3rd Degree by James Patterson, Andrew Gross Read Free Book Online

while he dropped the poorest individual accounts and highest risks from his enrollment. One hundred forty thousand families out of the plan, and all of it accretive to the bottom line!
    Mimi came back from the powder room, and she looked better than ever. George handed her a glass.
    “To you,” he said. “Well, to both of us. To tonight.”
    “To Hopewell.” Mimi flashed a smile and clinked glasses.
    “Hey, want to try something?” She put her hand on his wrist. “This is guaranteed to make your projections rock-solid firm.” She produced a vial from her purse. “Just stick out your tongue.”
    George did as he was told, and she dribbled out two drops.
    Bitter. The taste was so sharp, it almost made him jump. “Can't they make these things in cherry flavor?”
    “One more.” Her smile was dazzling. “Just to make sure you're ready for me. For us.”
    George stuck out his tongue again. His heart was beating out of control.
    Mimi dribbled out another drop. Then her smile changed. Colder. She squeezed him by the cheeks, turned the entire vial upside down.
    George's mouth filled with the liquid. He tried to spit it out, but she threw his head back and he swallowed. His eyes popped. “What the hell?”
    “It's toxic,” Mimi said, tossing the empty vial back into her purse. “Very special poison for a very special guy. The first drop would be enough to kill you in a few hours. You just swallowed enough to waste San Francisco.”
    George's champagne glass dropped and shattered on the floor. He tried to spit the ingested liquid back out. This bitch must be insane. She must be screwing with him. But then a violent pain shook his abdomen.
    “This is from all those people you've spent your life fuck-ing, Mr. Bengosian. No one you've ever met, just families who had no choice in life but to count on you. On Hopewell. Felicia Brown? She died of treatable melanoma. Thomas Ortiz? Name ring a bell? It would to your risk-management team. He shot himself trying to pay off his son's brain tumor. We call it `cleaning the coffers.' Isn't that what you say, Mr. B?”
    Suddenly his stomach began to wrench. A viscous froth built up in his mouth. He spit it out, all over his shirt, but it was as if sharp, clawing angers were tearing at the lining of his gut. He knew what was taking place. Pulmonary edema. Instant organ failure. Yell for help, he told himself. Get to the door. But his legs gave out, crumbling beneath him.
    Mimi was standing there, watching him with a mocking grin. He reached out in her direction. He wanted to hit her, squeeze her throat, crush the life out of her. But he couldn't move.
    “Please...” This was no joke.
    She knelt over him. “How does it feel to have your coffers cleaned, Mr. Bengosian? Now be a dear and open your mouth one more time. Open wide!”
    With all his might George tried to suck air into his lungs, but there was nothing. His jaw fell open. His tongue had swelled to a monstrous size. Mimi held a blue piece of paper in front of his face. At least he thought it was blue - but his eyes were refractive and glassy and weren't registering colors very well. In the blurry outline he saw Hopewell's logo.
    She crumpled the paper into a ball and shoved it in his mouth. “Thanks for thinking of Hopewell, but as the form says, coverage is denied!”

Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 25
    MY CELL PHONE was beeping.
    It was the middle of the night. I shot up and blinked at the clock. Shit, 4 A.M.
    Groggily, I fumbled for the phone, trying to read the num-ber on the screen. It was Paul Chin's. “Hey, Paul, what's going on?” I mumbled.
    “Sorry, LT, I'm at the Clift Hotel. I'm thinking you better come on down.”
    “You find something?” A four-in-the-morning question? Four-in-the-morning calls meant only one thing.
    “Yeah. I think the Lightower bombing just got a bit more complicated.”
    Eight minutes later - jeans and a tank thrown on, and a few purposeful brushes through my hair - I was