Justice Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page B

taped to the wall near the computer display. A couple awards and degrees were hung unpretentiously.
    Hunter squeezed past the desk and sat at the black leather desk chair.
    “Let me just refresh my inbox,” he said as he clicked the mouse. Dillon stood in front of the bookshelf. He already had a bobblehead in hand, playing with the spring-action plastic head with fetish-like persistence. Hunter swiveled in the chair and faced Dillon. “What do you think he wants?”
    “God only knows.” Dillon rolled his eyes. Mancini was a bit of an enigma. Then Dillon had an idea. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. He’s got to give you some props for Mediacast. Just pray the sanctions thing doesn’t come up. And don’t bring it up, either. The dude’ll never find out. I guarantee it.”
    “You sound pretty confident.”
    “You’ll see.”
    “If you say so.”
    Then Hunter diverted his gaze momentarily.
    Dillon sensed something was wrong. “What is it, man?”
    “I lost. I just know it,” confessed Hunter.
    Dillon wrinkled his brow in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? Russo might be a prick, but he knows where his bread is buttered, if you know what I mean.”
    Hunter looked past him and let out an ironic laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”
    “Fuggetaboutit,” Dillon replied, doing his best Soprano-land accent.
    “Whatever happens, it’s a small price to pay for serious partnership contention.”
    “You think Russo knows about you and Judge Primeau?” Dillon asked.
    “I highly doubt it. She’s pretty discreet about that sort of thing.” Sheila wasn’t the type to kiss and tell, especially with a judgeship on the line.
    “But you can’t be positive?” cross-examined Dillon.
    “I’m telling you.”
    “You haven’t known her that long. I don’t care what you think.”
    “I guess you’re right,” he conceded.
    “Maybe some of those negative vibes you’re pickin’ up on are out of jealousy—i.e., the old coot’s got a hard-on for her and knows you’re bang…” Dillon caught himself, “…dating her.” The image of a naked Judge Russo chasing Sheila around the bedroom made Hunter queasy. “Look, the way I see it,” brainstormed Dillon, “if you want a guarantee, have Sheila talk to him…”
    “Are you nuts?”
    Dillon put the bobblehead back on the shelf, taking his cue. “Suit yourself.”
    He knows I’d never go down that road.
    As Dillon turned to leave, he offered an insincere, “Good luck” on his meeting with Mancini.

S EVEN
     
    L ess than twenty minutes later, Hunter was sitting across from the firm’s chairman, Al Mancini. They were in the palatial office, with a dictator-sized desk separating them. He’d only been in the Great One’s office one time before, and it was as intimidating as hell. The first time was during a tour after the big move to the new building. With the sun radiating against the looming towers of glass encasing the gargantuan corner space, it was like an obscenely large, flawless diamond on display for the masses to fawn over. It had infinite city views on two sides, a sleek, hotel-caliber seating area, and plasma displays forming a war room command-style center. An indoor putting green was buried in a deep recess of the room, entirely gratuitous.
    Mancini exuded a sense of calm as he eyed up his prey, reclining slightly into the ergonomically perfect Herman Miller chair. His white shirt was pressed flawlessly, with French cuffs and silver links. A shimmering silk, royal blue tie screamed power. His hair was closely cropped and his features large. Mancini, with a face vaguely reminiscent of Mickey Rourke’s, was in his late forties and attractive in a rugged sort of way. Piercing blue eyes scanned the contents of a file he held casually in one hand.
    Mancini dropped the folder and glanced up with the poise and stealth of a rattlesnake. The smile, revealing a crooked front tooth, was sedate and powerful. “Thanks for meeting me on such short