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  The police didn’t suspect a thing.

  She had committed the perfect murder.

  Again.

  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.

  Chapter 22

  SHE AWOKE THE next morning and shuffled downstairs with a big yawn to make a pot of coffee. Actually, she didn’t feel too bad. Nora didn’t feel much of anything.

  After she downed the first cup, her thoughts turned to the day and what important things had to be done. There were phone calls to make—people who needed to know about Connor’s death. And she had to check in with Jeffrey.

  The first call was to Mark Tillingham. He was Connor’s attorney and executor of his estate. He was also one of Connor’s best friends. When Nora called, Mark was heading out the door for his Saturday-morning tennis game. She could just picture him, dressed in white, as he responded to the news with utter shock. In a way, Nora was jealous of the emotion.

  Next was the immediate family. The list of whom to call, however, couldn’t have been any shorter. Connor’s parents were no longer alive; that left his one and only sibling—a younger sister, Elizabeth, whom he called Lizzie or sometimes Lizard.

  The two were close in every way except geographically. Lizzie lived three thousand miles away, in Santa Barbara, and had her own busy career as a successful architect. She rarely made it back to the East Coast, the last time being before Nora and Connor had met.

  Nora poured herself another cup of coffee and considered how best to tell a woman she’d never met, let alone spoken to, that her brother was dead at forty.

  She knew she didn’t have to make the call. She could’ve had Mark Tillingham do it. But Nora also knew that someone who truly loved Connor would do it herself. So after finding the phone number in his PalmPilot, she dialed.

  “Hello?” came a woman’s voice, groggy if not a little annoyed. It was barely past seven A.M. in California.

  “Is this Elizabeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Nora Sinclair….”

  Oddly, the sister didn’t cry, at least not on the phone. Instead, there was a stunned silence, followed by a few softly spoken questions.

  Nora told her what she’d told the police. Word for word: her script. “Though I guess we won’t know anything for sure until the autopsy is done,” she pointed out.

  Again, there was the stunned silence from Lizzie. Maybe, thought Nora, it was the guilt of having not seen her brother in a long while. Or maybe it was the sudden loneliness of being the only surviving member of her family. Maybe she was in shock, as Mark Tillingham had been.

  “I’ll fly out tomorrow morning,” said Elizabeth. “Have you made funeral plans?”

  “I wanted to speak to you first. I figured—”

  Elizabeth had begun to cry. “I hope this doesn’t sound terrible, but that’s the last thing… I don’t think I could…. Would you mind taking care of it?”

  “Of course not,” said Nora. She was beginning to say good-bye when Elizabeth choked back sobs and asked, “How long had you been engaged to Connor?”

  Nora paused. She wanted to affect a good cry herself, but thought better of it. Instead, she said solemnly, “Only a week.”

  “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Elizabeth.

  In the wake of the phone call with Elizabeth, Nora spent the afternoon concentrating on the funeral arrangements. From flowers to food, there was a lot she was able to accomplish over the phone. However, there remained some things in life—and especially in death—that were best done in person. Choosing a funeral parlor was one.

  But even there Nora was able to use her skills as a decorator. She selected the casket as she would any piece of furniture for a client. For Connor, that meant a most regal burl walnut with carved ivory handles. The instant the undertaker showed it to her, Nora knew it was the one.

  “Done!” she said.

  Chapter 23

  “NORA, I KNOW this probably isn’t exactly a great time,” began Mark Tillingham. “But there’s something I need to discuss with you. The sooner the better.”

  The time was minutes before the funeral service that Tuesday morning; the place was the crowded parking lot of St. Mary’s Church on Albany Post Road in Scarborough. Nora stared at Connor’s attorney through black Chanel sunglasses. They matched her black Armani suit and basic black Manolos. The two of them stood under a large holly tree just beyond the gravel driveway.

  “It�
�s about Connor’s sister. She’s distraught, of course. She and Connor were so close. Elizabeth has some concerns about your intentions.”

  “My intentions?”

  “Regarding the estate.”

  “What did Elizabeth say to you? No, let me guess, Mark. Elizabeth is afraid I might contest Connor’s will.”

