The Dying Game Read Online Free PDF

sure and certain that nothing else would. During the nearly four years he had worked on this case, he had done his utmost to stay detached, as much as it was possible when a friend was involved. But both he, Sanders, and especially Lindsay had become borderline-obsessed with seeing justice done.
    After parking the rental car in the crowded visitors’ lot, Griff slipped on his leather gloves, tightened the silk scarf around his neck, and buttoned up his water-repellent overcoat. The harsh February wind bombarded him, chilling his face, and putting a giddyup in his step.
    At the information desk in the lobby area, he acquired instructions on reaching the ICU unit.
    As he stepped off the elevator, he unbuttoned his tan overcoat and unwrapped the scarf from his neck. He hated the sounds, smells, and sights in a hospital. Medicinal scents blended with the aroma of cleaning products and the stench of human sickness and death. Passing by patients’ rooms, he tried not to glance inside the open doors, tried to avoid viewing the weak, infirm, ill men and women. His avoidance came not from empathy, but from a lack of it, and Griff hated the phlegmatic elements in his nature that were so alien to his former self. A by-product of surviving at all costs , he surmised.
    When he entered the intensive care waiting room, a twelve-by-fourteen-foot, windowless cubbyhole filled with a small group of bleary-eyed, rumpled men and women, he removed his leather gloves and stuffed them into his overcoat pocket. A few of the people in the room appeared to have slept on the two brown vinyl sofas and in the mismatched collection of uncomfortable-looking vinyl chairs. An assortment of small pillows and blankets of various sizes and colors lay scattered about haphazardly on the furniture and the floor.
    Griff had no idea if Gale Ann Cain had a husband or siblings or parents besides her sister who might be here. The information Sanders had received had been sketchy, just a brief conversation with their government contact, an acquaintance of longstanding.
    Pausing in the open doorway, Griff scanned the area. Several people turned and stared at him; just as many others, engrossed in their own tragedies, ignored him completely.
    A woman sitting in the right back corner, deep in conversation with a lady who was sitting in a wheelchair, seemed to have sensed his presence. Her shoulders tensed. She sat up straight. After giving the other woman’s hand a gentle squeeze, she lifted her dark head and glanced over her shoulder.
    Damn! He should have known she’d be here. The bane of his existence, the thorn in his side when it came to the Beauty Queen Killer case.
    She rose from the chair to her full five-ten height and faced Griff. Frowning, her pale tan eyes narrowed and her nostrils slightly flared, Special Agent Nic Baxter walked toward him, her gaze never wavering.
    He stepped out into the hallway and waited for her. If there was going to be a confrontation—and there always was whenever they shared the same space—it was better for the two of them to exchange insults out of earshot of other people. Especially people with loved ones in the ICU.
    She followed him into the hall. They faced each other.
    “You’re not glad to see me,” Griff said.
    “I’m never glad to see you,” she replied.
    “I noticed you were doing some hand-holding. Is she the sister of Gale Ann Cain or just a friend?”
    “I can’t order you to leave, as much as I’d like to, but I can warn you not to interfere in my investigation.” She shook her finger in his face. “Sooner or later, I’ll find out who keeps tipping you off and when I do—”
    “Why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours that we’re on the same side?” Griff understood that federal agents could be territorial, that they often had to deal with inept local law enforcement and well-meaning civilians, but he was neither.
    “And why can’t you get it through your thick skull that tracking