ally have to get off the couch and look?"
"Of course not," she said. "Take the couch with you."
I smiled to myself. I've always loved a woman who can
give as good as she gets.
The window next to the couch had a ratty old roller
shade that was drawn all the way. Carefully, I pulled back
one of the edges and sneaked a peek.
"Hmmm," I muttered.
"What is it?"
Nora had parked about a block down the street. Her car
was gone.
"I guess she'd seen enough," I said.
"That's good. She believes you."
"You know, I think she still would've believed me if I had
a decent apartment. Maybe something in Chappaqua?"
"Is someone complaining?"
"It's more like an observation."
"You don't get it. This way she thinks she's got something
on you," said Susan. "Dressing and driving beyond your
means makes you more human."
"Whatever happened to just being nice?"
"Nora comes across as nice, doesn't she?"
"Yeah. Actually, she does."
"I rest my case."
"Did I mention the yellow Formica countertops?"
"C'mon, the place can't be that bad," Susan said.
"Easy for you to say. You don't have to live here."
"It's only temporary."
"My saving grace. Hell, that's probably the real reason for
this apartment," I said. "It'll make me work faster."
"The thought did cross my mind."
"You don't miss a trick, do you?"
"Not if I can help it," she shot back. "Seriously, though,
good work today."
"Thank you."
Susan gave me an end-of-the-day sigh. "Okay, it's official.
Nora Sinclair has gone backstage on Craig Reynolds. Now
what?"
"That's easy," I said. "Now it's my turn."
Chapter 38
THERE WAS ONLY one empty seat in the first-class cabin.
Under normal circumstances, Nora would've regretted that
it wasn't the one next to her. Then again, normally she
didn't have such a cute guy sharing the same armrest. From
the side, he kind of looked like Brad Pitt, only with no wed-
ding ring on his finger, no Jennifer on his arm.
During takeoff Nora -- sans her own wedding ring --
checked out her window-seat companion with a furtive
glance. She was pretty sure he was doing the same with her.
Of course he is. What man wouldn't?
When the captain turned
off the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign, she knew the guy was ready to
make a move.
"I'm a stacker myself," he said.
She turned with the coy pretense of just now realizing
she wasn't alone. "Excuse me?"
"On the coffee table there." He smiled broadly and nod-
ded at the
Architectural Digest
open in her lap. On the right-
hand page was a picture of a spacious living room.
"See how the magazines are spread out?" he said. "Fact
is, there are only two types of people in this world…
stackers and spreaders. So which one are you?"
Nora stared him right in the eye, unblinking. As conver-
sation starters went, she had to give him a few points for
originality. "Well, that depends. Who wants to know?"
"You're absolutely right," he said with an easy laugh.
"You shouldn't reveal such personal information to a com-
plete stranger. My name's Brian Stewart."
"Nora Sinclair."
He presented his hand, strong-looking, nicely mani-
cured, and they shook.
"Now that we know each other, Nora, I believe you owe
me an answer."
"In that case, you'll be pleased to know I'm a stacker."
"Knew it."
"Oh, did you?"
"Yep." He leaned in slightly, but not
too
much. "You
come across as very put together."
"That's a compliment?"
"For me, it is."
She smiled. Maybe the real Brad Pitt was better looking,
but Brian Stewart certainly was charming. Reason enough
to keep the conversation going for a while.
"Tell me, Brian, what's waiting for you in Boston today?"
"A dozen venture capitalists. And a pen."
"Sounds promising. I take it the pen is for your signature."
"Something like that."
Nora was expecting him to elaborate, but he didn't. She
grinned. "To think I revealed myself as a
stacker,
only to
have you turn bashful on me."
He shifted in his window seat, clearly amused. "For the
second time, you're absolutely right. Okay, last year I sold
my software company. This afternoon I'm about to launch
my new one. Bor-ing."
"I don't think so. Anyway, congratulations! And those
venture capitalists -- they're investing in
you?
"
"The way I see it, why put up your own money when
others are willing to put up theirs?"
"I couldn't agree more."
"Now what about you, Nora? What's waiting for
you
up
in Boston today?"
"A client," she said. "I'm an interior decorator."
He nodded. "Is your client's home in the city?"
"It is. Except that's not the one I'm decorating. He re-
cently built a villa down in the Cayman Islands."
"Beautiful place."
"I've yet to go myself. But I will shortly." Nora opened
her mouth as if to say something else. She stopped.
"What were you going to say?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "It's silly, really."
"Go ahead, try me."
"It's just that when I mentioned this client to one of my
girlfriends, she said the reason he was building down in the
Caymans was probably so he could keep his eye on the
money he was hiding from the IRS there." She shook her
head with a convincing naïveté. "I mean, I don't want to get
mixed up in anything I shouldn't be."
Brian Stewart smiled with a knowing look. "It's really
not as sinister as you may think. You'd be surprised at how
many people have offshore accounts."
"Really?"
He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. "Guilty as
charged," he whispered. He picked up his champagne glass.
