Act of Betrayal Read Online Free PDF

is persistent enough to follow the trail of a missing person to the morgue.
    The chief investigator was in. “Have you got any young John Does?” I asked.
    â€œHave they got bagels in Jerusalem? Whatcha looking for?”
    â€œWhite male, thirteen to fifteen. Slender frame, blond, blue-eyed, been gone—”
    â€œSounds familiar.”
    I caught my breath, heart thumping, as it always does when mysteries begin to unravel.
    â€œGet calls about this one all the time. Family, I think. Last check I made was three, four days ago. No new Juans or Johns have checked in since then.”
    I sighed. Should have realized it couldn’t be this easy. Randolph was way ahead of me.
    â€œWhat about…?”
    â€œI checked Broward, Palm Beach, and Monroe as well. None that fit. Lotsa Johns and Janes but not this one.”
    â€œIf one comes in…” I said.
    â€œYou’ll be the first to know.”
    Randolph said Coral Gables police had taken the report. The same detective, Wally Soams, handles both juvenile and missing persons. I left him a message, then called Quicky Lube to say I was on the way.
    Now I needed to escape the newsroom before some roadblock loomed. Like Gretchen Piatt, the assistant city editor from hell. She was stepping out of a meeting along with several executive types and the News’s lawyer, Mark Seybold. Wearing a nifty pin-striped power suit, she looked pleased to see me, which meant trouble. More deadly to morale than a speeding bullet, she is a known sniper, but occasionally lobs a grenade. White-hot ambition radiates from her statuesque, fashionably clad body, despite her chronic incompetence, which is matched only by her mean and officious streak. Making subordinates look foolish, with biting sarcasm or a well-timed roll of the eyes, is her specialty. She is, for reasons totally incomprehensible to me, on the corporate fast track. Eager to display her supervisory skills, she blocked my path.
    â€œBritt,” she said, her voice unnecessarily loud, “are you finished with your septic tank story?” Shooting sidelong glances at her colleagues, she wrinkled her nose and shuddered delicately.
    â€œYes, I am,” I said. I smiled sweetly, wondering what it would cost to have the trucker dump another load next time she flipped the top on her flashy BMW convertible. Whatever the price, it would be worth it.
    â€œWhere are you rushing off to now? Has someone been killed?” Her tone was patronizing and condescending. Tossing her hair, cut in a sleek new style, she awaited my answer.
    â€œNot yet.”
    She waited, an eyebrow arched, her glossy blond head cocked expectantly.
    â€œI’m on my way to an interview.”
    â€œA story on tomorrow’s budget?”
    â€œNo, a case I’m just beginning to look into.”
    â€œWhat kind of case?”
    A troubling question. Missing teenagers are not considered bona fide news in late summer. With a new school term looming in their immediate future, some do make a run for it.
    I pressed the elevator button desperately. “An old case, like the Mary Beth Rafferty mystery.”
    They all reacted. Mark, the lawyer, bit his lip, a nervous tic he displays when not gnawing his fingernails. My initial suspect in that case had been Eric Fielding, current resident of the governors mansion. He was only a candidate when I accused him of murder.
    The elevator doors yawned open just in time and I made my getaway, wondering what perverse quirk had made me say that. Gretchen always brings out the worst in me.
    I drove north on Biscayne Boulevard, the main drag. The harsh glare of the afternoon sun seemed as merciless as the landscape. Once Miami’s street of dreams, the Boulevard greeted travelers and tourists, refugees from the cold North. Now it is lined by shabby motels, laundromats, doughnut shops, and small Haitian and Cuban restaurants.
    The Quicky Lube, a freshly painted, freestanding building,