  “Let’s call it ‘a concern,’” he said. “The state doesn’t recognize fiancées as having a legal claim, but that hasn’t stopped some people from—”

  Nora shook her head. “I won’t contest, Mark. God! I have no interest in the estate. It was Connor I loved. Let me be very clear on this: I have no interest in Connor’s estate. You can tell that to Lizzie.”

  Mark’s face was a study in embarrassment. “Of course,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry I had to bring this up.”

  “So, that’s why she’s been avoiding me?”

  “No, I think it’s more that she’s upset. She and Connor were inseparable growing up. Their parents died when they were both very young.”

  “Out of curiosity, what did Connor leave her?”

  Mark stared down at his tasseled black loafers. “I’m not supposed to reveal information like that, Nora.”

  “You also are not supposed to be upsetting the woman Connor loved right before his funeral service.”

  His guilt clearly outweighed his professionalism. “Elizabeth basically gets two-thirds of the estate, including the house,” he said in a lowered voice. “As I said, they were close.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Two cousins in San Diego get lump sums. The rest goes to various charities.”

  “That’s good,” Nora said, softening a bit.

  “Yes, it is,” replied Mark. “Connor was good that way. Hell, he was good in a lot of ways.”

  Nora nodded. “Connor was great, Mark. We should be getting inside, shouldn’t we?”

  Chapter 24

  IT WAS A lovely service, sad and very touching. St. Mary’s, with the beautifully manicured Sleepy Hollow Country Club looming in the background, was the perfect spot.

  At least that’s what everyone kept telling Nora. There wasn’t a receiving line, but people still made a point of coming up to her. She’d met some of Connor’s friends and business associates previously; a few others she’d known about. The rest introduced themselves and fumbled with words of sympathy.

  All the while—at the church as well as the cemetery—Elizabeth Brown kept her distance. Not that Nora was necessarily eager for a détente. Actually, Connor’s sister had done her a favor. She’d unwittingly bolstered the notion that the last person who’d want Connor dead was the woman poised to be worth millions by marrying him.

  It was back at the house in Westchester, where people from the funeral had gathered for food and further commiserating, that Elizabeth finally went up to her.

  “I noticed that you don’t drink. Not even on a day like today,” Elizabeth said.

  Nora was holding a glass of sparkling water. “Oh, I drink. But I guess I prefer water today.”

  “We really haven’t had much of a chance to talk, have we?” Elizabeth said. “I want to thank you for making all the arrangements. I don’t think I could’ve done it.” Tears began to well in her eyes.

  “You’re welcome. I suppose it made sense, given that I live here. I mean not here here but—”

  “I know, Nora. In fact, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  A man walked by, one of Connor’s associates from Greenwich. Elizabeth paused so as not to be overheard.

  “Come,” said Nora. “Let’s step outside for a minute.”

  She led Elizabeth out the front door to the large flagstone steps of the entrance. It was now just the two of them. Time for some honesty?

  “Anyway,” said Elizabeth. “I had a conversation with Mark Tillingham. It seems Connor has left me this house.”

  Nora’s reaction was brilliant. “Really? Well, that’s good. I’m glad it can stay in the family. Especially with you, Lizzie.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice. Only the last thing I’m about to do is move here and live in it,” said Elizabeth. She paused and dropped her head, unable to finish the sentence. Tears were now streaming down her cheeks. “I just couldn’t.”

  “I understand,” said Nora. “You should just put it on the market, Lizzie.”

  “I suppose. But I’m in no rush. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “First, I want you to feel free to use the house for as long as you like. I know that’s what Connor would’ve wanted.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” said Nora. “And unnecessary. I’m overcome.”

  “I’ve asked Mark to have all the expenses and upkeep paid for by the estate. It’s the least we could do,” Elizabeth said. “And, Nora, I want you to keep all the furnishings. That’s what brought you and Connor together in the first place.”

  Nora smiled. Elizabeth’s guilt was dripping from every word. On the heels of Connor’s death, she thought his fiancée would be out for a payday. But now that she believed otherwise, her generosity was a way of admitting she was wrong. Which she was, thought Nora. Technically, at least.

