Double Jeopardy. Terri ReedЧитать онлайн книгу.
as a compliment. Though I’m not sure you meant it as such. And I’m actually thirty.” She ignored the fact that her current driver’s license stated otherwise. What would it matter if he knew the truth?
He cocked his head. “Really? Indeed.”
“Yes, indeed.” She plugged the cable and cords into the right spots. “Here we go.” She opened the lid of the laptop and began acquainting him with all the bells and whistles.
“So I can actually write on here with this little stick? And the computer types it in?”
She nodded, finding his amazement and wonder quite charming. “The stick is called a stylus and yes, the computer converts your writing to text. And,” she said with a dramatic flare, “the lid folds all the way back so it looks more like a clipboard than a laptop, which makes writing on the pad that much easier.”
“I think I’m going to like this.”
Though there was a smile in his voice, his stoic expression didn’t change. Odd. And odder still, she so wanted to see his smile.
She picked up her purse. “I’ll leave you to play with your new toy. I’ll come back tomorrow and download your files off that dinosaur.” She gestured to the archaic computer taking up most of his desk.
He walked her to the door. “Thank you. I appreciate your up-to-date knowledge.”
She hid a smile. He’d have a coronary if he knew that the basics of her knowledge came from a year of living with Rob, the computer geek, and the rest from the stack of manuals she’d been devouring over the last few weeks.
She was nothing if not a quick study. Would have been nice if the skill had helped with her acting career.
Moving to the Big Apple at seventeen to follow her dream of the Broadway stage hadn’t worked out so well. She’d been just another pretty girl among a thousand other pretty girls, some with talent, others not so much. She’d been somewhere in the middle, but playing bit walk-on roles hadn’t paid the bills.
Her dream of the theater had faded and reality had set in. Clearly she’d had to adjust her plans and had found a way, besides acting, to survive.
But then again, the professor clearly didn’t suspect she was anything other than what she presently appeared to be. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad actress after all. That had to count for something.
“Uncle Raoul.”
Raoul Domingo stared at his nephew Carlos and tightened his grip on the phone at his ear. He wanted to hit something or someone. But being incarcerated meant he had to hold on to his temper.
At least until he got out of the joint.
He still couldn’t believe that female cop and her pretty boy partner had had the gall to bust in to his home in the middle of his dinner and cart him off in handcuffs.
As if he’d ever see the inside of a courtroom. No way! His men would make sure of that.
And then Raoul would settle the score with the two of them—especially the lady cop.
The Plexiglas window separating him from his nephew was dirty and scratched from years of standing between visitors and the inmates of New Jersey State Prison. Knowing their conversation was probably being recorded, he chose his words carefully so they couldn’t incriminate him. He asked, “Have you taken care of that little detail?”
“Not yet.”
Carlos squirmed under Raoul’s furious stare. Raoul wanted to reach through the glass and wrap his hands around his nephew’s throat. “Get it done.”
“We’re working on it,” Carlos assured him, his pockmarked face growing red.
“Work harder.”
Carlos nodded. His gaze shifted around and he cupped a hand around the receiver. “We’ve got another issue.”
Raoul’s nostrils flared. “What?”
“My—uh, friend says there’s another pigeon in the nest.”
Acid churned in Raoul’s gut. Another witnesss? How could that be? Trinidad had sworn the hotel was secure the night they’d visited Versailles, but apparently Raoul had been mistaken in trusting Trinidad. The man better come through now or he was dead meat.
“Tri—”
Raoul put his finger to his lips. “No names.”
Carlos grimaced. “Yeah. Uh, we’re out tracking.”
Raoul wanted out of this stink hole so bad he could smell the tantalizing scent of freedom on his nephew. “Happy hunting.”
TWO
Patrick paced the thick brown carpet of his office while the clicking of Anne’s nails on the keyboard drilled into his head. She certainly knew her way around a computer and she seemed much more competent than his original assessment. Even so, it rankled knowing someone else had the power to destroy his work.
He didn’t like uncertainty. He liked being in control. Had grown used to it since the day after his father died.
He’d become the man of the house, the guy his younger siblings turned to for advice or help and whom his mother relied upon to keep their world rotating even if the axis was now a bit skewed.
Patrick worried about his siblings, though Brody, who should be the one most messed up, had found a wonderful wife and now lived a great life. He’d somehow accepted the past and learned to live with the tragedy of their father’s death.
Ryan had been too young to have been traumatized by their father’s murder, but Patrick could see how much not having a father had pushed Ryan into his quest for material wealth. Patrick had a feeling Ryan thought having money would give him what he’d lacked as a child. Patrick wasn’t so sure.
And then there was little Megan. Patrick adored his sister, but she most of all was messed up and not merely from the trauma of losing her dad, but she suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder, which was a bad combination with her fiercely independent spirit. As soon as she could, she’d left home to find her own place in the world.
Sometimes Patrick felt lost without his siblings underfoot. But he’d found a way to express his feelings in his work.
What if Anne lost something despite the CD and the little device she called a thumb drive? What if she inadvertently opened one of his files and read his writings? Would she laugh?
He could only pray that…
What a lame sentiment. As if God would listen.
No, Patrick couldn’t rely on God to help, no matter how much his mother or his brother, Brody, tried to convince him otherwise.
So the best he could do was monitor computer-wizard Anne’s progress.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened the office door to a young Asian man, slim in build with dark, penetrating eyes that made Patrick think of onyx stones.
“Professor McClain?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
The young man stuck out his hand. “My name is Cam. I’m transferring from MIT. I’ll be taking your class, Macro Economics of the Irish, this summer.” For a man with a slight frame, he had a strong grip.
“Wonderful.” Why was he here now? Students didn’t normally come knocking. Obviously this was an overeager overachiever. Not many of them around anymore. Too many students seemed jaded and uninterested in more than how to make a quick buck. “Do you have the list of required textbooks?”
“Yep. I’m all set. Just putting a face to the name on the syllabus,” Cam stated with a pleasant smile. “I—”
“Oh, bummer!” Anne’s voice interrupted.
Patrick