The Tin Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

blouse was silk and semi-sheer and her nipples were hard.
    “Take a picture,” she said with an edge. “It’ll last longer.”
    His heart jolted when he saw it was Dorothea Hamilton, a.k.a. “the ball buster.”
    “Got a minute?”
    “I was, erm, just leaving, actually,” he stammered, face tingling. She looked the same. A little older, sure, but otherwise the same.
    “Mind if I walk with you for a ways? I’m on a tight deadline.”
    S he was here to cover the shootings? How odd. Last he’d heard, she’d been moved to the investigative desk. Not that he kept up with what she was doing. He honestly didn’t give a rat’s arse about Dorothea Hamilton. But journalists were a gossipy lot, so word got around.
    “Are you covering crime again?” he asked.
    “N o,” she said, shrugging, “the media murders.”
    Buchanan stiffened. He hadn’t until that moment considered there might be a connection between this and Malcolm Connolly’s murder.
    “I’m sorry about your—well, what happened.”
    “Right .” He swallowed hard. “Me, too.”
    “ Are you up to answering a few questions?”
    “ Honestly, Thea”—he stepped past her into the lobby—“there’s not much to tell.”
    “ Still.” She stayed hard on his heels, pen and notepad at the ready. “I need a couple of quotes.”
    He shrugged. “Like I told the police, I popped out for a few to get a coffee. When I returned, I found them all dead.”
    “Were they marked? Like the others?”
    They hadn’t been, but it was possible the gunman didn’t have time. “Not that I noticed.”
    “My editor says you had a run-in with the gunman . What happened? Can you describe him?”
    “M edium height, medium build, black clothes, black shoes, black ski mask.” He forced a grin. “No need to call in a sketch artist, eh?”
    As s he was writing all this down, he pushed through the exterior door, hoping she wouldn’t follow. But she did, damn her. When she was halfway through, he rounded on her. He didn’t need her following him like a stray dog. He wanted to be alone, to have a few drinks and lick his wounds.
    She held out her card. “If you think of anything, will you call me?”
    “Sure thing .”
    Forcing another smile, he plucked the card from her fingers before lifting his gaze to her face. Their eyes met, quickening his pulse. Damn, but she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that took a man’s breath away. Too bad she was such a ball buster. Looking away, he stuffed the card in his pocket without the slightest intention of using it.
    “Listen, Buchanan,” she started, “about that night—I might have come on a little strong.”
    “ Aye, well.” He shifted uneasily. “It’s all water under the bridge now, eh?”
    “Sure,” she said, still holding the door. “And again, I just want to say —”
    “Look, Thea,” he said, cutting her off. “Do you mind? I’m still a bit shaken up by all of this—on top of which, I’m dying for a smoke.” He coughed a bitter laugh. “And I’m well aware of your views on that subject.”
    She flinched. Good. She deserved to have her self-righteousness thrown back in her face.
    “I’m really sorry,” she said. “About the way I acted. That’s all I wanted to say.”
    “Apology accepted ,” he grumbled. “Now can I go?”
    A n awkward few moments of silence followed before she withdrew her arm and stepped back. The door closed between them. He spun around, set his free hand on the grip of his Glock, and hobbled off in the direction of his regular watering hole.
     
    * * * *
     
    Three miles away, two armed men in a black Lincoln Town Car were cruising a subterranean parking garage, arguing over what kind of vehicle to commandeer next. Ibrahim Sahid, the driver, wanted a generic sedan that would not attract notice, while Khalid Al-Jaafari favored something with serious horsepower under the hood, having long been a fan of American muscle cars.
    “Remember that Pontiac Firebird I drove when