Read Online Smash Cut by Sandra Brown - Free Book Online Page A

leads but emphasizing the department’s determination to capture the culprit. “Mr. Wheeler’s assailant will be brought to justice,” the detective pledged while his partner, Roberta Kimball, stood at his side. The top of her head didn’t even reach Sanford’s shoulder, but her demeanor was equally resolute.
The two halves of the partnership were comically mismatched, but together they made a formidable pair. It flitted through Derek’s exhausted mind that, if he was a criminal on the lam, he wouldn’t want these two on his tail.
Back to the anchorwoman. “Julie Rutledge, a close personal friend of Mr. Wheeler who was with him when he was fatally shot, met with investigators again this afternoon. Following that meeting, she had this to say.”
Cut to the exterior of the police department, where a woman exiting the building was swarmed by reporters, all poking microphones and hurling questions as the camera zoomed in for a close-up.
Derek came off the bed so suddenly that Maggie leaped to her feet and gave two sharp barks.
He paused the picture, then dropped the remote. It landed hard and painfully on his big toe. Naked, hands on hips, he gaped at the frozen image on his TV screen. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, made three tight circles in the center of his bedroom floor, and slammed his fist into his opposite palm.
“Son of a bitch!”

    CHAPTER
6

JULIE TURNED OFF THE FAUCETS AND SQUEEZED THE WATER FROM her hair, then stepped from the shower and reached for a towel. The mirror above the sink was foggy, but she could still see a ghostly reflection of herself. Her eyes, however, seemed sharp-focused with reproach.
To escape that self-incrimination, she buried her face in the towel. But the attempt to hide her shame, even from herself, was futile. Would she ever be able to look at herself in the mirror again?
Yes, she would. She must. It was too late for second-guessing. She dried quickly and put on a pair of pajamas. In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of orange juice and carried it into her bedroom. Settling onto her bed, she picked up the phone and called the gallery.
“Chez Jean. How can I help you?”
“Are you trying to impress me by working late?”
“Hey, you’re back! How was your trip? Was Paris fabulous?”
To their clients, she was Katherine Fields. To Julie she was Kate. When she answered the gallery telephone, the caller would swear she was French. Her pronunciation of the gallery name—a holdover from the previous owner, from whom Julie had bought the business—was perfect. But when in conversation with Julie, Kate lapsed into her native Georgian accent. She had a natural exuber ance that bubbled out of her lanky frame like foam from a bottle of champagne.
At twenty-five, almost a decade younger than Julie, Kate held dual degrees in French and art history. The clientele adored her, not only for her sense of style and natural charm but also because she was knowledgeable beyond her years. They trusted her opinion, as they should.
“Yes, I’m back,” Julie said. “Why are you open late?”
“I’m not. The door is locked. I was straightening up the back room, about to leave. But tell me about your trip. How was Paris?”
“Lovely as always, although I didn’t see much of it.”
“I told you you weren’t staying long enough.”
“I accomplished what I went for.”
“You bought the painting?”
That had been the pretext of her sudden trip. “I did. And two others by the same artist. We’re the first gallery in the States to feature his work, and he came by my hotel to thank me personally. He covered my hands with kisses. Very effusive. Very French.”
“Cute?”
“In that effete, Euro-male sort of way.”
“Hmm. Not my type,” Kate said with regret.
“The paintings are being shipped. We should receive them next week.”
“I’ll get on the phone tomorrow and put out the word.”
“Good idea. I’ll be there in the morning.”
“Sleep in,” Kate said. “Your turnaround was so quick, you must have jet lag. Did you sleep