Catch Her If You Can Read Online Free PDF Page B

cell phone jangled again, one glance at caller ID wiped every salacious thought from my mind. Swallowing, I hit answer.
    “Hi, Paul.” As in Special Agent Donati. “I just saw you on Channel Six. Have you really made a tentative ID?”
    “The alleged shooter is Victor Duarte. We’ve withheld his identity . . .”
    “Pending next of kin,” I supplied helpfully.
    “The bastard has no next of kin. None that we’ve turned up, anyway. We held back his ID to give us time to try to track his movements until he showed up in Dry Springs.”
    “Have you?”
    “Not yet.” He paused a moment. “This guy’s a real badass, Samantha. A contract killer.”
    “That’s what Mitch guessed.”
    “Mitch got it right.” Another pause, followed by a terse question. “Have you checked the FBI’s Most Wanted website lately?”
    “I didn’t know you had a Most Wanted website.”
    “We do. You might want to take a look at it.”
    “Because . . . ?”
    “Because Duarte is number two on our list. The FBI is offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to his capture and/or arrest.”
    “What!”
    My mind spun like the wheels of the slot machines at my prior place of employment
    “Capture?” I squeaked out, seeking clarification. “Does that mean, um, dead or alive?”
    “Dead or alive.”
    Dollar signs flashed in front of my eyes. Mesmerized, I was envisioning all the ways I could stimulate the economy, when reality set in.
    “You do know Pancho was the one who took him down, don’t you?”
    “Pancho claims he wouldn’t have fired if you and Sergeant Cassidy hadn’t flushed the bastard out. Far as I know, the reward is yours to split however you three work it out.”
    The dollar signs lit up again. In avocado-toned neon this time!
    Let me insert a small caveat here. I don’t consider myself particularly materialistic. I’m very content in my small El Paso apartment. I drive a relatively new Sebring convertible. It used to be bright and shiny and undented until I deliberately rammed the vehicle of a bad guy trying to make a getaway a few months back. That, sadly, eliminated its new-car aura, but it’s been repaired and can still go from zero to sixty in mere seconds. And since I spend most of my waking hours in uniform, I don’t need a closet full of expensive finery.
    Although . . .
    If I had a big wad of dollars to blow, I might just splurge on several pairs of Stuart Weitzmans or Kate Spades. After clumping around in combat boots all day, I usually go the flip-flop route. Some really expensive, really girly footwear would make for a nice change.
    I might also lipo-suck away the teeny-weeny dimples I recently discovered on my thighs. How and when they got there is a total mystery. Just a little over eighteen months ago I was collecting major tips while prancing around in a short skirt and ruffled panties that showed off firm, un-dimpled thighs. But I hit the big three-oh some months ago. Now I avoid looking at my lower extremities in a mirror whenever possible.
    Once restored to my former sleekness, I mused, I might just whisk Mitch off for a week or two in one of those luxurious Tahitian over-the-water bungalows I saw recently on the Travel Channel. Best I recall, they went for around eighteen hundred a night, plus change.
    Lets see. Ten or twelve nights at eighteen hundred bucks. That came to . . .
    Special Agent Donati broke into my happy calculations. “You need to be careful, Samantha. Duarte was a real slime. Whoever hired him to make these hits falls into the same category.”
    That was one way to bring me back to earth. Pancho laid another on me when I called him right after Donati and I disconnected.
    “Did you catch the news?”
    “No.”
    A rattle of glass punctuated his reply. Empty beer bottles, I guessed. Or Pen’s rose-covered teapot. The mental image that conjured up almost made me forget why I’d called.
    “I suppose we were the lead story,” Pancho commented, pulling me