The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

clenched and unclenched. He started up the aisle.
    I met him halfway. “Hey,” I said.
    He kept going. “Hey.”
    “What’s happening?”
    He said nothing, continuing toward the exit. When he reached the walkway that circles the lower stands, he stopped, again looking around.
    “Tell me what’s going on,” I said.
    He surveyed the scene again, then turned to me. His eyes were wide. “Sitting there in the second row,” he said. “It was her.”

Five
    I walked with him as he wandered the arena, and when it was virtually empty, in the concourse, and when that was nearly deserted, in a couple of parking lots. I didn’t say anything, other than, “Watch it,” when he was about to step off the curb in front of a car.
    Finally he stopped, standing among a slowly clearing mass of vehicles. “You think I’m crazy,” he said.
    I shrugged. “What are the chances?”
    “It was her.”
    “Mike.” I moved closer. “You were a hundred yards away.”
    “The binocs are really powerful. It was her.”
    I didn’t bother mentioning that somewhere in his mad dash he’d lost those powerful binoculars.
    “I mean, her hair was different. But it was her.”
    “It was someone who looked like her.”
    “How do you know? You’ve never seen her.”
    “True enough. But answer me this. If it was her—if she somehow got out of China after four-plus years and has returned to L.A.—why didn’t you know about it?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe she lost her memory.”
    “You really believe that?”
    He turned away, seeming to study the oversized paintings of Shaq and Kobe and another African-American giant that graced the side of a nearby building.
    “Mike?”
    He took a couple of deep breaths. “Old guy like me shouldn’t be running around like that.”
    “Answer the question.”
    “I saw her. I know I did.” His attention swung back to me. “Help me find her.”
    “If she was here, she’s probably—”
    “She was here.”
    “
If
she was here, she’s on the freeway by now.”
    “I know. I didn’t mean, help me find her here. I meant, help me find out where she is.”
    “But—”
    “You’re good at that kind of thing. You found Toby Bonner.”
    I had, in the version he heard. “Actually, I didn’t.”
    “You said—”
    “I know what I said.”
    “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’re good at looking.”
    “Mike—”
    “Come on, man. Do a friend a favor.”
    This, I thought, could lead to nothing but trouble. And trouble wasn’t supposed to be my business.
    I looked in his eyes. They reminded me of a basset hound I once knew. “Okay, man,” I said. “I’ll help you look.”
     
    Gina was asleep when I got in, and I had to get up early in the morning to shoot the herpes commercial, so I didn’t get to tell her about the excitement at Staples.
    Or, of course, about anything else. It was getting easier by the day to believe I’d imagined the scene at Dennis Lennox’s place.
    The commercial shoot was way up I-5, off the Grapevine in a meadow only yards from land scalded during the big fires in October. It consisted of shots of three women and three men, individually at the beginning before they knew about Lidovec, in couples after they’d made the wonderful discovery. There was a pretty young white couple, a pretty young black couple, and an older pair, to cover the audience who’d gotten herpes back in the free love days.
    My fake wife was named Roberta Salkind. I’d worked with her before. She was one of those people who join each new human-potential movement, convinced they’ve finally found the thing that will turn their lives around. Her latest discovery was something called Ambiance. As far as I could tell it wasn’t any different from est or Lifespring or Scientology or any of the others. It was led, she told me, by a man named Ike Sunemori, and to hear her tell it he was God’s gift to the human race. I got this picture of a bald old general in my head, and after that I took her even