Second Honeymoon

Chapter 33

“SARAH, CAN I see you in my office?” asked Driesen as the conference room emptied after the briefing. He was in the middle of a good-bye handshake with Hawthorne, which was clearly not a mutual-admiration moment.

“Sure,” Sarah answered, as if it were no big deal. But it was a very big deal.

There were two levels of briefings that took place at the BAU. Both were classified, but only one was completely unfiltered. That briefing was the one that took place in Driesen’s office. Like the original Lucky Strike cigarettes, Driesen gave it to you straight.

With Hawthorne gone, Sarah followed Driesen past his secretary, Allison, and into his corner office, which looked out over a large marine training field.

“Close the door behind you,” he said, heading behind his desk.

She did, then sat down in one of the two chairs facing him. He stared at her for a moment. Then, of all things, he let go with a chuckle.

Sarah did the same.

There was nothing funny about a serial killer and the fact that there were three innocent people dead, but sometimes battlefield humor was the only way to stay sane. In this case, the implied joke was about the president. Specifically, what he might have been thinking in the far—and definitely off-the-record—reaches of his mind when he was first briefed about the John O’Hara Killer.

I’ve got one target you can have for free, buddy. Take him, he’s yours.

John O’Hara, the president’s brother-in-law, was a major-league screwup. If he wasn’t being caught by the TMZ cameras stumbling out of a Manhattan bar at 3:00 a.m., he was on cable television—at about the same time—starring in his own infomercial selling “authentic” presidential sheets and pillowcases. “Just like they have in the Lincoln Bedroom!”

Probably because he’d stolen them.

The guy was a Billy Carter–size embarrassment. And a late-night comedian’s dream come true.

“Do you think it’s somehow connected to him?” asked Sarah. “I can’t imagine…”

Driesen shrugged. “It wouldn’t make much sense. Then again, going around killing people with the same name doesn’t exactly scream ‘logical,’ now, does it?”

“But of all names to choose…”

“I know. Hawthorne, as you saw, is already at DEFCON 1. He placed a detail on the brother-in-law starting last night.”

“Was O’Hara told why he was getting protection?” Sarah asked. She thought she already knew the answer.

“No. That’s the other tricky thing about this,” said Driesen. “O’Hara’s big mouth aside, this can’t go public. We can’t have a nationwide panic involving every poor son of a bitch out there named John O’Hara, at least not yet.”

“Is that why Hawthorne was here and not Samuelson?” asked Sarah.

Driesen smiled as if to say, “Good for you.” He appreciated that his young agent had grown quite adept at recognizing political implications. Cliff Samuelson, Hawthorne’s boss, was director of the Secret Service.

“I didn’t ask, but it’s safe to assume. They need as much separation from the president as they can get,” said Driesen.

“God, I can see the headline already: PRESIDENT PROTECTS BROTHER-IN-LAW O’HARA BUT NONE OF THE OTHERS.”

“Needless to say, that headline can never be written.”

“But at some point—”

“Yes, at some point we’ll have to go public with the killings, blast it from every rooftop. But between the first and third dead O’Hara, there are over forty John O’Haras on the map that the killer didn’t kill. The point being we can’t pretend to think we can protect them all.”

“So in the meantime?”

“That only makes your job harder,” he said.

Sarah cocked her head. “My job?”

“You didn’t think you were in here to hear about my fly fishing plans for the weekend, did you? You leave tomorrow morning.”

Sarah didn’t need to ask where he was sending her. The first rule of catching serial killers? Always start with the warmest dead body.

“I hear Park City’s nice this time of year,” she deadpanned.

He smiled. “Listen, I realize you’re just back from Florida and that your suitcase is sitting in your office. So take the night off, will you? And by that I don’t mean go home and do laundry.”

“Okay, no laundry,” she said with a chuckle.

“I’m serious,” he retorted. “Go do something fun, kick up your heels. Lord knows you probably need it.”

He was right about that.

“Any suggestions?” she asked.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”