Don't Lose Her by Jonathon King Read Free Book Online

again, straining to hear the breathing sounds she’d heard before. How big was this room? Had he moved far enough away to keep her from hearing him breathe?
    â€œPlease,” she said. Her throat was parched and tight from anxiety, and her plea came out as a grainy whisper: “Please.”
    She heard the floorboards creak, once, twice, a third time—and then it stopped. She tilted her head up as if she could see the figure approaching even though the hood was opaque.
    When she felt something against the bottom of her chin, her first reaction was to pull away, to buck at the touch. But no violence followed—only the damned silence. She took four breaths and then leaned forward again. After a beat, she felt pressure under her chin, followed by the feeling of something poking and then sliding up under the hood: not a finger but a straw. The sharp edge of a plastic straw rubbed at the bottom of her chin until she managed to maneuver it into her mouth and suck on it, bringing the liquid into her mouth. Coca-Cola, strong and syrupy, flowed.
    She hadn’t been a Coke drinker since her youth, but the coolness of it and the slight carbonation were like rushes of fresh air. She took in more of it, knowing that in the long run the sugar and caffeine would help keep her alert and partially energized. She leaned into it and tilted her head down, thinking she might use the lift of the straw against the fabric of the hood so that she could peek a glance at the floor or bed. But suddenly, she felt a push against her forehead as she was forced back. The straw was pulled harshly out and straight down. Again, Diane heard the floorboards; he’d stepped back.
    She let the silence go on for three beats and then said: “Thank you. You are very kind.”

Chapter 9
    W aiting for something to happen is the most difficult part of organized law enforcement, and it was one reason I was glad to be out of it. The feds in Diane’s office were ordering in more coffee. Billy was working his sources on the computer. Everyone in the room was waiting for one thing: the bleating of the phone and the call that would make some form of ransom demand for Diane’s life.
    With the exception of a few nutcases out there, criminality is a simple, logical outgrowth of human need: greed, retribution, sexual gratification, power.
    The odds were stacked against the possibility that three maniacs would mistakenly sweep a sitting judge off the streets in the middle of the day. The fact that they were smart enough to ditch her phone and credit cards and cash meant they weren’t run-of-the-mill idiots. They had another motivation, and the FBI glommed onto the answer that Diane’s involvement in the Escalante case was that motive. I shared their supposition, but I couldn’t just sit and wait for the next step to be dictated by the other side.
    With Billy’s approval, I left the courthouse and went to the main branch of American in downtown West Palm Beach.
    Inside the lobby, I asked for Mr. Armistead as Billy had instructed and was quickly met by a man in his late fifties with the kind of combed-back gray hair that was gelled into minute, perfect rows leading from a high forehead to the perfectly clipped back of his neck. He had a weak chin, which he tried to hide with one of those macho mustache-and-beard combinations they call door-knockers.
    Still, he was wearing an expensive suit and had a ring on his right hand that probably indicated the graduating class of some Ivy League university. But after adjusting my handshake to avoid the ring’s bulk, I didn’t give it another thought.
    â€œMr. Freeman,” Armistead said, and with a come-this-way gesture he led me to a corner office, which I quickly surmised was not his private one but an open affair any bank officer could use on the fly.
    The art on the wall was a Florida watercolor of swaying palms and white-capped ocean and taupe beaches. There were no personal