Read Online Certain Prey by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Sandford
Ads: Link
Auschwitz. The next day, at noon, she looked right past the first passengers getting off the plane from Kansas City, looking for somebody who fit the assorted images she’d created in her mind. When Rinker’s voice came out of a well-dressed young woman with carefully coiffed blondover-blond hair and just a slight aristocratic touch of lipstick, Carmel jumped, startled. The woman was carrying a leather backpack, and was right at Carmel’s elbow.
“Hello?”
“What?”
Rinker grinned up at her. “Looking for somebody else?”
Carmel wagged her head once and said, “It’s you?”
“It’s me, honey. I checked a bag.”
As they started up the concourse, Carmel said, “God, you really don’t look like . . . you.”
“Well, what can I tell you?” Rinker said cheerfully. She looked past Carmel to her right, where a tall, tanned man was angling across the concourse to intercept them. “Carmel,” he said, dragging out the last syllable.
“James.” Carmel turned a cheek to be kissed, and after James kissed it, asked, “Where’re you off to?”
“Los Angeles . . . My God, you look like an athlete. I never suspected you had jeans or Nikes.” The guy was at least six-six and looked good, with a receding hairline; like an athletic Adlai Stevenson. He turned to Rinker and said, “And you’re cute as a button. I hope you’re not a raving leftwing feminist like Carmel.”
“I sometimes am,” Rinker said. “But you’re cute as a button your own self.”
The guy put one hand over his heart and said, “Oh my God, the accent. I think we should get married.”
“You’ve been married too often already, James,” Carmel said dryly. She took Rinker’s arm and said, “If we don’t keep moving, he’ll drown us in bullshit.”
“Carmel . . .”
Then they were past him and Rinker glanced back and said, “Nice-looking guy. What does he do?”
“He’s an accountant,” Carmel said.
“Hmm,” Rinker said. Carmel caught the tone of disappointment.
“But not a boring one,” Carmel said. “He stole almost four million dollars from a computer software company here.”
“Jesus.” Rinker glanced back again. “They caught him?”
“They narrowed it down to him—they figured out that he was the only one who could have pulled it off,” Carmel said. “He hired me to defend him, but he never seemed particularly worried. Eventually, the company came around and said if he gave the money back, they’d drop charges. He said that if they dropped charges, and apologized for the mistake, he’d tell them about the software glitch that they might want to patch up before their clients started getting ripped off, and they found themselves liable for a billion bucks or something.”
“They did it?”
“Took them aweek to agree,” Carmel said. “They hated to apologize—hated it. But they did it. Then he insisted on a contract that would pay him another half-million for isolating the bug. Said it was severance pay, and he deserved it. They eventually did that, too. I guess they got their money’s worth.”
Rinker shook her head: “Don’t people just work for money anymore?”
Carmel didn’t want to think about that question. Instead, she said, “Um, listen, what do I call you?”
“Pamela Stone,” Rinker said. “By the way, do you know how to get to South Washington County Park?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I’ll show you on a map,” Rinker said. “We gotta get my guns back. Can’t fly with them, you know.” C ARMEL KEPT looking at Rinker as they headed out of the airport to the parking ramp; looking for some sign that she could be an executioner for the mob. But Rinker wasn’t a monster. She was a chick, chattering away about the flight, about an airline-magazine article on body piercing, and about the Jaguar, as they pulled through the pay booths: “I drive a Chevy, myself.”
Carmel listened for a while and then Rinker put a hand on Carmel’s forearm and said, “Carmel,
“Hello?”
“What?”
Rinker grinned up at her. “Looking for somebody else?”
Carmel wagged her head once and said, “It’s you?”
“It’s me, honey. I checked a bag.”
As they started up the concourse, Carmel said, “God, you really don’t look like . . . you.”
“Well, what can I tell you?” Rinker said cheerfully. She looked past Carmel to her right, where a tall, tanned man was angling across the concourse to intercept them. “Carmel,” he said, dragging out the last syllable.
“James.” Carmel turned a cheek to be kissed, and after James kissed it, asked, “Where’re you off to?”
“Los Angeles . . . My God, you look like an athlete. I never suspected you had jeans or Nikes.” The guy was at least six-six and looked good, with a receding hairline; like an athletic Adlai Stevenson. He turned to Rinker and said, “And you’re cute as a button. I hope you’re not a raving leftwing feminist like Carmel.”
“I sometimes am,” Rinker said. “But you’re cute as a button your own self.”
The guy put one hand over his heart and said, “Oh my God, the accent. I think we should get married.”
“You’ve been married too often already, James,” Carmel said dryly. She took Rinker’s arm and said, “If we don’t keep moving, he’ll drown us in bullshit.”
“Carmel . . .”
Then they were past him and Rinker glanced back and said, “Nice-looking guy. What does he do?”
“He’s an accountant,” Carmel said.
“Hmm,” Rinker said. Carmel caught the tone of disappointment.
“But not a boring one,” Carmel said. “He stole almost four million dollars from a computer software company here.”
“Jesus.” Rinker glanced back again. “They caught him?”
“They narrowed it down to him—they figured out that he was the only one who could have pulled it off,” Carmel said. “He hired me to defend him, but he never seemed particularly worried. Eventually, the company came around and said if he gave the money back, they’d drop charges. He said that if they dropped charges, and apologized for the mistake, he’d tell them about the software glitch that they might want to patch up before their clients started getting ripped off, and they found themselves liable for a billion bucks or something.”
“They did it?”
“Took them aweek to agree,” Carmel said. “They hated to apologize—hated it. But they did it. Then he insisted on a contract that would pay him another half-million for isolating the bug. Said it was severance pay, and he deserved it. They eventually did that, too. I guess they got their money’s worth.”
Rinker shook her head: “Don’t people just work for money anymore?”
Carmel didn’t want to think about that question. Instead, she said, “Um, listen, what do I call you?”
“Pamela Stone,” Rinker said. “By the way, do you know how to get to South Washington County Park?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I’ll show you on a map,” Rinker said. “We gotta get my guns back. Can’t fly with them, you know.” C ARMEL KEPT looking at Rinker as they headed out of the airport to the parking ramp; looking for some sign that she could be an executioner for the mob. But Rinker wasn’t a monster. She was a chick, chattering away about the flight, about an airline-magazine article on body piercing, and about the Jaguar, as they pulled through the pay booths: “I drive a Chevy, myself.”
Carmel listened for a while and then Rinker put a hand on Carmel’s forearm and said, “Carmel,
Similar Books
