Second Honeymoon

Chapter 20

“ANYTHING TO DECLARE?” asked the customs agent at Kennedy Airport.

Yeah. If I never see another Jet Ski for as long as I live it will still be too soon. How’s that?

Warner Breslow’s pilot had given me his phone number to use when I was ready to go home. “Just call me and I’ll fly back down to pick you up,” he said. He assumed I’d be in Turks and Caicos for at least a few days, if not longer. So did I.

That was before I opened the envelope from Commissioner Eldridge.

By noon the next day, I was landing in New York and driving out to the Breslow estate in the Belle Haven section of Greenwich. The double vision from my crash was gone. So, too, were the tweeting birds circling my head. As for my bruised ribs, I figured if I could just avoid sneezing, the hiccups, and comedy clubs, I’d be able to muddle through.

“Come in,” said Breslow, greeting me at the front door.

Not surprisingly, Breslow’s voice—as well as everything else about him—was subdued. The usual sheen from his combed-back silver hair, his trademark, was missing, as was the gleam in his eyes. Instead, those eyes were bloodshot and sporting dark circles, undoubtedly from crying and lack of sleep. His cheeks were hollow, his shoulders slouched.

But most of all, it was what I couldn’t see. What was missing. His heart. It had been ripped out of his chest.

“This way,” he said after I shook his hand.

After a left turn at the Matisse, a walk down a long hallway, and then a right at the Rothko, he led me into what he called his reading nook.

Some nook. The room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, was absolutely huge. Throw in some coffee, pastries, and loitering hipsters and it could’ve been a Barnes & Noble.

After we sat down in a couple of soft leather armchairs by the window, Breslow simply stared at me, waiting. It went without saying that he didn’t expect me back so soon, so he didn’t say it. He had to assume there was a good reason, and he was right.

“Let’s talk about your enemies,” I said, getting right to the heart of the matter.

Breslow nodded, the corners of his mouth curving up ever so slightly. It was probably the closest he’d come to a smile all week. “Aren’t you supposed to ask first if I have any? That’s what they do in the movies.”

“With all due respect, if this were the movies you’d be petting a cat right now,” I said. “No one accumulates the wealth you have without being a villain from time to time.”

“You think my son’s murder was revenge, someone trying to get even with me?” he asked.

I listened to his question, but was more focused on his tone. He was far from incredulous. I suspected the thought had already crossed his mind.

“It’s a possibility,” I said.

“How much of a possibility?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Enough that you should probably stop recording our conversation.”

He didn’t ask me how I knew, nor was I about to tell him. Instead, he simply reached over and flipped a switch on the back of the lamp that sat between us.

“I take it you’ve read my file,” he said.