  I’ve already had my payday.

  They stood in front of the grand house and continued to talk until Elizabeth realized the time. Her flight back to California was in less than three hours. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Saddest day of my life, Nora.”

  Nora nodded. “Yes. Mine, too. Please keep in touch.”

  Elizabeth said good-bye—with a hug, no less—and walked to her rental car in the driveway. Nora watched, her feet close together, her hands clasped at her waist. Beneath her sturdy exterior, though, was a heart racing with excitement. She’d pulled it off! The murder. The money.

  Nora pivoted on her Manolos to head inside the house. After two steps, she stopped. She thought she’d heard something. A noise from the hedges and evergreens. A clicking sound.

  She looked toward the edge of the property and listened…. Nothing.

  Probably a bird, she decided.

  But as she took the last step into the house, the Nikon D1X digicam chirped a few final times from its perch among the rhododendron.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Nora Sinclair wasn’t the only one with a grand plan.

  Part Two

  THE INSURANCE MAN

  Chapter 25

  THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS as they appear, sonny boy.

  That was something my father was fond of telling me when I was growing up. Of course, he was also fond of telling me to take out the garbage, rake the leaves, shovel the snow, don’t slouch, stand up straight. But in terms of leaving a meaningful impression, everything else was a distant second to his first little piece of advice.

  So simple. Yet, as the years have taught me, so true.

  Anyway, I was sitting in my newly acquired office, which was more like a glorified broom closet. The place was so snug, even Houdini would have complained. Up on my computer were the pictures I’d taken with my digicam. One after another. Nora Sinclair dressed in chic-chic black, head to toe. Nora at St. Mary’s Church. At the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Back at Connor Brown’s modest little estate house. The last shots were of her on the front steps, talking to the poor guy’s sister, Elizabeth. Elizabeth was tall and blond and looked like a California swimmer. Nora was brunette, not quite as tall, but even more beautiful. Both were stunning, even in funeral attire. They appeared to be crying, and then they hugged.

  What exactly was I looking for?

  I didn’t know, but the more I stared at these pictures, the more my father’s words echoed in my head. Things aren’t always as they appear.

  I grabbed the phone and dialed the boss. The direct line. Two rings later…

  “Susan,” she announced briskly. No hello, no last name—just Susan.

  “It’s me. Hi. I need you to be a sounding board,” I said. “So how do I sound?”

  “Like you want to sell me insurance.”


  “Not too New York?”

  “You mean, not too pushy? No.”

  “Good.”

  “But talk a little more just to make sure,” she said.

  I thought for a second. “Okay, so this old guy dies and goes up to heaven,” I began in the same voice, which to my ear was dripping in New Yorkese. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one.”

  “I’ve heard this one.”

  “No, you haven’t—trust me, you’re going to laugh.”

  “I suppose there’s always a first time.”

  It should be said at this point, if it isn’t already obvious, that the boss and I have a certain rapport. Of course, some men have a real hang-up about reporting to a woman. When Susan took over her department, in fact, there were about four or five guys who gave her a hard time from day one.

  That’s why on day two she fired them all. I’m serious. So is Susan.

  “Anyway, so this old guy arrives at the Pearly Gates and immediately he sees two signs,” I said. “The first sign reads, MEN WHO WERE CONTROLLED BY THEIR WIVES. The old man looks and sees that this line is, like, ten miles long.”

  “Naturally.”

  “No comment. So the old man looks at the second sign. It reads, MEN WHO WERE NOT CONTROLLED BY THEIR WIVES. Lo and behold, there’s only one guy in this line. Slowly, the old man walks over to him. ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘why are you standing over here?’ The guy looks at him and says, ‘I don’t know, my wife told me to.’”

  I listened, and sure enough, a slight laugh could be heard on the other end of the line.

  “What I’d tell you? Next stop, Letterman.”

  “Mildly amusing,” said Susan. “But I wouldn’t quit your day job just yet.”

  I chuckled. “Now that’s funny, considering this isn’t even supposed to be my day job.”

  “Do I detect a little nervousness?”

  “It’s more like apprehension.”