Afraid to Die Read Online Free PDF Page A

with chemistry or computers. As irritating as he was, the twenty-six-year-old was invaluable to the department and he knew it. Smirking to himself—while once again, Bing was crooning, “I’m dreaming of a ...”—Timmons withdrew a piece of paper from the hat, looked it over and read the name upon it, then, being the goof he was, placed it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Top-secret stuff,” he explained and Alvarez looked pained.
    â€œWe’re not in sixth grade,” she said.
    â€œSpeak for yourself.” Timmons flashed her a grin and started perusing the remainder of the day’s baked goods before snagging a cookie that he held in his mouth while he picked over the fudge and cupcakes.
    â€œI think Timmons had graduated from Yale by the sixth grade,” Pescoli whispered and Alvarez’s pained expression grew more intense.
    â€œDon’t remind me that he’s freakin’ brilliant, okay?”
    Everyone took their turn, then walked back to their desks, and Pescoli, rather than suffer Joelle’s ridicule for the second year in a row, plucked a name from the hat. Anyone but Cort Brewster, she thought, as she’d had to deal with him last year and their relationship was anything but smooth, as her son, Jeremy, and his daughter, Heidi, couldn’t quite break up. Each parent blamed the other for the kids getting into trouble. She opened the scrap of paper, and damn if it didn’t have the undersheriff’s name on it. “Sorry, it’s my own,” she said hastily, returning the label to Joelle’s hat before the receptionist could protest. Brenda Lee was rockin’ away. Quickly, Pescoli swiped another scrap and this time saw Joelle’s name on the paper. God, that was worse, but she was stuck. As it was, Joelle eyed her suspiciously, so she walked quickly back to her desk and wondered what the hell would she get a grandmother who looked like Barbie and was stuck in the sixties. God, that was half a century before.
    Pescoli didn’t have time for this nonsense. If she were going to fret about Christmas gifts, it damned well better be for her kids or Santana. Good Lord, what was she going to get him this year?
    â€œHow about nothing?” he’d suggested when she asked him what he wanted for Christmas. “Then after I unwrap the box, you could put it on.”
    â€œNot funny,” she’d said but had to swallow back a smile.
    â€œAnd you’re a liar.” They’d been alone at his cabin and he’d advanced on her, then kissed her and carried her into the bedroom.
    That had been a new and heart-racing experience. She’d never been petite and, though not fat, wasn’t small. Santana hadn’t seemed to notice as he’d hauled her over the threshold and tumbled with her onto the bed, then made love to her as if she were the only woman in the universe.
    Now, her blood pumped hot just to think of it.
    Which she wouldn’t. Not at work. Nor would she examine all her motives for not moving in with him. The invitation had been open for over a year, make that close to two, but she’d resisted, preferring to play it safe. Neither of her previous marriages had been perfect, so she wasn’t interested in falling head over heels in love again.
    Too late, her mind told her, but she sat down in her desk chair and turned her attention to her work. Secret Santa be damned; she needed to find out if Martin Zwolski was the most unlucky person on the planet, or if he was a cold-blooded murderer who was about to slip through the cracks.
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    The steeple bell was just striking the half hour as Brenda Sutherland hurried across the icy parking lot of the church. So it was eight thirty and Lorraine Mullins, the preacher’s wife, had promised that it wouldn’t run past eight. Promised.
    But then she hadn’t counted on Mildred Peeples going on and on about the costs of the new church. Mildred