If Looks Could Kill Read Online Free PDF

coming down to Key West liked to have a drink at Sloppy Joe’s, famous as an Ernest Hemingway hangout, but they were equally anxious to fit in with the modern so-called “literary” crowd, which could include just about anyone. Jordan Adair wrote gritty suspense; his friends included mystery writers, true-crime writers, sci-fi and romance writers, those who dealt in history, in general fiction, in nonfiction—and those who were just so famous they could write books that would sell just because they were who they were. Along with the literary crowd, the place offered music—and the music was as varied as the clientele.
    Jordan was not only cozy with the attorneys, cops and pathologists he consulted for his work, he was also friends with the film crowd, since a number of his books had been adapted for the screen. Tourists loved to flock here just to see who they could see, with the assurance that—should the crowd be quiet—the music would be good. At the moment, it was late afternoon, and a technician was just finishing fussing with the wires to one of the microphones.
    Today, some of those who wanted to be seen were out. A young starlet with an entourage of bodybuilders was at the bar, drawing her share of attention from the tourists, as was Niall Hathaway, author of the latest publishing phenomenon, a hardcover about a priest brought back from a coma through the prayers of his congregation—and dreams about a life with the woman he had once loved and would love again. The book had been on the hardcover bestseller lists for over a year now; the movie rights had gone for well over a million dollars. Didn’t matter. The old guy just wanted to take his newfound wealth and go fishing. Key West was a good place to get on a boat with a rod and a few knowledgeable fishermen.
    Kyle wanted to get out on a boat, as well. He wanted to get into the water, fish, dive. Lie back, crisp himself in the sun, drink beer in the breezy heat that usually fell over the water here. And he would. He didn’t have his own boat anymore, but Jordan had told him that the Ibis was his for the length of his stay, however long it might be. He hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to Roger yet; he hadn’t had much of a chance to do anything. He’d just arrived via a commuter flight through Miami International from Washington National, and it felt good just to sit in Jordan’s tavern. Key West wasn’t exactly home, but it was certainly home away from home. It was a good break before starting out in Miami with the local boys from Metro-Dade and Miami. He’d already done some preliminaries, but the Miami authorities had just turned to the FBI, so they were in the early stages of an investigation into what appeared to be a serial crime spree.
    Odd, how life moved along—and it did move along. His memories of Fallon still hurt, but the pain was like that of an old knee injury; the flesh had healed over, but the joint would never be quite the same. Still, enough time had passed that he could smile now and then, thinking about her, and recollections of good times, of her smile, mingled with the pain, and sometimes it was okay. Still, it hadn’t been the tragedy of Fallon’s passing that influenced his life most strongly.
    Lainie’s death had charted the path his life would take. In coming to terms with what had happened then, he had come to believe that only justice could make things better, could ease the pain her horrible death had brought to her family. Not to mention the fact that his father had been suspected of murder, just as Jordan Adair had been. Following the cops and the lawyers around, he’d been horrified to discover just how hard it could be to catch a killer. Crimes of violence fell into two categories: crimes of passion against loved ones, friends or acquaintances; and then the crimes that were growing alarmingly more frequent as time went along—crimes of random