Every Move She Makes Read Online Free PDF

I'd attempted to pick up the pieces of my life. For the several seconds that I watched him in the mirror, I told myself that I was fine. And I was, until he looked up, the reflection of his jet gaze locking with mine. At forty-two, Paolini had dark hair and a Mediterranean complexion, giving him an air of mystery that only added to his looks. I recalled having been attracted to him during my assignment, something I'm sure he also felt. The knowledge of his crimes, and my good sense, however, gave me the advantage and kept me on the straight and narrow. I remember wondering at his arrest if he felt that I'd betrayed him. After I was shot, I was certain that he had. Not that it mattered now, I thought, as he nodded and lifted his water glass in a mock toast. Sitting opposite Paolini was a man of similar coloring, at least from the back. I couldn't see his face and was curious as to his identity. "Who's that with him?" I asked, ignoring Paolini completely.
     
    "Antonio Foust."
     
    "Hail, hail, the gang's all here." I dropped my gaze, turning my attention back to Reid. Foust was reputed to be Paolini's hit man, the suspected shooter in my case.
     
    "You want to go somewhere else?"
     
    "No. I'm fine." And I meant it. I was not going to let Paolini run my life. I bit into the bread, focused on the delicate crunch, the melted butter, not the man sitting behind me. Reid eyed me for a moment, as if making sure I could handle the stress of being in the same room as Paolini. "Where's Scolari?" he suddenly asked. "I've probably left him half a dozen messages since Friday on the Soma Slasher cases."
     
    "Called in sick."
     
    "You say that like you think something else is up." Reid wasn't stupid.
    I still didn't want to voice my concerns about Scolari, but he'd suspect something if I brushed him off completely. "Have you ever known him to call in sick?" "Maybe it's stress," he suggested. "Between his divorce and the fifteen-hour days you've both been putting in working the Slasher cases, who can blame him for calling in sick? Give him a couple of days." "You're probably right," I said, though I wasn't convinced this was something that would pass. Not after the strange conversation I'd just had with Scolari's wife. Even so, I managed to guide the subject to more neutral topics, Paolini not included. By the time we finished our meal, he and Foust had already left. At precisely six that evening, I paged Scolari from the office, and typed in a message about the seeds as a ruse to check on him. I was curious as well as concerned.
    How could I not be? Unable to shake the image of him committing suicide, I told him I was coming over to discuss the case before he left to meet his wife. I hoped he was at his apartment, and figured he'd have to come back sometime to change. It was raining, and as I drove, my windshield wipers kept beat to the steady downpour, like dual metronomes. About halfway to Scolari's my pager went off. Certain it was from him, I pulled it from my belt and read the message. HOMICIDE, SACPAMEN-RO
    ST. RESPOND CODE -two.)?
     
    I called dispatch and got the address. Right on the edge of Chinatown.
     
    I pulled up to the scene about fifteen minutes later. Several marked units had the roads blocked off, their emergency lights flashing blue and red, their strobes making the raindrops appear frozen in place each instant the white lights flashed. I put on a hooded raincoat I kept in my trunk for just such occasions, and I parked my vehicle about a block away, behind several radio cars and in front of a dark-colored sedan with a smashed headlight on the driver's side. The antenna on top gave it away as an undercover cop car. I didn't recognize the car as belonging to anyone in Homicide. I showed my star to the officer on the perimeter. I'd seen him around the Hall, but didn't know him. "Who's the OIC?" I asked. "Majors," he said. He nodded toward a parking lot on the corner, lit up with police cruiser spotlights. About half a