Second Honeymoon

Chapter 11

A RUSH OF hot air—whoosh!—hit me as I stepped off Warner Breslow’s private jet at Providenciales International Airport in Turks and Caicos, where the temperature was ninety-six and climbing.

Immediately, my jeans and polo shirt felt as if they were Velcroed to my skin.

Breslow’s jet, a Bombardier Global Express XRS, had a maximum occupancy of nineteen passengers plus a crew, but this flight barely carried the minimum. There was only a pilot, one flight attendant, and me. Talk about extra legroom…

I no sooner had one foot on the tarmac than I was approached by a young man, thirtyish, wearing white linen shorts and a white linen short-sleeved shirt.

“Welcome to Turks and Caicos, Mr. O’Hara. My name’s Kevin. How was your flight?”

“It was Al Gore’s worst nightmare,” I said, shaking the guy’s hand. “Otherwise, the flight was pretty amazing.” He smiled, but I was pretty sure he didn’t get the joke. Carbon-footprint humor is pretty hit-or-miss.

I didn’t yet know who Kevin was, but everything else up to that point had been made crystal clear. I’d already spoken with Frank Walsh at the Bureau, who confirmed that he had indeed approved my working for Breslow.

As for the nature of his and Breslow’s relationship, he declined to elaborate. To know Frank was to know not to press the issue. So I didn’t.

Meanwhile, Breslow had dispatched one of his expensive attorneys, who arrived the following morning at my house to give me a signed contract. It was only two pages long, and was clearly more for my benefit than his. I hadn’t asked to have our agreement in writing, but Breslow insisted.

“Trust me when I say you should never take anyone at his word,” he said in a tone pregnant with meaning.

In addition to the contract, I was also given a sealed envelope. “What’s in it?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” said the attorney, smiling. “It might just come in handy.”

He was right.

My only regret of the morning, however, was not being able to join Marshall and Judy on the drive up to the Berkshires to drop Max and John Jr. off at camp. After giving the boys huge hugs before they left, I promised I’d see them in a couple of weeks for the camp’s Family Day.

Max, eager to make sure I wouldn’t break my vow, made me “super quadruple promise” I’d be there. “No crossies, either,” he warned me as John Jr. rolled his eyes.

I already missed them both like crazy.

“Shall we get going?” asked Kevin, motioning over his shoulder to a silver limousine parked nearby. When I hesitated for a second, it dawned on him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. I’m with the Gansevoort resort,” he explained. “Mr. Breslow has arranged for you to stay with us while you’re here.”

I nodded. The Mystery of Kevin had been solved. Happily, too. I’d seen the Gansevoort featured in the New York Times travel section, and it was absolutely beautiful—top-notch. Not that I was down here to enjoy it. After I dropped off my bag and grabbed a quick shower, I was heading straight over to the Governor’s Club to begin my investigation.

Breslow had initially assumed I’d want to stay there—the “scene of the crime”—but I told him I’d be more comfortable somewhere nearby. By “comfortable,” of course, I didn’t mean the thread count of the sheets.

It would’ve been different if I were flashing a badge, but I wasn’t Agent O’Hara down here, I was just John O’Hara. And for the time being, I didn’t want the Governor’s Club to know even that.

Same for the local police. Soon enough, I’d pay them a polite visit and compare notes with the detectives on the case, if they were willing. With any luck, they would be. Until then, though, I’d travel as incognito as possible.

But before I could take a step toward the limo, I saw a flashing light out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see a white sedan speeding toward us. I mean, really speeding. If it had wings, it would’ve taken off.

The question now was, Did it have brakes?

The car wasn’t slowing down. If anything, it was getting faster as it got closer.

Finally, pulling a move straight out of the Starsky and Hutch school of driving, the car skidded to a stop right in front of us, the back wheels drifting across the hot asphalt of the tarmac.

On the side of the car it read ROYAL TURKS & CAICOS ISLANDS POLICE.

I glanced over at Kevin, who looked as if he were about to soil his linen shorts. “Mr. Breslow didn’t arrange for an escort by any chance, did he?” I asked.

Kevin shook his head no.

And I just shook my head, period.

So much for incognito. Apparently, I was going to meet with the police a little sooner than I expected.

Did I mention how hot it was down here?

Welcome to Turks and Caicos, O’Hara.