Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

gave Danny an awkward hug that perhaps intentionally thrust her breasts into his chin. “Long time no see, stranger.”
    “True story.”
    “Everything good?” Ailia asked unflinchingly.
    “For a guy who just spent fourteen months in Club Fed, you mean?”
    “I don’t care where you’ve been, Danny. It’s good to see you, is all. You look good.”
    “And you.”
    “So…Ailia…” Patrick said. “Tell us about London.”
    “We didn’t go, as it turns out. Stu got hung up with some deal. Surprise.”
    “You’ve been here…all along?” Patrick asked. Danny was suprised by the obvious disappointment on his brother’s face.
    “We knew you’d be busy preparing for the conference. Looks like a great one, by the way. Elizabeth Shaler! You waited long enough to announce that!”
    Patrick reached for a chair from an empty table. Ailia waved away the offer.
    “I’d love to, but I can’t stay. Stu’s waiting.” She leaned into Danny a second time and pecked him on the cheek. “See you tonight, I hope,” she whispered.
    She gave Patrick an air kiss. “Looking forward to tonight,” and hurried off.
    Both men tracked her through the tables.
    “Don’t go there,” Patrick cautioned. “You’re damn lucky Stu never found out about you two the first time.”
    “Who said he didn’t?”
    “Stu is many things but charitable is not one of them. Nor is he forgiving.”
    “I thought the whole town knew.”
    “Apparently not.”
    Patrick flagged a busboy. “We’ll take the check.”
    The scrawny kid turned around and clearly recognized him. “Ah…yes, sir.” He lingered a little longer. “You’re Mr. Cutter, right?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “I’m all over the G-six.” He patted his pocket.
    “Did you opt for multiplayer?” Patrick asked.
    “It’s bitchin’.”
    “Kevin?” Cristina, the proprietor, called from the next table. She’d overheard.
    “Check,” Kevin said to her, spinning around to tend to the vacated table.
    Danny asked his brother, “The G-six?”
    “A gaming cell phone. Multiuser over EVDO—high-speed wireless. Teens are our fastest-growing market.”
    “You never stop.”
    Patrick took it as a compliment.
    “You really think the pink doesn’t work?”

Eleven
    W ith the contact lenses removed, his full vision restored, Milav Trevalian studied the mirrored reflection of Rafe Nagler. The corners of his lips twisted up, stretching the theatrical facial hair glued to his face, a grin of satisfaction for having made it through the loss of the dog.
    Ricky was no prop; he needed the dog. He’d also left his backpack behind, a calculated risk necessitated by the incompetence of the airline. The Brasilia’s lack of overhead baggage space had required all passengers to gate-check their carry-ons. But either the Salt Lake or Sun Valley ground crews had mixed it in with the checked baggage. When it failed to appear on the pickup cart, Trevalian had lost his temper, quickly changing horses and directing his rage at the baggage handlers. With the unexpected loss of the dog, and the sheriff all over him, he’d feared trying to recover the backpack. This, because he couldn’t be sure if he hadn’t left an old airline identity tag attached to it. With the opaque contacts in place, making him truly blind (he carried two sets, one translucent), he hadn’t been able to see if there was a tag there or not. He couldn’t afford close scrutiny so the bag and its contents had been left behind.
    Trevalian unpacked Nagler’s suitcase, tried on the unfamiliar clothes, and discovered the dead man’s shirts fit fine; the pants, though big in the waist, could be made to work with the help of a belt. He noticed small bumps of thread had been sewn into tight knots on the insides of the back pockets of the pants—Braille-like personal codes allowing Nagler to determine color. He found the same hand-sewn bumps on the shirttails, and also on the socks.
    He unpacked the man’s clothes into the dresser