"We'll make that our secret, okay?"
Nora picked up her glass, and the two of them clinked.
Brian Stewart was shaping up to be someone she might
want to get to know better.
"To secrets," she said.
"To stackers," he said.
Chapter 39
"WHAT CAN I GET for you?" she asked.
I looked up at the flight attendant -- tired, bored to
tears, trying to be nice anyway. She and her drink cart had
finally made it back to me. "I'll have a Diet Coke," I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I ran out of those about ten rows ago."
"How about ginger ale?"
Her eyes darted around the open cans on top of the
cart. "Hmmm," she muttered. She bent down and began
pulling out one drawer after another. "I'm sorry, no ginger
ale, either."
"Why don't we try this the other way around," I said
with a forced smile. "What do you have left?"
"Do you like tomato juice?"
Only with a lot of vodka and a celery stalk sticking out
of it. "Anything else?"
"I've got one Sprite."
"Not anymore, you don't."
It took her a second to realize that was my way of saying
"yes, please."
She poured about half of the Sprite and handed it over
with a small bag of pretzels. As she wheeled the cart off I
held up my plastic cup. If I squinted enough at the bubbles,
it almost looked like the champagne Nora was probably
drinking up in first class.
I popped a minipretzel into my mouth and tried to move
my legs. Wishful thinking. With my tray table down, they
were wedged in from every angle. Complete loss of circula-
tion to all lower extremities was only a matter of time.
Yes, indeed. It was right about then that I realized what
the common thread of this assignment was so far. In a word,
cramped.
Cramped office, cramped apartment, cramped seat in
the last row of coach that had me breathing in the odors of
the cramped bathroom directly over my shoulder.
Not that all was lost.
The one good thing about tailing people on an airplane
is that you never have to worry about losing them during
the flight. At 35,000 feet, no one is about to slip out the side
door.
I glanced up at the royal blue curtain way, way, way
down the aisle. While the odds fell somewhere between
slim and none that Nora would have any reason to venture
back and mingle with us poor slobs in coach, I still had to
stay on my toes.
Not that I could feel them anymore.
Earlier at the Westchester airport, I was sure Nora hadn't
spotted me before the flight. Well, she might have seen me,
but for sure, she didn't recognize me. Besides my Red Sox
baseball cap, dark glasses, jogging suit, and gold chain, I'd
broken out the fake mustache. Throw in a
Daily News
that
was never farther away than twelve inches from my face and
I'd pretty much cornered the market on incognito.
No, Nora had no idea she had company on the flight.
That much I knew. Of course, what I didn't know was the
question of the day.
What's in Boston?
Chapter 40
I FOLLOWED NORA and her smart little suitcase on
wheels down an escalator and past the baggage claim area.
As always, she looked good, front and rear view. She had
this way of walking -- and a great smile when she needed
it. She never once looked up at a sign for directions. Safe to
say, this wasn't her first trip to Logan Airport.
She walked outside and came to an abrupt stop -- look-
ing around. What for became clear after a few minutes.
It wasn't a cab and it wasn't a friend's car. It was the shut-
tle bus for Hertz.
As soon as she hopped on, I made a dash for the cab line.
Taxi!
"Take me to the Hertz lot!" I barked at the back of the
driver's head.
He turned around, an old-salt type, his face a road map
of wrinkles and creases.
"What?"
"Take me --"
"No, I heard you just fine there, pal. What I'm saying is,
they have shuttle buses for that."
"I don't like waiting."
"Neither do I." Jabbing his finger, he pointed out the
back window. "You see that line of cabs behind me? I didn't
wait in it for no three-dollar fare."
I looked up ahead at Nora's shuttle bus getting farther
and farther away. "Okay, give me a number," I said.
"Thirty bucks. That's my final offer."
"Twenty."
"Twenty-five."
"Deal. Drive."
Chapter 41
THE GUY SPED OFF and I immediately began to work my
phone. I had the number for every airline, hotel chain, and
rental car company already programmed in. It was a job
prerequisite.
I called Hertz. After suffering through a minute of auto-
mated prompts, I got ahold of an available agent.
"And when will you be needing the car, sir?" she asked.
"In five minutes. Maybe less."
"Oh."
She promised to do the best she could. In case it wasn't
good enough, I told the driver he might be spending some
more quality time with me.
Thankfully, it didn't come to that.
Nora's shuttle driver had a helium foot. With him putter-
ing along, we actually passed the bus before we got to the
lot. By the time Nora climbed into a silver Sebring convert-
ible, I was behind the wheel of my minivan. That's right, a
minivan.
I mean, who'd ever expect to be followed by some-
one driving one of those?
Just the same, I was sure to keep a little distance between
us. That was until Nora made it clear she was no shuttle bus
driver. Formula One racer was more like it.
The more I gunned it, the faster she seemed to go. In-
stead of blending in with the other cars, I was forced to blow
by them. So much for my inconspicuous minivan.
Shit.
A red light. I'd already sailed through an earlier one, but
