Death of a Bankster Read Online Free PDF Page A

seduction outfit.”
    “No. No. A great lay will take a man’s mind off anything. Men don’t multi-task well, they can’t use their big heads while they’re using their little heads. You get after it, girl. Pour it on. Strut your stuff.” Carla bobbed her head. “You make ‘im beg for it, honey.”
    “But he’s been downsized.”
    “Listen to me. You look hot in that outfit, beyond hot. Take his mind off being downsized, whatever the hell that means. Tonight is about you getting him up-sized. And that pun is intended.”

Chapter 4
    Two margaritas later, the front door opened. Paige and Carla looked up to see Paige’s husband, Sam, standing on the porch. He turned toward the street and looked back at the cab pulling away from the curb. The hot night air danced through a mesquite tree growing on Sam's side of the streetlamp, the swaying branches tossing shadows across the pavement.
    Carla stood. “Don’t close the door Sam; I’ve got to be going.”
    Sam stepped up into the house. Then he fell forward. His face hit the floor. Hard. His right pant leg twisted and pushed partway up as he fell. One foot hung back over the sill, suspended out into the night air, a strip of exposed white skin cooling above his sock.
    The two women stood still, looking at each other, and then ran toward Sam. They stopped when a pool of blood began flowing toward them. The tiny red stream flowed unevenly along the grout lines of the diagonally laid slate tile entryway, like a miniature desert wash in a flash rain.
    Paige screamed.
    Carla grabbed Paige by the shoulders. “Let me look.” Carla moved Sam’s legs far enough to let her close the door. She bent down and put the inside of the pads of her index and middle finger against Sam’s throat, below his jawline. After a brief period, Carla stood and went to Paige. “Sam’s been shot in the back of the head. I’m sorry, honey. He’s dead.”
    Carla didn’t let go of Paige until she stopped crying. “Do you want me to call the police?”
    “Would you, Carla. I need to go upstairs and change. I can’t have the cops see me wearing this. She spread her hands and looked down. I feel silly in … why am I worried about this now?”
    Carla gently wiped her thumb across a tear path on Paige’s cheek. Then she reached for the phone. A sudden noise turned both women toward the door. Toward the voice of a man who had opened the door without knocking.
    He stepped inside. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping over Sam’s legs. Paige snatched her robe closed and fastened the tie. “I’m with the FBI,” he said, “Special Agent in Charge, Dennis Powell.”
    “How did you know this had happened?” Carla asked. “So quickly?”
    “I’m sorry,” he said, “you are?”
    “This is Paige Crawford. That’s her husband,” Carla pointed back toward the front door, “Sam Crawford. I’m her friend, her neighbor, Carla Roth. I’m a registered nurse. I checked. Sam is dead. Now how did you get here so fast? How did you know Sam had been shot?”
    “This is Special Agent Ann Withers, Ms. Roth. We’ve had Mr. Crawford under surveillance for some time. I followed him home from the airport. Agent Withers had the house under surveillance.”
    “You had my home under surveillance?” Paige asked. She leaned one hand against the sofa table that sat along the wall not far from the door, on the other side of the stream of her husband’s blood. Her first words since the agents came into her home. “What does that mean? Why would you be watching my house? I expect an explanation, Agent … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
    “Agent Powell, Ma’am. I can’t give you all the details, but you are entitled to an answer. We have had your husband under investigation for some months.”
    “Under investigation? For what?”
    “Your husband is suspected of money laundering, Mrs. Crawford.”
    Is that what Sam has been up to? How he’s been getting all that extra money?
    Another voice