Catch Her If You Can Read Online Free PDF

looked wild-eyed and more like a shooter than a shootee.
    “Forensic specialists hope dental impressions and facial recognition software will identify the severed heads. In the meantime, the FBI’s regional office has made a tentative identification of the alleged shooter.”
    “That didn’t take long,” Dennis commented.
    My face disappeared and the camera cut to the El Paso Regional FBI Office. An all-too-familiar figure strode toward a bank of mikes.
    “Hey.” Dennis adjusted his Coke-bottle lenses for a closer look and shot me a quick glance. “Isn’t that your pal?”
    My stomach did a quick roll as Special Agent Paul Donati looked into the cameras. Pals we weren’t. Donati and I had locked horns on previous occasions when I mucked around in an official investigation. His words, not mine. I was completely innocent this time, but his eyes seemed to spear right through me as he issued a brief statement.
    “I can confirm that the FBI has made a tentative ID. We’re withholding that ID, however, pending notification of the next of kin.”
    Reporters peppered him with questions, but he had nothing more to add. I breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon, it turned out.
    “In what has to be one of the most bizarre aspects of an already bizarre incident,” Junior Reporter gushed when his cameraman cut back to him, “it appears the, um, body parts may have been nosed out by a robot.”
    “Oh, no!”
    My stomach took another plunge. So much for keeping Snoopy’s role in this incident away from the viewing public.
    Apparently DeWayne had pumped various residents of Dry Springs for detail. He’d also conducted an Internet search and nosed out Farmer Farnsworth’s website. I cringed as wild rumor gave way to even wilder speculation. And I knew I was in trouble when Junior Reporter described Snoop as a flesh-eating robot.
    “The implications are staggering,” he intoned, wide-eyed. “Just think of it. A vehicle that could feed on battlefield corpses and go forever.”
    Groaning, I dropped my head to the table and covered it with both arms. I guessed it was only a matter of hours, if not minutes, before my cell phone started pinging.
    I was right.
    The first call came from my studly Border Patrol agent. I’ve assigned him a special ringtone. It’s the theme from the Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western Hang ’Em High , which pretty well sums up what Mitch does for a living. His image popped into my head with the first few notes. Tall, rangy, with white squint lines at the corners of his hazel eyes. Those little lines crinkle when he grins, but I could tell from his response to my chirpy hello that he wasn’t smiling at the moment.
    “Jesus, Samantha! What have you gotten mixed up in now?”
    That seemed pretty unfair, seeing as Jeff Mitchell had figured prominently in my previous two encounters with persons of the dead variety. When I said so, however, he brushed my tart observation aside.
    “This has all the earmarks of a murder for hire. Don’t get any more involved than you already are. Let Paul Donati handle it.”
    “I intend to.”
    “I heard Sergeant Cassidy took a bullet. How’s he doing?”
    I glanced at Noel. Although his leg wound kept him out of the iron cage, he’d stripped down to his T-shirt, planted an elbow on the table, and was doing curls with a twenty-pound dumbbell while watching the news coverage.
    “Mitch wants to know how you’re doing.”
    Biceps bulging, he nodded. “Tell him I’m fine.”
    “He’s fine.”
    “Good. So when are you coming home?”
    “We should wrap things up Friday afternoon.”
    “I’ve got patrol Friday night.” Mitch’s gruff tone softened. “How about I swing by your place after debrief Saturday morning?”
    “Sounds good,” I replied as little shivers of anticipation danced down my spine.
    “I’ll see you then.”
    I spent a happy five minutes or so envisioning all kinds of matutinal delights. Did I mention that Mitch is really well toned?
    When my