.

Point one being Connor’s computer.

Point two being the International Bank of Zurich.

It had taken Nora four months to locate the VPN code. In hindsight, she realized, it should’ve taken four minutes. But she never thought he’d be so obvious as to put it in his PalmPilot. Under A for “account numbers,” no less.

Of course, he wasn’t as obvious about spelling out which accounts went with which codes. That required a few late-night trial-and-error sessions while he was asleep in bed.

For all the complexity of tapping into Connor’s Swiss bank account—and all the connotations of wealth and privilege that went with having such an account—the transaction page for the International Bank of Zurich was remarkably simple and low-key. No fancy lettering or soothing background music by Honegger.

Just three options, in plain type, alone on the screen.

DEPOSIT.

WITHDRAWAL.

TRANSFER.

Nora clicked on TRANSFER and was immediately taken to another page, which was equally simple. It listed Connor’s account balance and provided a box for indicating how much money was to be transferred.

She typed the figure.

There was 4.3 million dollars in the account. She’d be taking a little less. 4.2 million, to be exact.

The only thing left to do was direct the money.

Connor wasn’t the only one in their relationship to have a VPN. Nora typed in the code for her private numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Thanks to horny tax attorney Steven Keppler, it was about to be christened in grand style.

She hit the EXECUTE button and sat back in Connor’s chair. A horizontal bar on the screen charted the progress of the transfer by slowly shading in. Putting her feet up on the desk, she watched it creep along.

Two minutes later, it was official. Nora Sinclair was 4.2 million dollars richer.

Her second killing of the day.