Three Classic Thrillers Read Online Free PDF Page A

Most of the building is carpeted, but in a few spots the wood was not damaged. You’ll have the option of rugs and carpet when you get here.”
    “I like the wood. What about that rug?”
    “Some kind of antique Persian. I don’t know its history. The desk was used by his great-grandfather, who was a judge of some sort in Rhode Island, or so he says. He’s full of crap, and you never know when he’s blowing smoke.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Vacation, I think. Did they tell you about vacations?”
    “No.”
    “You get two weeks a year for the first five years. Paid, of course. Then three weeks until you become a partner, then you take whatever you want. The firm has a chalet in Vail, a cabin on a lake in Manitoba and two condos on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman Island. They’re free, but you need to book early. Partners get priority. After that it’s first come. The Caymans are extremely popular in the firm. It’s an international tax haven and a lot of our trips are written off. I think Milligan’s there now, probably scuba diving and calling it business.”
    Through one of his tax courses, Mitch had heard of the Cayman Islands and knew they were somewhere in the Caribbean. He started to ask exactly where, but decided to check it himself.
    “Only two weeks?” he asked.
    “Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”
    “No, not really. The firms in New York are offering at least three.” He spoke like a discriminating critic of expensive vacations. He wasn’t. Except for the three-day weekend they referred to as a honeymoon, and an occasional drive through New England, he had never participated in a vacation and had never left the country.
    “You can get an additional week, unpaid.”
    Mitch nodded as though this was acceptable. They left Milligan’s office and continued the tour. The hallway ran in a long rectangle with the attorneys’ offices to the outside, all with windows, sunlight, views. Those with views of the river were more prestigious, Lamar explained, and usually occupied by partners. There were waiting lists.
    The conference rooms, libraries and secretarial desks were on the inside of the hallway, away from the windows and distractions.
    The associates’ offices were smaller—fifteen by fifteen—but richly decorated and much more imposing than any associates’ offices he had seen in New York or Chicago. The firm spent a small fortune on design consultants, Lamar said. Money, it seemed, grew on trees. The younger lawyers were friendly and talkative and seemed to welcome the interruption. Most gave brief testimonials to the greatness of the firm and of Memphis. The old town kind of grows on you, they kept telling him, but it takes time. They, too, had been recruited by the big boys in Washington and on Wall Street, and they had no regrets.
    The partners were busier, but just as nice. He had been carefully selected, he was told again and again, and he would fit in. It was his kind of firm. They promised to talk more during lunch.
    An hour earlier, Kay Quin had left the kids with the baby nurse and the maid and met Abby for brunch at the Peabody. She was a small-town girl, much like Abby. She had married Lamar after college and lived in Nashville for three years while he studied law at Vanderbilt. Lamar made so much money she quitwork and had two babies in fourteen months. Now that she had retired and finished her childbearing, she spent most of her time with the garden club and the heart fund and the country club and the PTA and the church. Despite the money and the affluence, she was modest and unpretentious, and apparently determined to stay that way regardless of her husband’s success. Abby found a friend.
    After croissants and eggs Benedict, they sat in the lobby of the hotel, drinking coffee and watching the ducks swim in circles around the fountain. Kay had suggested a quick tour of Memphis with a late lunch near her home. Maybe some shopping.
    “Have they mentioned the low-interest loan?” she