Read Online Windfall by Rachel Caine - Free Book Online

Gran-and-Gramps-do-Florida RVs, and came at it from the passenger side.
    I knocked on the dark-tinted window. After a few silent seconds, a motor whirred and the glass glided down.
    I didn’t recognize the man in the driver’s seat. He was Hispanic, older—forty, forty-five maybe—and he had graying hair, fierce, dead dark eyes, and a windburned complexion.
    Looked damn intimidating.
    â€œHi,” I said, and gave him my best, most confident smile. “Want to tell me why you’re following me? If this is about Sarah, tell Chrêtien that he can stick it up his French . . .”
    â€œYou’re Joanne Baldwin,” he interrupted me. No trace of an accent.
    â€œIn the flesh.” Scars and all, which had fortunately faded with a little help from silicone patches and the tanning salon.
    â€œGet in the van,” he said.
    â€œOh, I really don’t think—”
    He produced a gun and aimed it at my head. “No, I really do.” I wasn’t good with guns, especially not identifying them, but this one looked big and serious about its job. “In the van. Now, please.”
    I felt an overwhelming impulse to do exactly what he said, but I also knew better than to climb into some stranger’s van. Especially in Florida. I tried to focus past the gun and hold his stare. “It’s broad daylight in a mall parking lot. You’re not going to shoot me, and I’m not getting in your damn van, either. Next subject.”
    I surprised him. It passed over his face in a flash. Blink and you’d miss it, but it was definitely present. He cocked one eyebrow just a millimeter higher. “Why exactly do you think I wouldn’t shoot you?”
    â€œSecurity cameras everywhere, pal, and my sister and my friend both have really good memories for license plate numbers. You wouldn’t get back to the main road before the cops cut you off.” I forced myself to smile again. “Besides, you don’t want me dead, or you’d have shot me already and been out of here, and we wouldn’t be having this lovely conversation.”
    For a long, long second, he debated it. I held my breath, and let it slowly out when he shrugged and holstered the gun again, with a move so deft it might as well have been a magic trick.
    â€œYou know my name,” I said. “Want to tell me yours?”
    â€œArmando Rodriguez,” he replied, which took me by surprise; I hadn’t expected a guy who’d just pulled a weapon to introduce himself so readily. “Detective Armando Rodriguez, Las Vegas Police Department.”
    Oh, dear. I felt goosebumps shiver up the back of my arms.
    â€œI’d like to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of Detective Thomas Quinn,” he said. Which I’d already figured out.
    Too bad I knew exactly what had happened to Detective Thomas Quinn. And there was no way on earth I could talk to this guy about it.
    â€œThomas Quinn?” I didn’t want to out-and-out lie, but the truth was a nonstarter. “Sorry, I don’t think I know the name.”
    Rodriguez opened up a folder stuck in the side pocket of his driver’s side door and slid out a collection of photos—grainy, obviously off of surveillance cameras. Me, in a black miniskirt, being escorted by Detective Thomas Quinn.
    â€œWant to try that one again?” he asked.
    â€œI hear everybody has a double,” I said. “Maybe you’ve got the wrong girl.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think so.”
    â€œProve it.”
    â€œYou drive a blue Dodge Viper. Funny thing—we had a report of a blue Dodge Viper driving away from an area in the desert where Quinn’s SUV was found burned.” His dark eyes kept their level stare on me. “His truck was destroyed, like somebody had loaded it up with dynamite, but we didn’t find any trace of explosives.”
    I lifted one shoulder, let it fall, and just looked